Death and the Maiden

by Gene Dark

AU story from the Landsmeet to the End Game, including the events of Return to Ostagar, Soldier's Peak and Awakenings. General Loghain and Warden-Commander Tabris campaign against the Blight.

11. Chapter 11: No Empty Chairs

The forest was earth and rain scented. Fat, glossy leaves formed a sheltering cowl that closed out the world beyond; created dark-golden shadows and dim half-light and a thousand mysterious echoes. Despite youthful dreams, it was the first time Cyrion had entered the Dalish camp: keeping the shem army in supplies was an exhausting, satisfying, full-time occupation. He'd come to fetch his nephew and niece for his daughter's homecoming. Strange to think of this camp as home - perhaps it was true what they said of his people: they could put down roots anywhere. Their community was each other, not crumbling bricks and mortar. Shianni bent to study an unfamiliar footprint. Her new Dalish leather encircled her city-pale skin like some alien armadillo, yet her chin jutted with familiar determination. Her softly-curved oval face held an elemental, feminine strength: a small, compact, pragmatic survivor. After the kidnapping, he had wept internal tears heavy as mercury. She had been changed forever - and even though they had kept what happened secret, her smouldering rage had marked her dangerous as brightly as the panther. She would not keep her head down, and he had waited, helpless dread curdling his stomach, for her to anger the wrong guard. He had seen Adaia mutilated in the square; he could not have lived through that again. Now the old ways were reversed - the defiance that had once been a dangerous beacon had found its berth. This new world was open for her young strength to battle and triumph in; she was discovering wings, like a caged bird set free. In the short time they'd been here she'd already picked up an impressive amount of Dalish lore. Even to Cyrion's old eyes, the footprint stood out, because the markings were of a very strange type of boot.

"I'd say it belonged to a shem nobleman," Shianni said, face wrinkling in involuntary distaste, "Except that this isn't a large person - the foot's not much bigger than mine."

"Some people would question that conclusion," said Soris, straight-faced. He was standing propped against an ancient oak, one knee bent in studied casualness, his new bow an awkward weight across his shoulders. Freed from accusatory whispers, the hangdog, sullen air had vanished; he was looking around with the nervous glee of a young man dropped into an adventure too big for him. Shianni swatted the back of his head.

"Some people might mourn a man who made snotty remarks about the size of a woman's foot. I wouldn't."

The second young man - whose dark braids and tattoos and aura of tense alertness marked him as different to Soris as a wild cat from tame - turned back. He leaned over the footprint; then bent to study the graceful curve of Shianni's jaw. Nonplussed by the scrutiny, a faint blush worked its way up her neck.

"What are you doing?"

"Watching the points grow on your ears," he teased. She dug an elbow into his ribs.

"Mind you," Shianni said, her impish features creasing into a rueful smile that could not quite hide pride, "If anyone back home had ever told me I'd see a day when I walked fifteen miles before dinner, I'd have said they were blind drunk."

"Wish I was!" Soris grumbled. He shot his uncle a look of mock outrage. "I don't see why you don't just feed us oats and be done with it. Maybe then we'd get a rubdown, like real horses."

Cyrion pursed his lips judiciously. "Hmm - oats. I wonder..." Striving to maintain an air of solemn propriety, he could not help the little ripple of delight that eased a smile onto his worn face. "No: for my little girl I'm planning a dinner of freshly grilled fish, and I defy any shem noble to find better!"

The dark-braided young man nodded sagely. "Comes of catching the right fish - took me years to learn how..."

Cyrion bristled. He had been eying Cale Mahariel dubiously since the young hunter had started training Shianni. On the one hand, Shianni was laughing as he had feared he'd never hear her laugh again. On the other, she was as much a daughter to him as Rilian, and his protective instincts had gone into overdrive...

"Uncle has a secret blend for the cure," Shianni said quickly. "Makes all the difference. Nothing like it." A grey-and-black bird ghosted through trees to land sideways on a huge trunk. The deeply fissured bark, cracked like Cyrion's old skin, provided excellent footholds for the tiny, needled feet. It squawked agreement.

The strange footprints pattered in a winding trail deeper into the forest, towards the clearing where the Elders gathered and the craftsmen practiced the ancient mysteries. They were easy to follow: particularly since they were accompanied by the tracks of a large four-legged creature. When Cyrion saw it he gestured sharply, warning his niece and nephew to stay back. Soris didn't need telling twice; headstrong Shianni took further steps - only to listen when Cale gave her the same advice. Silent, feral, the young hunter moved forward. Cyrion couldn't help the strong impression that with each noiseless step, he grew beyond himself; became spirit-like. Shadows moved to shroud him. He and the two youngsters followed at a cautious distance. Cyrion could not help thinking that the stranger was making no effort at all to be stealthy; aside from anything else, through the dark stripes of leaves and branches, he caught glimpses of brilliant red. The armoured figure was gilded like a bird of paradise. The four-legged creature was a kind of dog: a fierce, war-painted monstrosity such as he'd seen the shem knight Ser Perth with. He was just about to call to Cale that the person had to be with their own army when an achingly familiar voice sang out. The Dalish hunter answered with fierce chagrin:

"You couldn't have heard me coming."

"I didn't," Cyrion's little girl called gaily, "But Ravenous did."

"Ah," said the faintly sour tone, "So that is one of the domesticated wolves the shemlen tainted with their magic."

A low growl resounded oddly through the trees.

"Don't listen to the mean Dalish, Ravenous!"

Two whirlwinds flowed past Cyrion: Shianni and Soris were racing ahead. Soon the two of them and Rilian were tangled in a whooping, tearful embrace. Cyrion approached more slowly, his old heart pounding. He stopped, and Rilian saw him.

Rilian had Shianni's colouring, but was several inches taller. Lean where Shianni was slender; gawky where Shianni was graceful. Her angular face, delicate and fierce as a hawk's, swirled through a panoply of emotions as brightly radiant as the iridescence of oil on water. All her life Cyrion had felt simultaneously the cosy security of their family and the cold menace outside: sickness, cold, the shem landlord's ravaging rent, and stood between. He still saw her as all the selves she'd been: the six-year old girl with pigtails and skinned knees - the scowling adolescent, all elbows and feet, staring down at the worn wood of their table in half-defiant shame: "She sacked me - for nothing! All I did was tell her she had a voice that could strip paint. Well, if she's a lady I reckon so am I..." - the young bride, the glittering beaded whiteness of her wedding dress stretched tight over the taut muscles of her shoulders and sinewy dockworker's arms...the daughter he had not been able to protect.

Time collapsed in a single shuddering instant. The immaculately-swept platform. Friends and family dressed in their wedding best. The spring leaves of the Vhenadahl. Bann Vaughan and his guards, smug cruelty coating their skin with thick, sour-milk stink. The pitiless brutality of choice: resist, and the women would die as Adaia had done; do nothing, and the dark night would be followed by deep womanhood joys: marriage, children - a whole lifetime to forget... So he had watched, and felt his own shame, his blood screaming the message from the deep centre of his heart where father and child were bound in ancient ties.

The two held each other. Cyrion felt the strange reptilian armour meet his own brittle age. Rilian stood half-a-head taller, but craned her head to rest it on his shoulder, gawky as an injured heron. He stroked the softness of her wavy hair; felt the hardness of the bone beneath. Her shoulders were shaking.

"It's alright, love," he murmured, and all the times he'd said that to her (skinned knees, a bump on the head, the girls who called her "part-shem") coalesced in a single moment so that the true, ancient, dumb weight of his love surrounded her.

Shianni had brought out a brightly fluttering cloth from her backpack: it winked, blazing as a kingfisher.

"What's that?" Rilian asked, eyes widening.

Shianni unfurled the magnificent scarlet cloak. Made of the same waterproof material as the Dalish cloth, it carried the marks of Shianni's expert embroidery on the back: a golden rendition of a swift-winged ship and billowing sails.

"To celebrate our rescue," she explained, dropping the cloak about Rilian's shoulders. "You helped, of course, by providing such a nice match in armour!"

"Oh Shianni - it's so beautiful!"

"Uncle tells me you're calling a War Council with those shems you're commanding," Shianni said briskly. "I won't let you show up looking scruffy. You'll wear the cloak; I'll braid your hair like mine. We'll show them Elven women's pride. Give me those weapons: I'll have someone polish them. I'll clean your armour too. Soris will carry it." As she spoke she fetched oil and a soft cloth from her backpack.

Looking helplessly at a grinning Soris, Rilian stammered unsuccessfully at response.

"Amazing," Soris drawled, looking from dazed Rilian to determined Shianni. "Ever since you decided Cale is okay, you've become completely domestic."

"Dome - what?" Shianni's eyes widened. Nostrils flared. She shook the cloth in Soris' face. "How'd you like this rag shoved up your nose?"

Rilian was looking from Shianni to Cale. A radiant grin broke open slowly. Shianni met her eyes with silent plea. For a moment, it looked as though nosiness was going to override tact. Then Rilian reluctantly closed her mouth over delighted curiosity, her glance telling Shianni she would ask as soon as they were alone. She greeted Cale with the kind of old-fashioned grace only found in Mother Boann's books: "I'm honoured the Dalish stand with us against the Blight. I hear you were the first to pledge the archers of Clan Mahariel to Keeper Lanaya's banner."

"I didn't do it for the shems, or for ancient treaties with your Order, Warden. Six months ago my lethallin fell to darkspawn. When I met him again he was - changed. A Blighted creature. That's why I do this." His look for Shianni told them he might have other reasons too.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Rilian told him quietly, "And grateful for your help."

She looked a little hesitantly at Shianni as her cousin moved to unbuckle the straps of her breastplate. "You shouldn't be doing this. I mean - but for a twist of fate it would have been you who got conscripted, and me who..."

"Don't say it!" said Shianni, amber eyes wide in sudden fright, "You don't know..." She caught herself, regained control. "Besides, it wouldn't have happened to me. The way you've forged alliances, the story of the dragon... I hate to say it, because it'll go to your head, but you're different: special. If you can't see that, you're just being stupid."

Rilian shifted uncomfortably. "Special or stupid: make up your mind."

"Hmm - how about specially stupid." Rilian gave her a playful shove, looking relieved to be back on familiar ground. "Besides," Shianni went on tartly, "who washed your work clothes when you came back smelling of brine and sewage? Who did your hair?" Rilian shuffled shamefacedly, recognising she had been bested.

Cyrion looked from his nephew and niece to his tall, splendid daughter, standing like young spring amid the glowing colours of autumn. He could have understood the wonder of an ordinary drake who'd sired a strange, intrepid swan. But Rilian was no changeling. Her fiery, outspoken temper was Shianni's: they'd inherited it from his mother. She shared that indefinable quality that had made people listen to Adaia's stories. Her idealism belonged to the young man who had once dreamed of finding the Dalish. Yet some chance juxtaposition of those qualities had created something new. He had dreamed of escaping high stone walls; Adaia had sought flight through song. Their daughter tried to make the outside world conform to inward dreams. Her translucent eyes had the effect of looking straight through the obvious to something beyond, then reflecting it outward. She altered the scheme of any picture she made a part of by contributing new ideas. He did not understand her vision - only that the strange sight of Elves and shems working together was part of it. Something had changed her, even from the girl he had seen at the rescue: a new crease was drawn across her forehead; two tiny lines came down between her feathery red brows. Those flared upward, like a hawk's spread wings. Looking at her, he had a storm-sense of headlong, unpreventable consequence. He felt Rilian was riding it, like the crest of a wave.

He would never again be able to protect her. He could only work at what he did best. If his daughter and her army came to harm, it would not be for lack of eating properly.

---

Loghain would not have thought it possible for the Warden to exceed the gaudiness of that Dragonscale armour - until he saw the red cloak and gold stitching. By the Maker, it was Cailan all over again! Her short hair, formerly rough-cut and practical, was teased into a tortuous mass of innumerable tiny braids, tied with coloured ribbons. He had only ever seen the style on Elven women: the servants who had flung themselves at Maric had worn something similar. Why she had chosen to add that impression to the explosion of sartorial excess was beyond him. To add insult to injury, he knew well enough the meaning of the embroidered golden ship: a celebration of the fact that, instead of a Tevinter legion, with its disciplined men, large shields, and twelve-foot long spears so useful for keeping infectious darkspawn at bay, they now had thirty dispossessed Elves. Comment would only invite the observation that if the Banns had tightened their belts he could have bought his mercenaries without selling slaves, so he kept silent. It was true enough that while he and Anora had sold all they could, they were in the minority - and that his grip on the Bannorn had been too tenuous to force the issue. The only noble who had given as much to the war effort had been Rendon Howe, and Loghain was still fuming over the Warden's latest version of his death - which had involved him falling foul of a new torture device: a tilting table that had sent him backwards into a hidden chamber, whereupon his own cook had made him into... All the ludicrous tale proved was that the Warden had a ghoulish imagination, and took a childish delight in irritating him.

Loghain's disapproval of the Warden did not extend to the magnificent creature beside her: the mabari who had - Maker knew why - thought her worthy of imprinting. Every good Ferelden knew it was the dog who chose its master and not the other way round. He had the briefest sensory memory of melting brown eyes and steadfast loyalty. Absently, he ran a callused hand about the square, wiry-coated head. The dozing dog instantly recognised the touch as not his master's. He jerked awake. An angry snarl raised his lip as he turned toward the offensive liberty. Sensing a respect and rapport he was not used to from the Warden's other companions, he stopped, confused. The great head swung towards the Warden - who was grinning, amused by the byplay - then back to Loghain. A wag of the stubby tail served as apology. Seeing the mass of men pour onto the valley like dun-coloured, pragmatic pebbles onto a beach full of randomly-arrayed shells, the mabari yipped and ran in circles, chasing his tail. The Warden waved a hand, the exuberant gesture knocking against Loghain's gauntlet.

"See the two armies meet: he's nervous and excited."

"And you?"

The remark acted on her like a hot needle; she stiffened at the condescension, parade-ground straight.

"Excited, only. I've sent for the Dalish command, and told them I want the archers formed up in the valley. All my companions are here, except for two scouts on the ridge. You and I and Cauthrien can organize the evening turn-out. We'll discuss supplies at the War Council; I'm calling one in an hour."

Loghain hid his smile: she had learned over the last few days, and had the right instincts. The only thing he would add was scouts at the mouth of the valley, and atop the westernmost hills of Dragon's Peak.

A high, ululating cheer cut across his thoughts. Hackles raised with the memory of the arrows that had caught him and Maric unawares in the Korcari Wilds, he turned to see the Dalish approach, skylined at the crest of the ridge. Descending, they were a dark, bristling mass over purple-brown scrub. The men in the valley - both the Warden's and his own - shifted nervously. The Warden waved in delight and started forward to meet them. If the Bastard Prince had suddenly arrived and professed his undying love, she could not have glowed more brilliantly. Her enthusiasm was a little too bright for the gravity of the campaign, but he could understand the pleasure of forging disparate elements into a competent whole, of organisation, of making order out of chaos. He turned away to speak to Cauthrien, and calm his own men. There was a holiday atmosphere among the gaggle of refugees: they welcomed Denerim's soldiers like saviours; which, in a sense, they were. The players were different, but the play was a strong echo of the wonderful chaos of the later stage of the rebellion, when volunteers swelled their numbers. Only two incidents marred the smooth, familiar running: the first when the Knight-Commander of Denerim's Templars caught sight of Jowan, and demanded his arrest. He had always disliked Rylock: a thin-lipped termagant all spit and polish, but they needed an army of Templars more than one failed mage. So he did not interfere and the Warden, in animated conversation with two Dalish craftsmen at the other end of camp, did not see it. It was the young man with Jowan - a burned, scarred survivor of some dark magic - who faced her down. Rylock withdrew the demand with an ill grace, on condition that the Templar remained to guard him. The other incident was when the commander of Eamon's knights - a chestnut-haired young fool - refused his command to form up with the rest of the cavalry.

"When the Warden commands it, I will," the young knight said stiffly, "I do not take orders from the man who tried to murder my Lord." The brown eyes held a quality of loyalty usually ascribed to mabari puppies; the long-boned face a sheltered nobility of breeding. Loghain was just about to chew him out when he caught sight of Eamon watching, broad face oozing satisfaction, and had a better idea. Not all Rendon Howe's lessons in guile had been wasted.

"You follow the Warden, you say?" he asked with deceptive mildness.

"The Warden saved my Lord's life - slew the High Dragon - was worthy of the Sacred Ashes," the young man said softly. The fervid wonder in the eyes - the glazed, almost clubbed look - was something he'd seen on the faces of Templars; he'd long ago realised that anything that could so rattle otherwise competent soldiers was downright dangerous. The knight's next words only confirmed it: "Like holy Andraste, she hails from Denerim - freed Tevinter captives - has a voice that throws all the pain of this world up to the Maker..."

Oh please... Loghain had the sudden urge for a sick bucket. Impatiently, he suffered through more blather. No wonder the Warden had such a swollen head.

"...I would die for her."

"In that case," said Loghain, straight-faced, "You ought to be able to trust her judgement in trusting me. It's a poor faith that is shaken by the opinions of - others..."

The young man started - looked guiltily at Arl Eamon and shifted uncomfortably - then made Loghain a bow of apology that contained as many flourishes as an Orlesian's. "You are right, your grace," he said quietly, "I apologize for my stubbornness." He turned sharply, with military precision, and called to his men to form up with the rest of Loghain's cavalry. Loghain smirked; Arl Eamon looked like he'd just swallowed another dose of Jowan's poison.

When all Loghain's men were assembled the Warden guided the Dalish to join them. Loghain was impressed by the proud rows of archers - five hundred in all - well knowing how deadly only a few such marksmen could be. His own archers - including his remaining Night Elves - made up a similar number. He considered merging the two forces but decided against it: barriers in language and command structure would weaken the whole, and the strategy he had in mind called for two ranged units anyway.

Organisation finished, Loghain and the Warden met in the middle, in front of the gathered ranks. All units were formed up in the wide valley east of the ridge, beyond the melange of tents, plumes of smoke and trenches dug at the camp's edge. The ground was a misty, rain-washed bowl against the background of the ridge: a series of heavy greens and greys and purples all running into each other like paints dissolved in water. The valley was bordered by the two prongs of the Hafter River. The descending sun turned the water into living gold translucence. The rain rippled the surface, creating darks and lights that undulated in intricate, unceasing patterns.

Loghain strode towards the Warden, his sabatons making deep furrows in the flattened, glistening grass. The gawky, glittering figure faced him, the mabari beside her.

"Anything to report?" she asked.

Loghain decided that the incidents with Rylock and the foolish young knight weren't worth mentioning. "All my men are accounted for, except for two scouts at the mouth of the valley, two at the western edge of Dragon's Peak, and two I sent to relieve your men on the ridge."

A little wrinkle of annoyance formed on the smooth forehead as the Warden realised he did not trust her companions. She opened her mouth - then clamped it shut, probably deciding that her men would be quite happy to come down and join the raucous celebrations springing up among the refugees. She said instead: "I have some thoughts on the tactics you explained to me last night. I should like to see them in practice." Without waiting for his reply she walked over to speak to Cauthrien.

If Redcliffe's knights saw the Warden as Andraste reborn, Loghain's veterans saw her as a young upstart and grumbled loudly. Cauthrien - a consummate professional with no time for posturing - supported the Warden. Her commands came to Loghain, clipped and precise, disdainful of the parade-ground bellowing typical of other commanders. Loghain's infantry moved like a well-oiled machine, roughly practical armour glimmering in the rain like fish-scales. Spray from the water-polished field swirled around their boots; the noise of pounding feet created a storm-sense. Loghain's four units of pikemen wheeled and counter-marched, their twenty-foot long weapons graded so that the points of three ranks should strike the enemy in a single line. They formed a defensive square, inside which mages could cast with impunity, glinting points bristling all around like some iron hedgehog. These disciplined troops had turned the tide at the Battle of River Dane; pikemen were the bane of cavalry. Though generally of less use against infantry, Loghain intended to use them as a wall to funnel the darkspawn battlerush into the deadfall where he wanted them to go. The majority of the infantry wielded sword and shield: grim, hard fighters formed a small core of professionals, padded with farmer levies and militia.

The small number of cavalry did their combat exercises. In Orlais the cavalry were shock troops: an iron fist that smashed through enemy lines. When heavily-armoured chevaliers clambered aboard a horse, it was to ride over someone, not around him. During the rebellion, their own small bands of horsemen had had to develop different tactics. Rowan had pioneered the principle of lightning manoeuvre: strike and retreat, wheel and strike again. Her riders had charged as units, goring the Orlesians. As swiftly as they'd attacked, they would retreat. The chevaliers, invariably, had cheered and given chase, only to be struck from a different direction by a different unit. This fleet swirl had offset the Orlesians' overwhelming superiority of numbers. It was an open question whether horses could be made to charge darkspawn - but then, trained mounts with skilled riders would charge pikemen. A narrow funnel, such as a valley or gorge, would afford no sideways manoeuvre. Horses followed the herd instinct - if those at the back were charging, there must be danger behind them - skilled riders could drive them in the right direction. If the terrain did not lend itself, the cavalry would still benefit from increased mobility before dismounting to fight on foot.

After a strenuous hour, the veterans who beforehand had grumbled loudest jeered at raw men's complaints: the youngster might have sweated them, but they'd sweat a lot worse facing darkspawn unprepared. The Hero of River Dane trusted her; that was good enough for them.

The Warden bounced over to him, feet hardly seeming to make an impression on the ground. "They're shaping quite well," she told him; in the lambent eyes he saw the message: "and they know now who's in command." It didn't bother him: all his life he'd been the backbone of quixotic, charismatic leaders who had not an ounce of commonsense between them - why should that change now? Besides, the Warden differed from Cailan in one crucial respect: she'd spent the whole of last night listening to his ideas with fierce concentration and the look of someone seeing treasures poured into her fingers. She could never have planned the complex strategies he'd gone over - much less executed them - but she recognized their worth, and trusted him completely. "Except the Howe levies," she added - and Loghain saw she could at least tell incompetence when she saw it. Arl Thomas' men had turned out to be something of a disaster, their undisciplined sullenness so pronounced the other soldiers avoided them.

"The rest of the men think them raw hands - and let them know it," Loghain said, "Good rations, no darkspawn yet, yet nothing's right for them. But what are they: soldiers or bridesmaids?"

"We'll change that," the Warden said, almost mischievous in her exuberance and certainty, "Sten of the Beresaad is the best trainer of fighting men that ever lived. The Qunari have an unbelievable knowledge of how other people fight: their tactics, weapons, organisation..." her voice trailed off under Loghain's incredulous glare.

"And you are letting this Qunari get a good look at our defences - organisation - infighting!"

The Warden's eyes flashed. "My choice of allies is non-negotiable," she said coolly.

Loghain raised an eyebrow. "I saw how you "negotiated" mine."

A quirk of the lips - a suppressed smile - met sudden nervous hostility like two contradictory waves colliding. "That had better not be a threat. If any of my allies meet a similar fate to Rendon Howe it won't be enough for you to have an alibi. I'll..."

"Quiet," he snapped.

The Warden bristled like a cat grown to three times its size, arched back and ruffled fur covering stringy scrawniness. The image was underscored by the pointed ears and unblinking amber eyes; if she'd had a tail, she would have lashed it. She was an odd amalgam of feminine vanity and the will and instincts of a fighting man: backbone, bluff, presence. The stiff neck and the straight spine. Whatever it was that made most men concede without testing. Both took an involuntary step forward, the pressure in the air forcing the mabari into a low growl. A murmur built among the watching men. It was absurd to feel challenged by this wisp of a gutter rat, red armour like a lobster shell around a shrimp, ribbons glittering in her braids as though half-a-dozen butterflies had landed; but he could feel his own hackles raised, an old alpha wolf itching to put a nipping youngster in its place. He swallowed his own foolishness. "The men are watching. It does not do to show dissent. I have been honest in my dealings with you, and I tell you now: fighting the Blight is my priority. I'll take no action to threaten that unity. Your allies are my allies; there will be no infighting. After the Blight - I will do whatever it takes to maintain national security. As you told me: when I turn against you, I'll go through the front."

"I see. Thank you for the fair warning. In that case, I'm not worried: cross swords with Sten, and he'll cut you into pieces small enough to fit down a vulture's gullet. Besides," she added gaily, "All he'll be able to report is that we're a nation who defeated a Blight - which no country has ever done, on its own. That'll teach Par Vollen not to mess with us."

Loghain rolled his eyes at the absurd naiveté but made no comment.

The Warden turned to address the men. "You have performed very well; I do not worry about the darkspawn. I am proud to be a free Ferelden, leading free Fereldens. At dawn, we march. Tonight, we celebrate!" She saluted them, and nodded to Cauthrien, who dismissed them. The monochrome ranks broke up into a bright swell of individuals, myriad voices rumbling like the bass section of an orchestra. They streamed towards the camp. A tantalizing smell drifted over from the cook-fires. For Loghain, who had the hearty appetite of farmers and soldiers, it was not before time. The Warden tilted her face upward and sniffed the air. "Mmm. Grilled fish. Garlic. Honey. And…and - yes, pepper…" Moving as if led by the nose, she and the mabari trotted off.

A short while later, a ripple of activity caught Loghain's attention. One of his scouts - a rawboned former refugee named Hawke - was escorting the Orlesian Warden to the command tent. The Orlesian was plastered with travel-dust and smelled acridly of his horse's sweat and his own. Through the mask of dirt shone his eyes, which still held the sardonic glint that set Loghain's teeth on edge. He dismounted with slow grace - age and the torture he had suffered lent a frail brittleness to his movements; yet they still managed to carry a shadow of louche flamboyance. The Warden hurried over, leaving the mabari with a motley group of her companions.

"Riordan!" Her face seemed to come alive then freeze. "Where's Alistair?"

"I sent him ahead to Redcliffe."

"Redcliffe! It's dangerous - the horde…"

"He's riding north-west, across the River Dane, past Kinloch Hold. That's far from the bulk of the horde."

"I need numbers and locations," Loghain said. Without waiting for a reply he turned and strode towards the large command tent. The sharp tannic scent of wet leather melded with the savoury whiff of roast boar and grilled fish. Inside, Arl Eamon had provided a sturdy round table and twelve high-backed chairs - that pretentious Denerim estate had proven good for something. A brazier filled the space with smoky orange light. Someone had had the forethought to provide a pitcher of mulled wine and goblets. The Warden reached for it and poured the Orlesian a generous amount. He finished it in long, grateful gulps, the bluish-white pallor of exhaustion taking on a ruddier tint.

"Loghain?" she asked.

He nodded: "You are a gracious hostess, Warden" - and if she caught the hint of sarcasm she made no comment. She filled Loghain's glass and poured her own, then settled into the chair nearest the brazier. Loghain sat to her right and Riordan her left. The round table was traditional for War Councils, in which all the Banns treated each other as equals, regardless of rank. Loghain cared nothing for the symbolism, only the practicality - it was easier for everyone to study the campaign map. But before he could debrief the Orlesian, the Warden cut in ahead:

"If Alistair rode northwest, he could have stopped here for the night."

The faintest trace of delicate hesitation rippled across the dark, mercurial face. "He - thought it best to hurry. The sooner he can rally the Dwarves of Orzammar and the Circle under Redcliffe's banner, the better." The Warden's face was pale and pinched; her reply seemed to hang on a knife edge. For a moment, Loghain thought she was going to derail an important military discussion with romantic concerns. But she caught herself.

"What have you learned? We're blind, and the horde are moving out there. Give us our sight." She leaned forward, and the light of the brazier lent power to the sharp, seeking expression. Her eyes boiled with shadows, as though viscerally aware of some darkness beyond the muffled, staccato rhythm of rain on tent leather and friendly chaos outside.

The Orlesian raised a flirtatious eyebrow. "Well, I've found them - but I don't think the darkspawn will be satisfied just to be looked at. Before this dance is over, somebody's going to have to kiss somebody."

"You'll pick me the handsomest hurlock, won't you?" the Warden quipped, and she and the Orlesian shared frivolous laughter. Despite his impatience, Loghain appreciated the dark wit: the kind of gallows humour he and Maric had shared through the worst of times. If the Warden could meet thoughts of broodmothers with that, she would probably survive war - or would have done, if not for…

Loghain leaned forward as the Orlesian brought out a long leather tube from his backpack and unrolled a beautifully detailed map of Ferelden, showing the green of hills and valleys, defensible positions, and the darkspawn advance. His eyes devoured the two dark masses: the first curving in a sickle shape from north of Lothering to the western edge of the Drakon River; the second, even larger, directly south of Lake Calenhad. Smaller groups were highlighted along the ridges of the Frostback Mountains, pushing eastward into the Korcari Wilds. Despite himself, Loghain was impressed. He had not trusted the Orlesian, of course - had charged four other men with the same task - but not one had come close to this accuracy and scope. At the thought, a frown followed a well-trodden trail across his forehead, pulling his face into its familiar scowl:

"You could not have covered that ground in the time you had," he said flatly.

The Orlesian looked up. The eyelids were hooded; sharp, seeking pupils glinted from purple-ringed hollows. Loghain met the rapier stare with his own steel menace.

"More Warden secrecy?" he asked - the heavy darkness of his sarcasm intended to remind the Orlesian that he had already revealed the most important truth of all. Riordan's eyes darkened; black dye seeping into quicksilver. The memory of exactly how that information had been forced from him rose in the air like a tangible, thick weight. The water-smooth urbanity wavered and rippled; beneath the wry sardonic wit, pinprick pupils glittered with deep, implacable hatred. There was a twisted, comfortable familiarity to it: Loghain had seen that look in countless Orlesian eyes, usually just before he killed them. But he found himself oddly glad that the shared memory excluded the bright youth sitting between them. As did the knowledge itself, Loghain was sure. The Warden had not known when he spoke to her that first time in Howe's estate. The Wardens were a military order - they could no more tell their young recruits the truth than Loghain could have told the King's men at Ostagar that they were doomed. Or that Arl Rendorn Guerrin could have told him the true nature of his very first mission for the rebellion. The Orlesian intended to be the one - but if he failed they could not take the chance that the Warden or the Bastard Prince might hesitate.

The Orlesian nodded grimly, meeting Loghain's stare with a searing look of loathing and an icy, bleak pride. "We Wardens are more than just soldiers dedicated to fighting darkspawn - as you know. We know them intimately. We are able to touch the group-mind of the horde. It is like - like throwing out strands of a clear web. When darkspawn approach, black ink touches it, colouring the pattern. I ventured close enough to "listen in" as it were."

The look on the Warden's face was that of someone discovering kin - or an invalid meeting a fellow sufferer - "so that is what the feeling is" her eyes said. Pity - a swift, unimportant whisper - trickled across Loghain's thoughts.

"The situation is worse than I feared," the Orlesian continued heavily. "The first wave, past Lothering, number nearly twenty thousand. The second, between the ruins of Ostagar and Redcliffe, almost half as many again."

"Hmm. Maybe one day you'll bring me some cheerful news. Now there's a surprise that could kill a Warden." The two Wardens shared a swift, covert glance that spoke of shared knowledge. The Warden's eyes were shuttered; beneath dropped curtains, the secret lamp flared high - he caught the dazzling glint through a chink. A glimmer of surprised understanding brushed his mind - overridden by the immediate concern.

"The horde could go in one of two directions: Denerim or Redcliffe. But we do not have the numbers to intercept them from the north. Our only chance is to follow Alistair's route and muster with the rest of the army at Redcliffe. The Archdemon is what's important."

Loghain breathed a silent thanks that Arl Eamon was not commanding, knowing what he would have answered. The thrill of his little Arling becoming the centre of Ferelden - the chance to save his own…

"Damned Orlesian," he grated out, "It's not your capital in the path of the horde; not your Blighted fields. If you are wrong we will lose our entire fertile crescent. Have you ever seen a baby starve at the breast of a mother who has no milk because she starves as well…"

Somehow, he had risen from the chair; was facing the Orlesian. The hooded eyes met his, glinting with eager relish.

"Perhaps you should have thought of that when you turned away reinforcements at the border," Riordan said silkily.

"Perhaps if the Wardens had not such a history of treachery…"

The Warden suddenly reached out, slammed a hand against Loghain's breastplate. She might as well have tried to move one of the Anvil's golems.

"No more," she snapped. "No-one insults the Wardens in my hearing. You will forgive what he said and the way he said it." Keeping Loghain pinned - by conviction if not physical force - she looked to Riordan. "You're speaking of this man's country. My country. You'll forgive his rudeness."

"You are right, of course, sister," the Orlesian said, a small smile brushing his lips, "I apologize."

Loghain's jaw twitched in bitter silence. At last, he managed, "I said more than I should. Now to the matter at hand."

"I believe in Loghain's plan," the Warden said, "We can intercept the horde on the way to Denerim. Rather than wait for the forces at Redcliffe to join us, we attack on two fronts. Attrition may mean the Archdemon won't even manifest - it's obviously waiting for a critical threshold." Her face fell. "We'll still be outnumbered five-to-one."

Loghain shook his head. "Remember, I told you: what counts is how many against how many at the point of contact. Those trapped in the centre won't count. Surrounded, crushed against themselves, their superior numbers will be worse than useless." Bent over the map, Loghain sketched his plan: "We march at dawn - intercept the horde in two days. We rely on trickery: give ground to create the battlefield we need. The withdrawing infantry will be both bait and deadfall; the Drakon River the anvil we smash them against. Units of archers will harry them from both flanks, funnel them into the trap. The cavalry, from the valley between South Reach and Lothering, will charge the rear and flank. When we crush the first wave, we retake Ostagar. You'll send a message to Redcliffe: they attack from the west."

Thoughtfully, Riordan nodded. "It is a good plan - it may work. But what if the Archdemon manifests early. You'll be caught in the open, with no defense."

The Warden flashed the dazzling grin of one enjoying a good secret. "I have some ideas - ways we could counter an airborne threat. I'll explain when we call the Banns and the Dalish leaders." Then she turned to Loghain with a very odd expression - the slightly sheepish fierceness of someone about to present an idea they know will be shot down, who is hoping to avoid an argument through bluff. It nagged him with an inexplicable familiarity. "I will command the cavalry."

"I expect you to avoid personal combat until we need to engage the Archdemon."

The Warden's eyes blazed. It was as though they had absorbed the brazier's light and now it poured from them.

"What you expect makes no difference - I am in charge here. Or don't you follow the chain of command?"

… The Arl waved his hand dismissively. "No. I understand that you're trying to be brave, lad. But this is the time for discretion."

Maric set his jaw. "And I understand what you're getting at, your grace, but that's not your decision."

Arl Rendorn regarded Maric with growing rage. "Not my decision? I lead this army!"

"My army," Maric insisted, "Or don't you follow your king?"…

The memory stopped him cold; as did the distasteful knowledge that, far from saving the Warden's life, engaging the Archdemon was a death sentence. Oh - the Orlesian intended to take the final blow, but the effects of torture had taken their toll; Loghain doubted he would get that far. There was the Bastard Prince…but somehow he knew it would be the Warden. She had the kind of commitment that went beyond the boundaries of flesh - she would not fail. All this seemed to weaken him in ways he couldn't explain. Faceless men wavered in Loghain's mental vision: the king's men at Ostagar, the soldiers at West Hill... For a moment, he thought they beckoned. He looked from them to the living face, flushed and brilliant, eyes glinting like flames upon forged steel. Divided in himself and angry at it, he lost the argument to the Warden's single-mindedness:

"You know as well as I that morale counts for a great deal: the men I lead expect to see me there in the van - if they falter, all the rest will be academic."

It was true enough - though he was willing to bet it formed only a part of her determination. He felt her controlled inner pressures and wondered if even she could describe all the forces driving her - it wasn't lust for killing, he was sure of that. Yet she would go where the killing was.

"So be it."

Her eyes - glimmering and wide with wine and visions - met his. "If you ever regret it, Loghain, I shan't be there to know."

Maker - she might have been wearing golden armour, saying "I'd hoped for a war like in the tales"! "And what good does that do anyone?" he snapped, exasperated, "We need Wardens to slay the Archdemon."

At once her face was sharply drained of all joy. She said, quietly, "I have no intention of dying - before my time. But if I should fail, there is still Riordan and - and Alistair." She forced the name out like metal grinding on stone. As abruptly, the dark mood was replaced by cocky determination, "But, really - me, the Hero of Redcliffe, fail? I'll lead my men - and I promise I'll have plenty of energy left over for the Archdemon." A little wrinkle at the corner of her eyes showed her suppressed smile. Loghain had to say something to burst her bubble:

"Well - at least this time it is you who will charge from cover, and I who will give the signal."

The Warden scowled - tried to find a rebuttal and, failing that, scowled again. Darkspawn tunnels or no, the Tower of Ishal had not been her finest moment.

He rose, content with the last word, and left the tent to summon the Banns. He spoke to Eamon and Bryland first, then headed over to irascible old Arl Wulf. On the way he passed the large tent that served as the army's kitchen - he had already seen that the Warden's men were well-supplied and that the cook ran a tight ship. The elderly Elven man and two assistants were turning a boar on a large spit. The delicious smell seemed to have melted the last of the tension between the two disparate forces. Soldiers and refugees crowded eagerly around the huge crackling fire. The Elven cook turned to greet him. Worn, stooped, with a curious familiarity about the eyes and mouth. He had the same wiry resilience as the surviving Night Elves in Loghain's army - though the briefest of glances assured he was no fighting man. His neat blue-and-white striped apron was spattered with blood and fat like warpaint, as if declaring his calling.

"Good evening, your grace. How many join you, the Warden-Commander, Arl Eamon and Arl Bryland at the War Council tonight?"

"Are there no secrets in this army? I just spoke to Leonas Bryland."

The head cook shrugged. "The Warden-Commander is my daughter," he explained - eyes lit with a touch of bewildered pride - "I am - was - head pastry chef to Arl Bryland. The Warden-Commander was once his daughter's lady's maid - before her mouth got her in trouble there."

Loghain raised an eyebrow but made no comment. That the Warden had shot her mouth off was no surprise - and Arl Bryland being commanded by his former maid was surely not much of a stretch from being led by a former farmer. Indeed: a man Loghain had once sold to Tevinter was now the army's cook - and as such enjoyed almost unlimited privilege. After all, he ruled the world of appetite.

"My second cousin Nigella is Arl Eamon's maid…"

"Stop." Loghain raised a hand. "It's bad enough knowing we have no security without hearing how every servant and dough-squeezer in the land is shouting our business."

"The only one shouting is you. You don't seem to feel we're so dangerous to you when you sit down to our table."

Loghain opened his mouth to explore the connection between eating and national security - and despaired of penetrating the logic involved. Instead he mumbled the number and turned to leave, the rout complete.

A short while later, he was sitting at the round table, surrounded by a yellowish bruise of light that shone on twelve unlike faces. The brazier's glow seemed to float atop them, thick and mellow as old parchment, creating strange shadows that hung like storm-clouds over granite-hard faces and covert glances. The drumbeat of rain created a sense of enclosure. The smells of leather and steel, mulled wine and maps, called up countless evenings with his father, with Arl Rendorn Guerrin, with Maric.

Grizzled old Arl Wulf sat opposite: face like a fort, skin like a map of the Battle of River Dane, eyes like arrowheads. Highly reliable, and with an archaic forthrightness. Ferelden had many such survivals of the traditions of the warring Alamarri Teyrns, when the general had to take - if his Banns chose to give it - a wholesome piece of their minds. Beside him were Bann Sighard - face quietly composed, eyes like chips of ice - and Arl Leonas Bryland.

Arl Eamon was wearing a fleshy smile that seemed to have nothing behind it but more fat. The loss of influence over the bastard Prince had removed the yeast that would have helped him rise. Without it, he had sunk back into the rich inertia of pastry dough. Denerim had plenty of barbers: that bushy beard was pure affectation. The image he cultivated was that of a rugged Ferelden soldier, but the soft palms and love of intrigue gave him away. Painted to look like a Ferelden - but scratch the surface and you found nothing but Orlais underneath. Eamon's allies at the Landsmeet - Loren and Ceorlic - now sat as far away from him as they could. Ceorlic, sleek and well-fed as a prize calf, seemed to be trying to squash himself into as small a space as possible. Loren's pale eyes shifted nervously toward the tent flap. Eamon was flying the fever flag of failure, and they were keen to distance themselves. The sons of Howe sat beside them. Arl Thomas was already on his second glass of wine; Nathaniel was studying the surrounding faces carefully, silver gaze keen as the flash of blades around the hard, watching pupils.

Silhouetted against the glow of the brazier and the erratic shadows cast by the gesturing group, the Dalish representative introduced as Keeper Lanaya was an enigmatic, vaguely mysterious figure. Her face was shrouded by the tunneled hollow of her hood, small hands tucked into sleeves like the retracted claws of a cat. Oddly, the posture wasn't neutral. Loghain had the impression she hadn't withdrawn from her surroundings, but disdained them. It was clear she was no warrior, and he wondered if the stories of Dalish mages holding power beyond Chantry control were true. Certainly Knight-Commander Rylock was glaring in that direction, eyes dark and glittering as a beetle's carapace. Irritation prickled through him. He had blamed the Tower of Ishal on the Wardens, but the Chantry had not covered themselves with glory either. What might have played out differently had the Grand Cleric allowed Uldred to light the signal?

The unexpected addition of Riordan, to Loghain's left, had forced Eamon to provide a thirteenth chair. Unlike the others, of solid Ferelden oak, this was of Orlesian design: ornate, high-backed, with scarlet-and-gold stitching and delicate curving legs. It hadn't surprised him to see the Warden head straight for it - Elves tended to mistake frippery for status. The example of Anora - who had met the current crisis with austere dignity - would have been lost on her. Purely by accident, she had redeemed some of that impression by the return of the mabari, now curled at her feet, licking his chops after a dinner of roast boar. She looked small surrounded by the Banns, shining and compact, the brightness of red hair and ribbons making armour and cloak look dusty. She looked like an artist's impression of a hero: but her face (self-contained, shadowed, marked by purity of thought) and hands (all bones and calluses, half-moon nails grimy, steepled in front of her) called to mind a stained glass window rather than one of Cailan's stories. Her eyes, which the brazier's light had turned to gold, kept to themselves some thought she had brought with her. She rose, greeted the company, and began without preamble, hard clear voice inexpressive, steady:

"Warden Riordan has brought back - at great personal risk - vital information on the numbers and location of the horde." She unrolled the map, the sturdy table covered once more by the green of hills and valleys, purple ridges, grey trade routes and cites. The two dark masses blotched the beauty like ink-spots. Loghain thought of oil on water, the way it spread and spread, wringing colour from above and below, altering everything it touched. The Banns edged closer like dogs around a carcass. "The first mass number twenty thousand," the Warden finished soberly, "The second: half as many again."

The grizzled Arl Wulf listened in silence. Now he was acidly sarcastic. "If that's the way of it, can I give my men permission to break out all the rations? And pull in the scouts? If we're facing odds like that, we'd as soon die well-fed and well-rested. Warden."

Even as he fought the tight smile pulling at his lips, Loghain marveled at the nuances the Arl managed to squeeze into that last word. Somehow, it came out a title, a challenge, and a borderline insult, all at once. He held his silence, curious what the Warden would make of it. He was not here to baby-sit her, after all.

A low murmur rippled through the tent like a rumble of thunder. The Warden did not appear fazed - but before she could open her mouth the mabari beat her to it, growling at Arl Wulf.

The Arl was not impressed. "Dog, if you had sense you'd growl at her, not me. I'm not the one predicting your death." Loghain looked at the shrewd, scarred, ageing face: the old bull snuffing the new spring air, tilting his battle-frayed old horns. I'm getting on, too…

The Warden's lips quirked. "I didn't say anything about us dying," she said mildly, "I told you the odds we face. I hear you faced similar odds at River Dane - and the man responsible for that victory will give us his strategy. Loghain, if you would…" The amber eyes, beneath raised, expectant brows, held both trust and plea: make them believe…

Humph. The Warden had spent the whole of last night memorizing this strategy - she could have recited it in her sleep. But no, she sat down, waited for him to speak. Perhaps for the same reason she had stepped back during Anora's speech - or maybe she just knew the Banns would take the word of a general over that of a twenty-year-old Elf. He stood, the callused, slightly curved fingers of his right hand moving over outlined ridges, woods and valleys. The palm of his left, dry and hard as old tree bark, rested on the edge of the parchment. He looked up, briefly, at the familiar surroundings of oily light and flickering shadows - the muffled whisper of rain - the shuffling of the mabari as he begged silently for scraps. The huddle of intense, seeking faces wavered and rippled: Arl Wulf's scars - a mass of craters and furrows and shiny white silk - smoothed out; the hatred in Bann Sighard's eyes vanished. His own hands, poised above the map, were younger, straighter. Eamon, Ceorlic and Loren winked out - as did Lanaya, the Orlesian and Rylock. Bann Nathaniel might have been his father: the sharp-eyed, sharp-minded man who had joined the rebellion after the Orlesians murdered his family. The Warden was looking at him with an oddly familiar mixture of challenge, resentment and trust; she grew taller - the silly armour changed to Ferelden iron - the frivolous hairstyle changed to short and practical…

… Rowan had always had a sharp tongue: she pointed out the weaknesses in his strategy as she had teased him about his flaws as Maric's tutor. Strong - like everything else about her - her derision could wound as deeply as a sword, but was also the whetstone that sharpened his wits. Different from the sunlit ease of his banter with Maric, he and Rowan had been not-quite-friends, rivals, lovers… Until that night in Gwaren. Her grey eyes held a spark of resentment - of the choices he had made and forced her into - that gave them a smoky, inward-looking distance. But she watched as he unfurled the map with complete confidence. Her strong, supple hands - callused by reins and sword-grips - traced the long ripple of the northern River Dane.

"There are no bridges so far north - and no fords until well upstream of the Orlesian camp. They mean to ferry the divisions across."

"We can catch them as they land," said the man to her left, "They'll be disorganized and vulnerable." Loghain studied him thoughtfully. Rendon Howe did not have a warrior's instincts - but the man was brilliant. Politically astute, creative-minded. He had struck against the Orlesians who now held Amaranthine with the unsuspected speed of a viper - it was no surprise he advocated such a strategy here. Unsure, troubled, Rowan hesitated.

Loghain was bolder. "We mustn't think of the river as a tripwire but as an anvil we can smash them against."

"Smash them?" Rowan was dubious.

"Absolutely. They have the numbers to force a landing wherever they want. We can hurt them, but we can't stop them. So let them come. See how the ground rises on our side of the crossing site? We give ground - bring them to us on our terms - send the cavalry to cut off their escape. When we've beaten them, they've nowhere to retreat."

"When we've beaten them?" A third man winked broadly, piercing eyes showing good-natured amusement. "How do we argue with such confidence?" The young face held a kind of graceful ease, the consciousness of a bloodline that predated Calenhad. Loghain thought him a little too confident for a man who had never tasted Orlesian blood - Cousland had only just joined the rebellion, one of the myriad noble families who had flocked to them after the execution of the traitors. He had explained, with a kind of grave courtesy, that his first duty had been to Highever's citizens. He had lost nothing, yet still carried the impression that his damned blue blood gave him right of command, and he spoke Orlesian like a native… Loghain trusted the heavy darkness of Howe's hatred far more than he trusted Cousland's charm. But Rowan smiled. In the steel setting of her armour, she was far lovelier than in woman's dress. Her strong-boned face, arrogance transmuted to leadership, was radiant.

Loghain's hands dreamed the battle. Rowan was sober now, the earlier banter forgotten. "I don't know if we have the organization to make such a plan work. If we fail…"

"You will not. I will not." Loghain almost growled the interruption, searching within himself for the kind of vision his father would have given his men - finding only flinty determination and searing, utter certainty. But his certainty was enough: it gave them strength, pulled them along in his wake. Maric depended on him: had left the army in his hands while he rode to challenge Severan. He did not doubt himself - could not afford to if he were going to be the man they needed…

"…Hurlock generals have rudimentary strategy: they communicate with war drums. The emissaries can cast: that's where your people come in, Ser Rylock…"

All at once, the young woman became several inches shorter. The muscled grace of a trained swordswoman became the scrawny, wiry toughness of a street scrapper - the cropped dark hair turned red and puffed out in an absurd mass of coloured braids. Loghain shook his head, irritated with himself for falling into reminiscence. He outlined the strategy he had given Riordan.

"…Keeper Lanaya: I will need the Dalish archers to attack from the forests of South Reach." The catlike figure considered carefully; finally nodded. "The archers of Denerim and Gwaren will take the other flank: attack from west of Lothering."

Arl Wulf remained dubious. "For six months you've prepared the capital for defensive warfare. Our only chance is to break the horde upon Ferelden rock. If we'd used Ostagar that way, we might have stood a chance. There's no glorious victory here."

The Warden turned on him a gaze of peculiar intensity. The ends of her feathery red brows drew together, almost meeting. "If we don't meet the horde where they are, they'll use up Ferelden's farmland like kindling tossed into a firepit. Darkspawn aren't soldiers: they're plague. Think of Denerim under siege: that poison tainting the city, infecting women and children…"

"Perhaps," Arl Eamon suggested, "The better strategy would be to muster at Redcliffe. We'd have the advantage of a united force, and be able to strike directly at the Archdemon."

Leonas Bryland snorted, the cropped square of his beard bristling like an angry dog's ruff. "They're not massing on your doorstep, waiting to kill and burn. I stand with the Teyrn and the Warden."

Eamon looked around - realized he had no support among the Banns - turned instead to the damned Orlesian. "What say you, Warden-Commander?"

Riordan looked uncomfortable, almost hesitant. "I - will not deny that was my original thought," he admitted, and there was a stir around the table. "But," he added, "The Teyrn's plan is not without its merit." Some cheers greeted his words, with Arl Thomas and Arl Bryland actually pounding on the table. "My misgivings are those of an old man - all the successes the Warden has enjoyed thus far have been due to such risks."

Loghain could not help the sense that there was something very, very familiar about all this… The Orlesian sat down, and a smattering of applause rang out. The Warden smiled at him in gratitude. There were general nods around the table - a glint of grudging approval in Arl Wulf's axe-sharp face. Eamon said nothing, face turned to vinegar.

Bann Sighard, who had been silent till now, nodded thoughtfully. The new lines on his tight-drawn skin were of a pain greater than hate; the eyes, hard as diamonds, bored into him. "Your strategies at River Dane saved us: I believe they will here as well. The King trusted you: so should we." The gesture held a grace Loghain could never have managed. He had thought he had known Rendon Howe: ruthless, cunning, ambitious - but not sadistic. What he had done to Oswyn verged on the insane. Yet he'd left Anora there, the door sealed by magic, unable to escape. What if… An iron curtain came down in his mind. The glint of glacial ice held a dark promise; Loghain knew nothing was changed, that Sighard would have his duel as soon as the Blight was over. Muscles - reflexes - the steel patterns that had defined his life for thirty years - all told him Sighard would lose. Yet the man would accept no quarter - his will would see the body it drove broken apart rather than yield. Loghain put aside his regret, almost before he knew it for what it was. Caught between the Blight and Orlais, there had been no way to choose the right - no right left to choose - but Anora had proven his choice of evils had been wrong.

Another face competed for his attention, almost the image of Howe at that War Council: pale, self-contained, calculations cloaked in chill dignity.

"I volunteer to lead your archers," Nathaniel said.

Loghain considered. He'd seen the young man hunt - he was as skilled a bowman as Loghain had been, in his prime. But he had no experience of war.

"You will be second-in-command," he decided, "Report to Pir Surana."

"An Elf?" That was Arl Bryland's dubious mutter.

"The most senior of my Night Elves," Loghain said calmly. Nathaniel nodded, not seeming offended. Neither had his father seemed offended with Cousland - right up until the moment he slipped the dagger between his ribs. Then a flash of enthusiasm sparked in the eyes - a trace of eagerness warmed the flat monotone. "I shall look forward to learning from the best." Loghain was impressed - unlike the Warden, the young man knew his limits, keen as he was to stretch them. When Arl Bryland asked the inevitable: "Who will command the cavalry?" he sighed inwardly.

"I will," was the Warden's predictable response. Low muttering broke out - as he had known it would. Night Elves - Dalish archers - now this… The brazier's light bathed ruddy, sweating faces in a surrealistic glow. Loren and Ceorlic traded a glance; Loren's pale eyes lit on his, in constant motion like the wings of a moth, silently asking him to put a stop to this. Loghain kept his expression carefully deadpan, stared him down. Loren blanched and looked away. Eamon swallowed his own words, counting on others to say them. Loghain thought for a moment Bann Sighard – a sensible man – would speak; then the blue-bright eyes became opaque, the hard mouth thinned to a determined line. The Warden had saved his son – he would not undermine her here. Arl Bryland cleared his throat - Arl Wulf opened his mouth - but Thomas Howe beat them to it…

The young Arl leaned forward, and Loghain instantly had the foreboding of disaster. Already the flush of drink lit the broad, sweating face. The muddy eyes were not hostile - unlike his brother he had not the sense to suspect a mere Elf of their father's death - but his expression held a self-satisfied, beefy-red lasciviousness. Maker, they would be forced to put up with this lout when they should be concentrating on strategy...

"Indeed, I look forward to serving under you, Commander." The young man gave the word a leering emphasis, "My Elven mistress favours those braids."

Whatever Loghain's opinion of the braids, he would not tolerate such unprofessionalism. He half-rose, but the Warden's quick grab held him in check. He was startled to realize she'd reached for him without even looking - her attention was fixed on Arl Thomas. The lambent eyes were all-golden: flat discs around the pinprick pupils, encircled by a ring of shadow. An unpleasant sense of shock rippled across the young Arl's bovine features. The Warden's smile was distant, cold, amused. "If I thought it would give you the skill of a Warden or a Night Elf archer, I'd braid your hair too."

Arl Thomas stared around, fuming, at the ripples of laughter about the table. Nathaniel was grinning openly, grey eyes all-silver, his distrust for the Warden outweighed by the delight of seeing his brother cut down to size. Arl Eamon managed a thin smile, the falsity of it like grease on his chin.

The Warden looked around, her suppressed grin now out of control. "By the time this campaign is over, the style will represent military success: that I guarantee."

Arl Wulf, amused but too forthright to hold back his feelings, said: "You're not much more than a girl, for all the unity you've brought us. I've had more children than you've had birthdays."

It had the echo of Loghain's first assessment of her: You're pretty for a Grey Warden… It was true enough, but in the raw, sharp-angled look was the ghost of another face, superimposed on the alien Elven features. The set of her shoulders, the thrust of her clean, sharp jawline, was all-Maric: Maric stubbornly insisting he share the risks with his men. Maric with Elven braids: who would have thought it…

"I am a Warden, and I know the darkspawn in a way none of you do, and never will, if you are lucky. As for my birthdays, they are mine: all twenty. Are you that certain about all those children?"

The glint in the amber eyes was hard, almost predatory - but there was a quicksilver charm in the brilliant teasing smile. Eamon was looking scandalized, but Arl Wulf gave a roar of appreciative laughter, acknowledging he had been bested. His hearty laughter freed the smiles of the rest. Her own self-image conquered the lingering echoes of "knife-ears" in the tent. He had seen that quality before: whatever it was about Gareth Mac Tir that had made his vision carry over, if only for a moment, dispelling Loghain's doubts like light in a shadowed room. He found those dour rooms of his mind restful - did not want this brash youth coming in and rearranging furniture - but part of him smiled with amusement. And he knew their fears were - mostly - unfounded. Her task required no great tactical expertise, only bravery and charisma. The real test was in the other jaw of the trap: the planned fighting withdrawal - and he was handling that himself.

"Warden-Commander," the Orlesian said - making the words a tribute, a small smile dancing about his lips, "You said you had ideas for dealing with the Archdemon. Now would be a good time to explain."

The Warden's eyes lit up as though Yule had just come early. She reached into her backpack and brought out the journal she had written in last night, taking notes on his strategy in meticulous detail. He had been curious to read her other entries, dating as far back as her mission to the Circle Tower, but she had been as reluctant to have him see them as Anora was with her journal.

"Lanaya," she said, smiling, "You should be the first to see this. It's something I've been working on with Master Ilen and Master Varathorn. The design belongs to Queen Anora."

She opened the journal to reveal a very odd and strangely familiar contraption. He had seen Anora's fantasy of a half-bird, half-arrowhead that could carry written communications; this was subtly different. It looked like the bastard child of a mad engineer and a circus performer. Huge bat-like wings billowed at the top, below was a triangular contraption that looked like a trapeze with a long balancebar. All the Banns gathered round, muttering. The concept was worthy of a puppet show - it was incredible to see good, sensible men such as Wulf and Sighard gathered round such a thing at a War Council.

"So, Warden," he managed, "You think this - thing - is going to be some sort of artificial griffon for the Wardens to fly on?" Had she been taking lessons from Cailan?

The Warden shook her head. "Not fly. It isn't possible - there's no power in the wings. Fall with style. If we could find a highpoint - say, the Tower of Ishal - and wait for the Archdemon's approach…well, the dragon's the most dangerous predator in the sky. So why would it ever look up?"

Loghain struggled for a suitable response. Much as he would have liked to shoot down such a literal flight of the absurd, he restrained himself. It would be unprofessional to do so in front of the men she was - technically - commanding. Not to mention it had been named as Anora's idea. With a diplomacy his daughter would have been proud of, he said instead:

"I think it would be more practical to concentrate on attrition. The more we whittle down the darkspawn, the less chance the Archdemon will manifest at all. If we draw enough to the surface, we may be able to engage the dragon in the Dead Trenches."

The Council agreed so enthusiastically the Warden closed the journal, a slightly mulish expression on her face.

"Well," she said, with a touch of petulance, "I have some ideas about that too. Bann Howe," she turned to the surprised young man, "You spoke of an invention called "grenades". Would it be possible to use them to collapse the rock?"

This was more likely. Loghain could see it would be down to him to nurture the likeliest of the Warden's dream-children, while ruthlessly pruning her wilder flights of fancy. He had had thoughts along those lines himself.

"Magic could achieve the same thing," he pointed out - ignoring the poisonous glare Rylock sent his way.

This time it was Nathaniel who chipped in, rising from his chair to stand beside the Warden. He moved noiselessly, feet placing themselves as if possessed of their own vision, dark leather armour pragmatic as Loghain's had once been. The Warden rose too. For a moment, the two bristled like stranger cats. Then they settled down to the discussion, mutual enthusiasm overriding mutual distrust.

"Unlike magic, Dworkin's invention allows for a four-minute delay. With the grenades we can set traps, or collapse rock from a safe distance."

"Excellent," the Warden said, "How many can he make?"

"Perhaps," Loghain suggested dryly, "You might consider testing it first."

A sheepish flush spread across Nathaniel's pale face, destroying in an instant his resemblance to Rendon Howe.

"I will speak to Dworkin," the young man said, "We can hold a demonstration out in the field."

"Now?" The Orlesian asked dubiously, knees creaking audibly as he stood up, fingers massaging his lower back. Loghain felt a queasy twinge of empathy.

"No time like the present," the Warden said brightly, fresh as the day. It did not improve his mood.

Arl Wulf snorted. "Is this how you recruit followers, Warden - by providing free entertainment? Well, I can think of ways I'd prefer to spend an evening - but the subject is one I will not discuss in front of young ladies."

The Warden blinked, looked around and then - realizing he referred to her and Lanaya - broke into a radiant, startled grin.

Rylock collared Nathaniel just as the young man was leaving. "Are you sure there's no magic involved here?" That gaunt, long-boned face - no curve, no grace, no yielding - was set into a scowl. It was rare to see a woman Templar - only those of fanatical dedication would choose that path - but here was no stained glass window. She might have been one of those gathered around Andraste's pyre, had Andraste been a mage: just get them and end them… Loghain, who had hunted chevaliers the way other men hunt animals, could hardly pass judgment, but found himself hoping Nathaniel would prick her bubble.

Nathaniel's mouth moved imperceptibly. It was too tiny a movement to be called a sneer, but the piercing eyes chilled any mistaken notion it was a smile. "No more than building a dam across a river. But, by all means, see for yourself." Loghain caught the dark glint of sarcasm, but the Knight-Commander did not.

"I shall indeed."

"Shall we all go, then?" Arl Wulf turned to the gathered Banns with a dour shrug, "And pass judgment on this battle-winning invention."

Thomas Howe, face red as the Warden's armour, glared at his brother. "Always the sly one, Nate. You and your mad ideas - nose stuck in a book. There's only one way to deal with the Archdemon and that's at the end of a sword."

Nathaniel shrugged at what was clearly a familiar litany. "Ah - but we are not all as talented as you, my brother," he murmured. Giving the young Arl a quick, ironic bow, he turned and left the tent.

Loghain, the Warden and the others followed suit. After the stifling mixture of leather and smoke and unwashed men, the night air was a welcome relief. The rain had stopped; wetness gilded the trampled ground with a translucent sheen. The brazier had destroyed his night vision: the mass of tents showed up as purple bruises against the pulsing darkness. Tiny points of light turned the outlines to strands of silver - a complex spider's web that stretched across the valley. The crescent moon was a distant mirror of the Hafter River - and reflected in it, creating chips of light like white diamonds. The black spaces that existed in counterpoint called to mind a chess set - but one in constant motion. Which was like war, where the rules were not static. Even if one could repeat all conditions - which was impossible - one still could not repeat surprise. Nor the weather. Nor the mood the men were in…

Two feminine voices reached him, audible even through the crash and swirl of noise:

"I believe the glider to be a wonderful idea, and I will ask our craftsmen to continue the work. In the time of Arlathan, our technology surpassed anything the shems possessed. Perhaps those days will come again."

Well - he wished them luck with it...

The Warden's companions were gathered in a little clump outside the tent. The Qunari towered over everyone, alien eyes glinting from the sculpted darkness of his face.

"Parshaara," came the low rumble, "I trust your meeting was worthwhile?"

"Oh, yes - we're going to test a new weapon right now. Come with us, Sten - I have so many ideas..."

"I am hardly surprised."

Loghain wasn't sure which prospect was the more irritating - having the Qunari witness a dismal failure, or a battle-winning weapon. Still, trying to keep technology secret was doomed to failure. Nothing was so perishable as the element of surprise - anything a man could see, he could duplicate.

Two knife-sharp glares sought him out: one from a young Elf who looked so much like the Warden she had to be related; the other from an elderly woman in mage robes. He met them with a bland stare. Unpopularity was such a familiar, comfortable state it had as little effect as kitchen knives thrown at a golem. He didn't intend to rise to the bait - he'd already had run-ins with the Warden and her father and had no desire to add a third family member to the list; and arguing with old ladies was like ploughing water.

"We saved you dinner - but it's probably cold now," the biddy told the Warden, an edge to the soft, well-modulated voice. Loghain expected the Warden to bristle - had come to think of her as a foolishly proud young woman who met challenges with dark wit and steely charm. Instead her face crumpled, and she faced her companion with a slightly hangdog air. A spine like Dragonbone when dealing with the Banns - a cream puff among her own followers:

"We're going to test a new weapon, Wynne," she said appealingly, "Will you come?"

The woman glanced pointedly in his direction. "No thank you. I am particular about the company I keep."

"But it could be dangerous - you know you're indispensible."

Would that work? The old mage considered - softened. "Only because you ask. But if I were you, I would delegate the task. Is that not what you have a general for?"

The Warden clapped a hand to her mouth and actually giggled.

"The best commanders lead from the front," Loghain told her pointedly.

"Oh - I mean to test it myself," she promised sheepishly, "I have faith in the idea."

Loghain, the Warden, and the small crowd made their way past the shanty-town of camp followers that had grown up around the army. Refugees he had been forced to turn away from Denerim, who could not afford the journey to the Free Marches. Propped upturned carts, providing rudimentary shelter, formed a dark oblong patchwork. Mothers had festooned the river bank with lines of washing that fluttered like limp, erratic flags. Fat droplets beaded the string, pale and glittering as the marbles Anora had played with as a child. A baby's wail rose shrilling to hurt the ears - drunken singing broke off in a fit of coughing - dogs yelped and whined. Sights and sounds and smells familiar as his own skin, before the bitter-cold throne of Ferelden's de facto ruler, the tidy lines of disciplined troops. The wind changed - the acrid sourness of the slit trench drifted towards him. The Warden had done a decent job; he remembered the shambolic mess of the outlaws his father had joined: disorganized, lazy, filthy and incompetent, until Gareth had whipped them into shape.

The rain had turned the amorphous space of the valley to a lake of grey sludge, bordered to the south by the jagged teeth of Dragon's Peak, and to the east by a purple-black fringe of trees. Nathaniel headed towards them, the pale smudge of his face seeming to float in the darkness, disembodied. Beside him, the dwarf stumped along, a head shorter and twice as broad, iron-shod boots squelching determinedly.

"Warden, Teyrn Loghain: this is Master Dworkin."

"Dworkin the Mad to you," was the encouraging greeting. He held out a broad slab of a hand - not to shake but to show them the device that nestled in the rock-hard palm. Eyes blazed from the nut-brown face with the fixity of blue beacons. The "grenade" resembled an iron ball with a protruding piece of string, coated in wax. Excitement rippled around the Warden as she opened a small flap to reveal the glittering black powder. She carefully took the "grenade" in both hands and bounded over to the gaggle of watchers:

"This funny...this weapon, may not look like much: but it contains a formula that will allow us to explode rock, set traps, and create barricades that will shatter the darkspawn advance. I am told that when we light the string here, we'll all be pleased and surprised. So - " She turned, stopped. "I must ask you all not to move beyond this line." She sketched a furrow with one armoured heel. "That includes you, Ravenous."

The mabari yelped, bumped into her, immense bulk and power throwing her off-balance.

"I'll be alright, boy - trust me..."

Loghain clicked his tongue. "Here's some roast boar saved from supper..." The dog whined, great head swinging between Loghain and the Warden, short stubby tail wagging. Loghain scratched the bristly dome between the alert ears. An action that would normally have earned him a threatening growl and a close view of lethal teeth got a happy bark. The Warden's eyes flew open. "Now I know the way to a dog's heart lies through his stomach." She left them standing beside the old mage and the young Elfwoman, and moved some twenty feet away with the dwarf and Nathaniel. She turned to the young Howe, raised the iron ball as though about to drink a toast, and handed it to its creator to do the honours. The fact that the dwarf handed it right back didn't bode well. Loghain felt an unworthy twinge of amusement as she stopped in her tracks, face freezing as the same thought struck her.

"You've never tested it, have you?" she whispered to Nathaniel.

The young Howe's grin was sickly. "The theory sounded good. I - didn't think you'd go for it, to be honest."

The Warden gamely took match and flint. Nathaniel stood a few feet away, as if torn between his father's lethal instinct for self-preservation and a modicum of gallantry.

Loghain took a step forward, intending to put a stop to this foolishness. It would be absurd to try to keep her from the battle only to let her blow herself up. But before he had taken another step the Warden raised her arm with a flourish, struck a tiny orange flame - and held it to the wick.

It was clear at once that "four minutes" had been an overly optimistic assessment. The flame sizzled all to rapidly toward the centre of the device in a multicoloured shower of sparks.

"Toss it away - run!" Nathaniel called. The Warden turned away from the crowd - threw the device... A flash of white and thunderous boom lifted her off her feet. Her back arched; her head snapped back. Then, so quickly it was part of the same action, she flew backward to land in the mud, limbs flailing like a swatted, multicoloured daddylonglegs. The lighter-footed archer acquired a disturbingly intimate view of the explosion, but managed to stay on his feet. There were shrieks from the crowd - the mage and the young Elfwoman ran forward. The mabari beat them to it, whining, nuzzling her hair, licking her muddy face with a wet towel of a tongue. Nathaniel reached her before the others did. The young archer, stance tautly controlled, extended a bow-callused hand. Clearly, he possessed more chivalry than his brother.

The Warden reached out a shaky hand; Nathaniel gripped it tightly and hauled her to her feet. The mabari whined, cocking his head and turning in circles as if trying to locate something. Loghain suspected he could hear the same gentle ringing as the rest of them.

"Is this how you intend to defeat the Archdemon - by breaking your damnfool neck?" Loghain muttered. "Superior footwork," he complimented Nathaniel - soldier humour tending to lean toward the bleak.

The Warden rose sloppily, leaning on Nathaniel, and patted the back of her head as if to reassure herself it was still attached. She resembled a rather bedraggled bird of plumage. Her hair, loose from its braids, fluffed out in a series of brilliant spiky tufts. The amber eyes wavered. But the pointed thrust of her chin was determined as ever. It took her two tries, but she eventually managed to say: "I see why we needed a test-run." Her lopsided smile was sheepish. She put an arm around the young Elven woman. "I'm alright. Really."

"I see what you mean about indestructible, cousin. You probably could walk through the rock without it. This way's faster though." The gentle wash of the mage's healing magic ghosted through the air.

"Warden: may I give you a word of advice?"

"I have a feeling I'm going to get it anyway."

"In war, having "faith" is not enough. Depend on skill, drill, strength, endurance, tactics: what you know, what's been demonstrated. No matter how tempting an idea, you cannot simply take a gamble in war and hope for the best. Blind trust will not defeat a Blight."

The delicate face was sombre, thoughtful. Thoughts rippled across the surface like the play of black and white on water; each combination unique, each too brief to distinguish.

"I will remember."

Dworkin's blue-bright eyes held a disturbing glee. "A good beginning - but I'll work on changing the proportion of lyrium sand: it needs to be more powerful."

The Warden shrugged and smiled. "Can you work on improving the timing? A thicker piece of string - a different coating? And speak loudly, please." She tapped one pointed ear, looking bemused, "There's a bell in here."

The cries of alarm from the crowd were transmuted by the alchemy of averted crisis to cheers. The Banns seemed to feel an enthusiasm all out of proportion to the explosive's military use. Arl Wulf came up to congratulate the Warden on an evening "almost as entertaining as my first choice would have been." Even Bann Sighard approached: he avoided Loghain - who, having done the unforgivable, could only have the grace to keep his distance - and spoke quietly to the Warden. Though he tried not to hear, he could not help but catch part of it:

"Oswyn talks about becoming a Grey Warden. He remembers what you said to him. I - have you to thank that he dreams of the future at all. I should have told you so before."

Gently - struggling against tears - the Warden replied: "I'd be honoured to have him - when he's ready. But there are better paths."

"I'll admit the same thought occurred to me. Even the servant - I mean, the Elven woman who looked after him - agrees. But it's his decision."

"Myrtle? You've seen..."

"She has a position at Dragon's Peak, now. The boy - well, they seem to have an understanding."

Loghain did not hear the rest - he was relieved when Cauthrien sought him out. Tall, spare, dark hair pulled back in its severe ponytail, she was a welcome antidote to both frippery and regret. The moonlight arrayed her long-boned face in sombre shadows, illuminated the broad, strong sweep of heavy cheekbones, the familiar scar that ran below. Her dark eyes were curiously bright, like a hawk's eyes, as she said:

"It isn't a bad idea - if that madman can ensure "four minutes" means just that. If we pack the barricades with that powder, our archers would have protection; staking the ground will be no use against darkspawn."

Loghain turned the problem over in his mind, taut muscles beginning to relax. On some level, Cauthrien had distracted him. They talked for a while, quietly, steadily, plotting strategy with the same dour patience with which farmers sowed fields. She had no illusions about what they faced, no hothead enthusiasm, no dreams of glory. She had a grown woman's thought - slow but sure - and when she moved, it was like a mountain shifting its place. As the little gathering began to break up, their conversation moved to Orlais - the need to protect the kingdom once the Blight was over. Neither gave voice to the knowledge that such plans were frighteningly fragile conceits.

"We can discuss it over a game of chess," she said - another familiar routine. After War Councils - to which Cauthrien was never invited, not fielding her own troops - it was his habit to replay what was said, bouncing ideas off someone who understood their practical applications better than anyone alive. She listened to him, pointed out flaws in his approach, weaknesses in the Banns' objections. He did not usually take her advice - but it was deeply welcome. Never once did she mention Ostagar, the memories of death that crowded into every waking moment, his unforgivable miscalculation of the nature of the threat. She bore her pain and shared his without a murmur.

Those hours with her were his strength.

He nodded, watched her walk away: lean and haggard as a wolf, a silver shadow against the black.

The Banns and the Orlesian bade the Warden farewell - dark shapes melting into the distant camp. The old mage and the Templar commander shot him glares before they turned away - the young Elf embraced the Warden: "Last one to the camp has to braid her cousin's hair!" and ran off before she could answer. Loghain found himself walking back with the Warden and the mabari.

"It's over," said the Warden, "And they listened - even Arl Bryland!" There was a touch of smugness, of astonished delight.

"You can buy respect by birth or by bloodshed, I've found," he said, wondering if she was too young and too naive to understand the sarcasm - to realise how shallow this kind of adoration was; how the very Banns who had cheered the young farmer-turned-hero had been the first to turn on him for getting "above his station".

For a moment, he saw something in her regard that was not young at all - but the smile she gave was cheerful, "Oh - I never thought it would last," she explained, "I'm just - enjoying the moment!"

"Leonas Bryland listening to his former servant - I suppose I can see the appeal," he acknowledged dryly.

"You know about that? Truly, he did me a favour by sacking me: where would I be if I'd spent the last five years as a handmaid instead of a dockworker?" When he raised an eyebrow, she explained: "I can work for twelve hours without a break; it taught me endurance. It would have come harder to start learning now, as I'd have had to - you can't ask your men to put up with things you can't bear yourself."

This candid sharing of a truth he had lived by before she was a wink in that Elven cook's eye amused him. But she was right. Nothing about her was physically impressive - but he could see she had the kind of wiry toughness that the poorest of his recruits possessed: those adolescents late getting their growth because of scant food and overwork, all stringy muscle and bone, possessed far more stamina than the young noblemen, with the sleek gloss of privilege, who had the muscle to wield greatswords but tired half-way through morning drill.

"When Bann Sighard spoke of the King - he meant Maric, didn't he?" she asked curiously. Loghain was surprised she had picked up on that. It was true enough that though Cailan had been King for the past five years, the memory of the Rebel Prince was more alive than his. He nodded.

"Tell me about him."

... Maric had been clumsy as a puppy, dropping his sword or falling off his horse, falling all over himself with enthusiasm whenever someone made a particularly acute jest; yet he had held his own among the soldiers, in spite of his instinct for mishap, by knowing them all by name and by displaying an unfailing courage and humour that had made many of them look at him with affection indistinguishable from respect...

"What would you like to know?" he asked warily. He expected something crass, the sort of thing a graceless young woman would come up with – and the Warden did not disappoint:

"Is it true he had a preference for Elven women?"

Loghain rolled his eyes. She had Maric's charm and Rowan's temper and Gareth's idealism, but those things had been added to, not changed from, the essential Elven identity. Clacking talk at the Alienage market, gossip nineteen to the dozen when good solid Ferelden folk would keep silent. Elves were all flame and music and delicate bones: flighty compared with Ferelden earth and iron. Or was it her youth – surely Anora had not been so fond of scurrilous gossip at that age… The thought went through his mind that it was surely a little late for her to be picking up tips for seducing the Bastard Prince – but he had no desire to transform the conversation to a blood-letting.

"Why - are you planning a career change as a writer of scandalous historical journals?" he asked instead.

"No – just wondering why everyone calls him a great king when he sounds like a horny jackass to me."

Loghain hid his own smile, sternly feeling that the disrespect should not be tolerated – but hampered by the undeniable fact that he had wondered the same on several occasions. He saw, as if in front of him, that wry, sheepish grin as his friend was caught in yet another indiscretion, listening to Loghain's lectures.

"Well: if an Alienage guttersnipe can become a general, a horny jackass can become a great king." Maric's laugh - his ability to laugh at himself was one of his most endearing qualities - ghosted through Loghain's mind.

The Warden clapped a hand to her mouth; her suppressed laughter bubbled out in a little snort. Loghain was not used to making people laugh, even those closest to him: Cailan had been too in awe of him, Anora too serious, Cauthrien too professional. Even Rowan had been, like him, given to sarcasm rather than humour. The last person who had ever laughed with him had been Maric. He smiled too, having had the last word for the second time that day.

Author's Note: I'm a little embarrassed to give you two chapters of preparations, and still no Battle of Ostagar! I intended to include it in this chapter - problem is, it's almost as long again. The battle and the whole "Return to Ostagar" sequence will follow in a few days. Loghain's military strategy is a version of Cannae, the archetypal battle of annihilation, but there are nods to Gladiator, LOTR, the legend of Camelot, Avatar and even Toy Story in here too :)

I have changed canon a little here: in-game West Hill has already been overrun. IMO if the horde had advanced that far north I don't see how the country could have survived, and surely not even Arl Eamon could have missed them! I've tried to position them in a way that makes sense of the whole "Redcliffe" decision.

I'd like to thank Dragonracer13 for pointing out that Leliana would not be the only companion Loghain suspects: what exactly were Sten and his company doing in Ferelden? Arsinoe: I agree with you that horses would shy from darkspawn. I really wanted to include them, so have tried to find ways round this.

Ril and Anora's glider design is based on the William Beeson model, rather than a modern hang-glider. Mutive: I agree, it will take several attempts before they create one that actually works!

And special thanks to icey cold, for bouncing ideas and for the insights as to what is going on with Ril behind the scenes.

Thank you to everyone for following along so far: your reviews, faves and alerts make my day!