The outcome of the war is in our hands; the outcome of words is in the Council.
The Iliad.
The silver blade of dawn slit the grey cloud mass to create a horizon. All around the camp, the dark triangular tents resembled the fins of gathered sharks. Hard, glinting sparks of light limned them in silver. The searching light seemed to find chinks in Loghain's armour, brining on greater cold, as if it helped the wind find gaps in his defences to sneak through and dull his mind.
The thought brought a rush of hot blood and a quick thrill of increased awareness. The lack of sleep he'd had only served to invigorate him. The same could not be said for the Warden, he thought, with a grunt of amusement. When he'd left her - to the tender mercies of the fierce young cousin who'd tried to put an arrow through him - she had worn the pallor of a three-day old corpse. Eyelids like peeled shrimps and forehead glistening with pallid sweat told of a system still leaden with alcohol. Elves were notoriously light-weight.
To the north, the knoll from which the infantry had descended jutted into the opaque sky. The fringe of fir trees were a shadowy, abstract green darkness; the curve of the Drakon River encircled everything like a sickle blade. The smoke of yesterday's pyres formed a greasy lid that drifted sluggishly east. At the base of the hillside, the tent that had housed the dying was nothing but charred sticks that reared like skeletal fingers. A faint childhood memory brushed Loghain's mind - the village superstition that the bones of unquiet dead grew from the ground. An instant later, he scoffed at himself. The untainted wounded were housed to the north and west - many of those would recover, though they could not be moved for days. The Bannorn knights and infantry, the Templars and camp-followers, were all camped to the north and west of the battlefield - upon flat grass that rippled like purple waves. Dotted among the waves of grass and darkness, the rust-coloured glow of campfires budded into life. The largest fires formed a smouldering, triumphant barricade in front of a large white square of tent, girded by enormous barrels, and wagons carrying large sacks of grain. The warm, yeasty smell of hot mixed grain mash took Loghain's mind back to the days of the rebellion...he headed toward the tent, stomach growling - and was amused to see the Elven cook had adopted the standard of a giant mortar and pestle. Humph. Better that than the ostentatious golden ship chosen by the man's daughter.
As he headed closer, following his nose, his attention was caught by a ripple of activity to the north-east: a trio of squat, dark-crawling objects that lumbered towards them from the West Road. They were joined by a fourth - then a fifth. Loghain stared - then his breath caught in his throat. Five wagons: was that all? He had chosen men he trusted to keep the supply lines open - this, then, was all Denerim could spare. Hurrying forward, he saw that the old Elf had beaten him to it - the man's younger Elven assistant was shouting instructions to the handlers as if he had been born to it, calling quantities to the cook, who took them down with parchment, quill and ink in small neat strokes. The guard in charge of the wagons heaved himself from his perch and saluted the Teyrn - then cut his eyes to the Elves and back again with a helpless shrug, as if silently asking for an explanation of a world going by too fast for him. Loghain grunted. He wasn't entirely pleased to see the Warden's family assuming sole control of the army's supplies, well-knowing the Elven propensity for skimming off the top, but he supposed that was the price to be paid for efficiency. Better that than what the Dalish were doing, he thought sourly. Disdaining to camp alongside shems in open fields, the Dalish armies had melted back into the shelter of the forest of South Reach - and the game caught by those skilled archers was not being shared. The realisation that many of his own Night Elves had followed them had forced him to squash a wholly absurd pang of betrayal. But something had to be done - the army could not be allowed to fragment before the darkspawn were destroyed.
"There's something else, ser." The guard hurried towards him. Loghain recognised the ruddy, bearded face; the good-natured dark eyes. This was Captain Arvall - whom his daughter had trusted ever since that murky business at Arl Howe's estate. Since then she had elevated him to the status of her right-hand man. Not having reached the truth of that shady affair - and as reluctant to dig as he would have been to swim in a fetid pool - Loghain could only hope she was right. "Her Majesty tasked me to bring you this." The dun-coloured tube of parchment was precisely, neatly rolled. The royal seal winked like a jay in the dusty red light of dawn.
"Thank you," Loghain said curtly. "A man like you deserves something for his trouble. See me after." He turned on his heel; strode towards the squat dark mass of his tent.
Unerring fingers found flint, tinder and torch-bracket. The sullen yellow glow lit the parchment - he broke the seal and unrolled it carefully. A mess of squiggles crawled from left to right like so many black ants. Loghain's face softened with pride - an expression so few were allowed to see. His daughter had created the code and taught him; he only wished he had thought of such a thing during the rebellion. Painstakingly, he set about deciphering the message. Decoded meanings leapt from the varied blacknesses of arcs, fine lines, and dots:
My dear father,
I send this with the last remaining supplies of Denerim's granaries. They will last approximately two weeks. Thanks to the alliance with the Warden, the darkspawn have not laid waste to our fertile crescent - but the campaign has deprived the fields of able-bodied men. I have called upon Bann Valendrian of the Alienage to help make up the shortfall - but he, with an astuteness I would admire under more favourable circumstances, has realised that his people are now valuable commodities and demanded wages equal to their human counterparts. I have accepted his terms - but it is money that must be taken from the war effort.
Worse still: we have counted upon Lord Edelbrek's Amaranthine farmland - but news reaches me that Bann Channon Cousland, thought dead at Highever, has allied with Delilah Howe and Seneschal Varel, and taken over Vigil's Keep. Arl Thomas and Bann Nathaniel cannot learn of this, or they will desert. I am forced to negotiate with Cousland for supplies - after having already promised the Teynrir to the Howes. Any leverage that will gain me the upper hand will prove invaluable. The late Rendon Howe's accusations of treachery were made without proof - but I have always suspected that Arl Eamon was acting as Bryce Cousland's stalking horse in the matter of my husband's union with Celene. My agent, Erlina, denies all knowledge of such - and I believe her. Which points to the existence of at least one other agent, possibly in Denerim. Any correspondence to that effect might be found within my late husband's possessions.
Without the produce of Alamar and Brandel's Reach, we would not last the winter. As it is, we will meet the campaign season in spring with almost nothing. Ferelden's navy - so tenderly built up by you and King Maric over the past thirty years, so lavishly paid for - sits idle and unmanned, all soldiers needed against the darkspawn. We would have to end the Blight within two weeks, and repel the Orlesians in a single decisive battle, to survive as a nation. As such is patently impossible, I would advise you to seek what terms with Orlais we can. As soon as possible - before our weakness becomes apparent.
Anora
Loghain was grateful for the solitude of his tent. His mind was too dangerously poised on the edge of fear to tolerate intrusion. The fury in him threatened to turn him into something like the pitiful, maddened, tainted soldiers they had sent to the Maker last night. The memory haunted him. He picked up the fireplace poker, stirred the blazing logs. The thick iron rod was as long as a man's leg, with a vicious-looking claw hook. In his right hand - the sword-hand whose fingers he could no longer completely straighten - it darted and twisted like a live thing. He jabbed the hook into a burnt log. Charcoal grated: a gritting, slithering sound. He drew the poker out of the fire, examining it as though the scars of its rough forging carried answers. Then, expressionless, he fed the parchment to the flames. The light lured the words to darkness like so many insects: inhaled them to consuming heat. When all were obliterated, Loghain replaced the poker and armoured himself - the steel that held flesh and bone and soul together; the sword that knew nothing about surrender - then left the tent. His quick, purposeful strides carried him towards the tents of Ferelden's nobles.
If anything, the sight of the camp was more disheartening than before. After the night's celebrations, and with Loghain and Cauthrien needed with the wounded, the officer he'd left in charge had not supervised the digging of the waste trenches adequately. The midden heap was far too close to the makeshift village of refugees. Leprous with patches of filth, it was currently inundated with squalling, scavenging vultures. Like angry puffs of dust, they rose and swirled at his approach. Cats slunk out of his way, prowling amid the wreckage. Scraggly wisps of hay littered the hard-packed ground in front of the supply carts. Several dispirited packhorses watched him. Hipbones rose from hindquarters as clearly defined as castle turrets. One neighed plaintively at him. Loghain looked away, strode towards Bann Ceorlic's guard and announced himself with blank detachment.
The thin, nervous man ushered him inside quickly. Bann Ceorlic appeared to be barricaded behind a huge ham, bowls of vegetables, and a massive tureen of steaming soup. He rose ponderously. Pale and flaccid, like a great quivering heap of poached egg whites. With one last draft from his tankard, he came round the table to greet his commander with great gusto. When he got to "brother Fereldan" Loghain decided he'd heard enough.
"Bann Ceorlic. I trust I find you well. I certainly find you very well-fed. I'm calling a War-Council in one hour." He turned smartly, regretting that he'd ever disapproved of Cyrion Tabris for skimming supplies. At least the Elves provided value for money. All Ceorlic had done during the battle was cower behind his family crest. Bann Ceorlic had never fought during the rebellion: had no way of recognising the hidden menace behind that particular blink of Loghain's pale eyes. He did not know the significance of suddenly flared nostrils. He could not know those signals normally preceded a killing thrust or slash. He never knew how difficult the decision to stay the blow.
On his way towards Leonas Bryland's tent, the same packhorse neighed at Loghain again. It was lying down now, and the effort seemed to tire it completely. It shivered, as if dislodging imaginary flies, and rolled onto its side. Stark ribs heaved. It shocked Loghain to realise the animal was literally dying before his eyes. There was nothing he could do. He forced his gaze straight ahead, strode on. Three vultures launched themselves from a branch directly ahead. They glided past on their way to the horse, so close he could see the grained bare skin of their legs, hear the oddly chittering pass of chill wind through feathers. Jet-eyed, avid, they ignored him utterly on their way to the feast.
One hour later, Loghain settled into a large wooden chair inside the command tent, far from the stand with its twin candles. Above him, the carved head of the chair featured a scene of a wolf defending its deer kill against a marauding pack of hyenas. Eleven intense, seeking faces wavered in the murky yellow glow, cast in shifting lines by the double-shadow. The absence of Riordan, still at Redcliffe, meant there was no need for the gaudy Orlesian chair the Warden had appropriated - she sat on a plain Ferelden stool, mabari curled at her feet. She - or her cousin - had taken extra pains with hair, armour and...Maker, she was actually wearing make-up! Artfully applied Orlesian foundation, blusher, lipstick and eyeshadow. Well - that was one way of disguising the effects of a hangover, though he'd never thought to see such a thing at a War Council... To his further surprise, she had chosen to sit beside Arl Eamon. One of her hands covered the old Arl's fat fingers - Loghain couldn't make it out. Eamon's last words to her, spoken at that fateful Landsmeet, had been: "You have acted as might be expected of one of your race and station: insolently using your present fortune, forgetful of your unforeseen rise to power from humble origins...old times come round again. Like King Maric and my father at West Hill, Alistair and I are undone by Elven treachery". Now, she could have been his granddaughter.
Grizzled old Arl Wulf looked unchanged after yesterday's battle: shoulders like a bull, face like a quarry, its scars - a mass of craters and furrows and shiny white silk - like the campaign map on the table. Bann Sighard - quietly composed - and Arl Leonas Bryland sat beside him. The two brothers - Thomas and Nathaniel Howe - sat nearest to the tent flap. Loghain scrutinised the younger man carefully - watching for any sign he had heard the news - but the bland, pale face gave nothing away. Grey eyes settled lightly and coolly upon him.
Loren and Ceorlic sat side-by-side like two ponderous bookends. The exorbitant space occupied by Bann Ceorlic was made up for by his thin, weaselly companion, who seemed to be crammed into as small a space as possible. It was as if he believed he could escape the darkspawn by remaining invisible, and his body, half-convinced, was annihilating itself by degrees.
The final two women were a study in contrasts. Keeper Lanaya sat huddled in one corner, as if trying to remove herself from unpleasant surroundings. The tunnelled hollow of her hood picked out facial highlights: high, smooth brow, sharp cheekbones, slim nose. Primarily, the cowl transformed her eyes. Deep-set in shadowing sockets, they were reduced to prickling points of light.
Rylock, on the other hand, did not hide. Her Templar armour was polished to a frenetic gleam. Damp hair was brushed so neatly the cropped brown-and-grey strands might have been a sleek helm of dark iron. The candlelight shone unforgiving upon the lines and hollows of the spare, austere face. He saw the muted inner glow: the sombre desire to do right as she understood it, the brittle pride and bleak regret; the basic honesty that made no attempt to hide the dark rings around eyes luminous with sleeplessness.
Loghain began without preamble. "Our final supplies arrived this morning. Enough for two weeks more. We must break the horde at Ostagar - or be forced to retreat to Denerim. If we do, we lose Ferelden's fertile crescent. The nation will follow."
A babble of voices broke out like the swell of rain on surf. Arl Wulf, Arl Bryland, and Bann Sighard all looked quietly resigned - they had expected nothing else. Ceorlic began to mutter - and was quickly shushed by Loren. Bann Nathaniel leaned forward, grey eyes seeking, and murmured:
"I have every intention of honouring our commitment to supply our forces from Highever and Amaranthine storehouses - I trust that you will return the courtesy."
The show of support could be taken two ways - and one of them Loghain felt as a blade at his back.
"I know my debts. I know my enemies. I will honour our agreement," he snapped.
The tension was suddenly broken when Arl Eamon leaned forward, regarding Loghain with an affable smile:
"Don't overdo on this dreadful food. I'll have the servants prepare something special when we reach Redcliffe. To celebrate our victory. Everyone's invited."
Everyone stared at Eamon as though he had suddenly grown two heads. Loghain weighed the man's strange, too-cheerful smile - caught the Warden's silent plea for understanding - and understood. No wonder the Warden behaved as a granddaughter to the old man - perhaps, given her own tendency to retreat into fantasy, she felt some kinship. A shadow of regret almost made itself felt: Eamon had spent half his life bemoaning the fact that his father and sister had allowed him none of the glories of battle - that he'd been shunted aside to the Free Marches until the rebellion was over. Fate had a twisted sense of humour indeed - he'd finally tasted war and been unable to assimilate it. It occurred to Loghain that the man's poisoning and forced trip to the Fade hadn't helped either. He determinedly replayed a phrase from one of Eamon's letters - barren, fallow, a worn-out garment hanging in the palace because Your Majesty has not the heart to put it aside - to counter the swift, unimportant whisper of guilt.
"Indeed," Loghain returned drily, "We must not overdo on the supplies. As of today, we march on half-rations. And..." he swept the table with a gaze no-one but Rylock, Wulf and Sighard could match for long, "As the plan to use Ostagar defensively will not require cavalry, I require that the Templar Order dispense with one half of those slope-shouldered Orlesian hay-furnaces."
Rylock shot to her feet, outraged. "Never! A Templar knight who does not look after his horse as well as himself is of little use to the Maker. If you are truly serious about defending your nation from some unproven Orlesian threat, you should not be so quick to dispose of such a valuable asset!"
"Really?" asked Loghain with silken scorn, trying to ignore the blazing wash of childhood memories...
...his frustrated, raging, agonized tears when his father was forced to sell their beloved horses, to pay the Orlesians' ravaging taxes. They had, against all odds, managed the fieldfee that year - only to see it raised the next.. .Gareth Mac Tir had told him the old proverb of the farmer's family who bought the finest, fattest pig at the fair, then couldn't bear to slaughter it, so the farmer and his family died but the pig lived...
Or, to put it more succinctly, Loghain thought: he who tries to defend everything defends nothing...
"Shall I take that as the Order's commitment to actually do something in the event of invasion - instead of sitting on its hands as Mother Bronach did last time?"
Rylock's dark eyes were flat and cold as a bird of prey's. "A Templar knight does not draw his sword against his fellow man. A Templar knight must only shed the blood of maleficarum and darkspawn. You know this. So what else could she possibly have done? If the Order were to become involved in national politics, you would no doubt accuse us of meddling. You cannot have it both ways."
"Indeed," Loghain murmured darkly, a feral grin stretching his lips, "We managed without you before and will again. We took on chevaliers with lightly armoured archers, and when we caught hold of those over-fed, over-bred destriers - we killed them and roasted them."
"I'd sooner roast you!"
Loghain gritted his teeth, matching Rylock glare for glare, neither of them backing down. He sighed - well-aware that he lacked the power to compel the Knight-Commander to do as he asked. If she intended to waste supplies on useless horses, he could not stop her. He had discovered Rylock to be a woman of fierce, unsuspected depths, but in spite - or perhaps because - of their shared experience, she was now acting as though she had her sword of mercy stuck so firmly up her arse she could cut him with her tongue.
"Teyrn Loghain, if I may..." The lilting, accented voice was so quiet it seemed to thread into his thoughts, floating above the cacophony of voices, higher and softer than candlelight. Cowl thrown back, Keeper Lanaya's birdlike form appeared poised for flight, but her hooded jade-green eyes were steady.
"Yes, what is it?" Loghain sighed - with an unconscious rudeness he regretted as soon as the words left his mouth. He was not the only one who tended to dismiss Keeper Lanaya as though she were a child intruding on a grown-up gathering: the Elven appearance of youth and small stature, the fact that she was not actively in combat...a mistake, he knew, to disregard a valuable ally.
If she felt insulted she did not show it. "I regret that our hunters have not shared their skills and the supplies we have. I will order that we do so. As we share danger, so we shall also share food."
"That's - extremely generous of you." Loghain shot Rylock a meaningful glare. The Templar bristled.
"Generous?" The alien eyes swept him up and down, and Loghain caught the intimation of some vast gulf of misunderstanding. "I think not. Your people show their strength by taking, is that not so? He who is strong can take from his neighbour, whether it is countries or men. We show our strength by giving. The food-giver is stronger. The life-giver is stronger. That is why Keepers - who are said to have the most to give - are Clan leaders." There was a subtle change in the air as she said the word "most" - an undercurrent like a crackle of electricity. Even Loghain felt it. It acted on Rylock like a hot needle. She jerked upright - too-thin, too-taut body beginning to radiate a faint white heat.
If she dares raise the issue of apostates now... But Rylock, her warning given, restrained herself by sheer effort of will and tamped her light. Lanaya settled back in her chair - pale, cool, amused - and drew the cowl over her head.
Nor could Loghain ever admit that he had remembered his father's lesson the day he sold Elven men, women and children to Tevinter. If I were an Elf I wouldn't give humanity the steam off my piss...
"If supplies are a problem," Bann Loren's thin, reedy whine cut across Loghain's thoughts, "Might it not be an idea to release some of us to tend to our fields?"
"Absolutely not!" Loghain thundered - and was gratified to see Wulf and Sighard regarding Loren with equal disdain, "We will break the darkspawn horde at Ostagar - and break the back of the Orlesian invasion come spring."
"It is not certain they will invade." That was Leonas Bryland - his tone gently chiding. The faint edge of condescension rasped Loghain's frayed nerves like wire brush. "There is still time to find a diplomatic solution - as King Cailan sought to do."
There was a murmur around the table - a waveform that ebbed and flowed - agreement too strong for silence.
Loghain felt a slow crawl in his belly as he realised that over half the Bannorn supported the idea. Could it be possible that most of Ferelden's nobility did not know - did not feel, in their bones - what independence meant? That their kinship was to their own kind above and beyond any sense of Ferelden as a nation? It was all so very clear to him - had been clear to Maric - but he and Maric had been two dispossessed young men on the run. He had loved Maric for weaving his hatred of Orlais into different cloth - for changing the anger of a vigilante to the ideal of a freedom fighter. For proving, after West Hill, that he was not simply another blue-blood to whom his soldiers were expendable. Was it possible it had worked both ways - that Maric had believed in Ferelden as a nation because he had come to see it through Loghain's eyes: an ideal defined by challenge, through the values of generations of proud Ferelden freeholders? Loghain remembered that first Landsmeet - the way his own experiences had recast the crowd of baying nobles as men who had all suffered under the usurper's hands.
Had they? Had they? During Meghren's rule, they had affected Orlesian court clothes, Orlesian manners - spoken the language like natives...
The noble who had raped and murdered his mother, destroyed his world - had he been Orlesian at all?
The realisation that it was impossible to know for sure was a loathsome worm that twisted at the back of his mind.
To the men in front of him, the vision was only in the Theirin bloodline...as if blood, by itself, meant anything. A peculiar form of Blood Magic, he thought, with the dry rictus of a smile. Blood's just a substance that leaks from a wound... It was why Loghain's refusal to sacrifice the army for Maric's son had not, after all, been betrayal.
I promised you, my friend, that I would never put the King above the Kingdom. That I would take care of Ferelden for you...
Loghain smiled around the table - and there was no-one who knew him well enough to understand the particular ferocity of his grin - to know he was always most dangerous when backed into a corner, alone and outmatched.
I will take lessons from you, Howe, and you, my daughter, in how to build support. I cannot make them value what my King understood so well, but I can force them to it...
Cousland and Howe could be played against each other - he would find the ammunition he needed at Ostagar.
Wulf and Sighard - grizzled survivals of the age of the warring Alamarri Teyrns - would resist Orlesian control as naturally as they'd resist his: he need not worry. Sighard would have his duel, of course, but that was a personal matter - would not affect his loyalties to Queen and country. An enemy to treasure.
Leonas Bryland - a blue-blood through-and-through; cousin to Bryce Cousland - would be tougher. His natural bent would be to support a union with Orlais. Unless he was sweetened with a marriage-tie: South Reach and Gwaren would be powerful as a combined territory; Bryland's sole heir was of marriageable age. Loghain grimaced at the thought of it. A vague memory of a screeching wail and a voice that could strip paint raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He had sworn there was nothing he would not do for his homeland...Had he meant it? He gritted his teeth. Yes.
He would be sure to promote as many soldiers loyal to him as possible. It was about time Cauthrien had her own lands - her own voice at the Landsmeet.
Last but not least, he must bring back the remains of the Joining supplies left at Ostagar. If he could have Jowan figure out the formula - in exchange for protection from the Chantry - he could create Wardens loyal to Ferelden. Not Weisshaupt, nor the Warden's personal goals. Ferelden must not be held to ransom by a foreign order.
Loghain focussed his attention on dealing with the easiest targets. With Loren and Ceorlic, whose loyalties were ever-fluid, no amount of bribery or coercion would suffice. Only naked threat would do. He let some of that bleed into his voice, held and pinioned their eyes as a snake holds a bird's. Ceorlic's: small, dark, glinting beneath overhanging brows...Loren's, pale and watery.
"Ferelden is not a bloodline; our lands not the right of nobility to trade away in a game of thrones. Ferelden is an ideal: of freedom, of independence. So Maric said to me after West Hill. Since that day, I have made those words my purpose. Ideals are fragile, but purposes endure. You can reject that purpose - you can choose to return to being dogs edging each other for scraps around the Empress' table. But then do not be surprised when the lioness comes to feed. Ferelden will be torn in two, as she was during the Civil War, and the lioness will snap up your bleeding half too. You will wonder how you were safe when the skin was whole. Some of you would like to see me fall. It may still happen. But understand this: I will brook no threat to Ferelden from you or anyone. Anyone who deserts in the face of the darkspawn will be given to them. Anyone who turns his hand against the nation when the Orlesians invade will share their fate."
He moved his head from side to side - a wolf inspecting a herd of sheep - examined each member of the Bannorn. He had been through flame and darkness - all he had to do was lay it bare. Ceorlic and Loren stared, transfixed - white with pure naked terror of man for man. Silence fell like a shroud. Then, satisfied that no-one held notions of further irritation, Loghain returned to the campaign map as if nothing had happened:
"Our intelligence reports a second, larger mass of darkspawn directly south of Lake Calenhad. Our present forces are too depleted to engage them in the open. But if the forces of the Bastard Prince at Redcliffe can drive them toward us, we can break them upon the rock of Ostagar. We will reach the fortress in under a week…"
When it was over, the group poured from the tent like pebbles gushing from a jar. The air was thick: high, soft candlelight formed a glowing wreath above motes of dust and the fog of breath, so that the faces seemed to waver amid tendrils of light and shadow. Loghain breathed a sigh of relief as he came into the chill, acrid sharpness of open air. Beside him, the Warden took Eamon's arm and guided him back to his tent. She seemed to be doing better as a doting granddaughter than an ally - she hadn't said one word the entire meeting. The contrast with the youthful optimism of her pre-battle speech was jarring. The faint strains of Eamon's nonsense drifted past:
"You remind me so much of Alistair's mother - except her hair was dark..."
Eamon seemed to be forgetting the Warden's Elvenness, Loghain thought dryly - after making such a point of it in the Landsmeet. The woman named as Alistair's mother had been human: a Redcliffe servant who had died in childbirth.
"You don't have the benefit of a staff, of course - but you do very well without..."
Fatuous flattery. Silly, unctuous insistence that the Warden's cousin had done as well for her as the large number of personal staff who had done the woman's hair and make-up. Maric had always taken good care of his mistresses. Was there no end to the man's foolish prattle? Loghain let the rest wash over him. He returned to his tent - wrote a hasty letter to Anora - then summoned Arvall to collect his payment and the message for delivery. Then he dismissed the man, and left the tent.
To the west, the little village of camp-followers and refugees had hung washing lines from upturned wagons. Sheets and clothing billowed like full-blown roses, gilded red by the sunrise. Loghain thought, incongruously, of the roses he had brought to his wife - of how his grasp had bloodied his flesh - of how determined he had been not to let go. Unaware of the direction his walk had taken him, he almost bumped in to Cauthrien as she came out from the tent she shared with the officers of Maric's Shield. She saluted.
"Cauthrien," he began without preamble, "I intend to scout ahead at Ostagar. I'll be gone several days. You're in command here."
Dark eyes snapped in outrage.
"Out of the question, ser! If you must send someone, then send me. The Joining supplies, I assume, and the King's correspondence?"
Loghain hid a tight smile. Cauthrien understood the importance of planning. Always thinking ahead - that was the way of a soldier and General. She would be a worthy successor.
"Indeed," he said, "And never doubt I'd trust you in anything. But my night skills are better." It was not the whole truth - but Loghain found he did not want to examine his other reasons too closely. "If necessary, you can take over the next stage of the campaign as competently."
"The Banns will not follow me."
"They will," he said, a dark smile twitching his lips, "Once they hear that you are steward of Gwaren."
"A dead man is in a poor position to oversee promotion," was the tart response.
Loghain chuckled. "It's already been done. I sent the recommendation to Anora. I had always intended Gwaren to be her fallback - but she is better served by your support in future Landsmeets."
Cauthrien opened her mouth to argue - realised it would do no good - and shut it. "So be it," she said, with a faintly wistful smile, "If you die, we'll carry on. Ferelden is more than any one man - even you."
Loghain stood still and watched Cauthrien for several long moments - simply watched her. He had learned early on in life not to expect too much loyalty, or stretch it too much. Yet here it was in front of him.
Cauthrien was so quiet and professional Loghain often forgot how much he told her - how much of his past and present thoughts, things he'd said both intentionally and unintentionally, she kept diligently stored for him. Only when one of those things surfaced at exactly the right moment, thanks to her sensitive timing, did he remember to appreciate her. He wouldn't forget again for a long, long time.
"But," she added - and her smile had changed; become lighter, almost teasing - "I will have twenty Night Elves accompany you - their stealth matches yours; and I suggest you find some excuse for asking the Warden. You'll need those senses if you want to avoid ambush. I'll have no foolish heroics - you are not to repeat King Cailan's mistake."
Routed effortlessly, Loghain understood that the only thing to do was surrender gracefully - or as gracefully as he could manage. He grunted.
"Make it so," he ordered.
The Warden sulked in her tent.
While Loghain chewed out the officer left in charge of supervising the digging of the waste trenches, and Wynne checked the progress of those in the hospital tent, and Cauthrien sent a runner to fetch Pir Surana and twenty of his men, it seemed the Warden was determined to do nothing useful at all. She had knelt like a penitent over the mass grave, marked by King Maric's banner, an Elven arrow and a sword of mercy, and hung an amulet worn by the knights of Redcliffe over the hilt. Then she had sat off by herself with the Qunari's sword across her raised knees, blank face dead but eyes glitteringly alive, boiling with unshed tears. Then she had brightened at the sound of her name - her soldiers calling her to celebration - and danced with them. Their attitude was curiously deferential. They did not touch her - took none of the liberties they would normally have done - gazed at her as though she were a living statue of Andraste, framed by music and firelight. She had listened to the absurd ballad - sung by the equally frivolous Orlesian - that depicted her going toe-to-toe with the Hurlock General and puffed up as though the song added extra inches. Then all at once her mood had changed. Someone had called out:
"A toast to the Dragonslayer!"
and her lower lip had jutted petulantly. She had muttered that they hadn't understood anything and stormed off.
Loghain approached the overblown monstrosity of the Warden's tent. Made of fine gold cloth - studded with ornamentation - tied shut with a heavy velvet sash. A shadow brushed the edges of his vision. Instinct made him turn - Nathaniel Howe was heading in the opposite direction, moving soundlessly as always, feet placing themselves as if possessed of their own vision. Grey eyes flicked over him, coolly, then lit upon the tent like moths.
"A gift from the soldiers," the young man murmured, "For ensuring their victory."
Loghain and Nathaniel shared a sardonic smile: enemies united in a moment of perfect solidarity.
Loghain continued on, and the Warden's mabari - a loyal and silent guardian curled outside - announced him with a happy bark. A rustle - a muttered grumble - a murmur of female voices - and the sash was drawn aside, the tent flap thrown open. The Warden stood there, limned in candlelight. It emphasised her high, sharp cheekbones, determined chin, and the red hair - rumpled and loose from its braids - that now stood on end like the feathers of a peacock. The fingers that she ran through it were bitten to the quick, half-moon nails grimy. She was still wearing the Dragonscale armour - custom-made to fit her scrawny frame and etched with gold filigree - as though it kept her in one piece.
"Yes, what is it?" came the world-weary tones of a Teyrn forced to deal with a sea of suppliants. "Oh - it's you," she added sourly, and - after a moment's hesitation - shuffled aside, waving her hand in a petulant gesture that passed for invitation.
Loghain found himself standing amid an enormous slagheap of mess and frippery: baubles, trinkets, a rose-coloured candle, a glass paperweight - rare in Ferelden - squares of bright cloth knit by grateful refugees, an unwashed Grey Warden tunic, a half-eaten hunk of cheese, a bottle of pink cider and a collection of impressionist paintings. He recognised one: a depiction of Moira, the Rebel Queen. Her companion - the young red-haired cousin who had tried to end him the night before - was in the process of clearing up - lips gone rather thin as she surveyed the sea of self-indulgence. Loghain cut his eyes to the mess and then to the young woman with a faint eye-roll - an invitation of solidarity - but the stiff-necked Elf pointedly turned away from him, loyalty to her cousin overriding exasperation. The move also put her within reach of the freshly-oiled, double-curved shortbow upon the weapon rack - and he well knew the speed with which she drew. Her hard-shut white lips and fixed glittering stare gave the undeniable impression he wore a bull's-eye between his shoulderblades.
Oblivious to what was going on behind her, the Warden threw her hands up. Their slender, supple fingers were carved by the regular scars of lutestrings, overlaid by the calluses of gauntlets and sword-grips - but it was the entertainer not the soldier he faced here.
"Everyone wants a piece of me - I came here to escape. Can't I have a moment's peace?"
"You could," Loghain answered, dead-pan, "if you changed that armour for leather. I managed that much after the rebellion, when I wanted to travel incognito."
Like ripples across a reflection in water, the mobile, expressive face hovered on the verge of a sulky retort - then blossomed into a reluctant, sheepish smile. "I don't change it because I enjoy it," she admitted shamefacedly, "Hearing my name on everyone's lips. Nobles who'd have passed the likes of me like rats in a gutter. Soldier's who'd have..." The smile flickered and died. "It must be very wrong of me - after the deaths of Sten and Ser Perth and so many others - but I can't help it. Leliana's song is a beautiful lie - we both know that - but it's true to life as it should be and that's a better truth than the other."
"Humph. No more a lie than the stories of Loghain and his Night Elves defeating armoured chevaliers in stupidly heroic ways. They died in the dark, bleeding out their lives, their throats slit." His tone cooled and hardened under the freighted weight of dark satisfaction.
The Warden's smile rekindled, dancing like motes of light about the grimness Loghain drew about himself. "And I bet you enjoyed those stories too."
"I did not." Loghain glared. Maric had... Transient echoes of happier times swirled around him: Maric dragging Rowan and a reluctant Loghain to victory dances around their campfire, pulling them into his infectious enthusiasm - or off sulking by himself when he felt Arl Rendorn wasn't taking him seriously...
The Warden looked thoughtful for a moment - then her smile widened into a grin of startling familiarity. "Maybe not. But you do enjoy being the backbone of celebrity commanders."
Loghain scowled - tried and failed to refute that - pricked by undeniable truth. Suddenly aware of the young woman glaring quietly by the weapon rack, the Warden blushed scarlet - turned quickly - stumbled, and managed: "Oh - Shianni, this is Loghain. Loghain - my cousin, Shianni. You've - um - met - but I didn't get the chance to introduce you..." The Warden moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her cousin, young face glowing with fierce pride: "Shianni fought in the Dalish front lines."
"The way your people rolled up the darkspawn right flank ensured our victory," Loghain acknowledged - but Shianni only gave an angry snort.
"Would you two," the Warden tried again, a little desperately, "like some cheese and cider?"
"I'd prefer some fresh air," the young woman muttered - her look at Loghain making it clear who was to blame for the lack of it. One swift, feral movement saw her grab bow and quiver and stalk towards the tent flap, her tight-muscled frame as graceful as the Warden was gawky. The velvet sash was thrown violently aside, then pointedly closed behind her. Loghain knew she was waiting on the other side, arrow nocked and ready, aiming for the shadow he cast against the candlelight, watching for any sudden move.
Her words sparked thought, like flint into tinder. "Still an east wind," he murmured, causing the Warden to blink in puzzlement, "I hope it holds."
The tone alerted her. "Why?"
"I'm going to scout ahead at Ostagar."
"Out of the question."
" I hope you change your mind. Otherwise, I'll have to disobey. That's - unprofessional. And bad for morale. I'd dislike that."
"You'd dislike?" The Warden drew herself up to her full five-foot-five, hands on hips, eyebrows drawing together like storm-clouds, the lobster-shell armour and spiky hair adding height and breadth. Loghain was reminded, irresistibly, of a bird spreading its feathers in threat display. "I'd dislike losing a General!"
"My purpose there has been fulfilled. Cauthrien can take over the next stage of the campaign as competently."
The words pierced the cloud of outrage to hit their target: the Alienage practicality that lay beneath the flamboyance. The Warden cocked her head, eyes level and cool, sizing up his usefulness to the army versus his proposal.
"What would you do?"
"Scout for traps - make sure we're not marching into ambush. When I reach the fortress, I'll use Dworkin's explosives to collapse the tunnels beneath Ishal - leave no trace of that filth behind." It was all true, it was simply - not everything...
The Warden crossed her arms about her chest, a last remnant of her annoyance. Irritably, but without her previous intensity, she said: "It's a bad idea. You're not a Warden: you're not immune to taint and you can't sense darkspawn the way we can. Riordan's with Alistair at Redcliffe - there's no-one else."
"There's one."
Outrage returned full-force. The Warden's glare was acid as the Dockers' cider she had boasted of enjoying. "I'm responsible for every soul here. I can't go prowling around in the dark like some night raider."
"No-one said you should."
Storm-clouds still swirled within the amber eyes, heavying them, but the luminosity of laughter broke through like glints of sunlight behind rain.
"You baited me, didn't you? You're devious as Arl Eamon used to be."
"A truly vicious insult. I'm impressed."
The Warden sighed, let go of her anger in a little huff, and gazed forlornly at the rumpled bed-roll where she had clearly been planning to sleep off the night's debauch. "Come on - we'll get ready. I don't relish the idea of sending men into darkspawn traps either."
At the tent flap she stopped, a sudden shadow passing over the sunlight, aging her in seconds. Her hand hovered by the sash, aimless as Arl Eamon's fat fingers, not at all like her usual swift exuberant certainty. "Loghain - there's something you should know. About Ostagar. The creature that murdered Sten - the Hurlock General - he was wearing King Cailan's armour."
Images rifled through Loghain's mind with ghostly fingers, poking and pawing. He was reminded of the chill in the air, the way it seemed to sneak through gaps in his defences. All he had seen during the Orlesian invasion showed him the rest: Cailan's body defiled, mutilated; a trophy...
His back was broken - he was dead before he fell. Meat only: the boy I knew had gone...
The Warden's mouth twisted: the smile bitter as myrrh and sharp as a blade.
"The Hurlock General killed Sten. Nathaniel and I killed him. A poor bargain."
Loghain's lips twitched in a graveyard smile, sharing a warrior's dark amusement. When she was herself, the young Elf was engaging, sunny, grandiloquent. Like Cailan. When she was the Warden, she was violent, sombre, deadly. Like him. Her moods shifted from one to the other in mercurial tides.
"Something else: the ogre that killed the King - was the same creature Sten fought. Dead - but walking. Which means: an emissary at Ostagar. A powerful one. We don't know if he's remained there - but I think we should get a Templar. A Templar and mage both."
Loghain hid a smile at the way events seemed to be falling in his favour. "Jowan and Ser Otto have no duties with the army. Knight Commander Rylock will not be able to refuse." He'd have to have a word with Jowan - make sure the boy understood his brief. Ser Otto was a brave man - but the knight's physical limitations meant he would not be able to watch too closely...
The Warden gave him an odd look - eyes suddenly flat as two copper coins, unreadable - but said nothing.
"Oh, and Warden," Loghain added as he turned to go, "Use stealth. Wear leather, cover your hair and scrub your face. That armour will show up like a damned beacon." Being Loghain, he could not resist a final jab: "That will solve your celebrity problem too. You'll emerge half the woman you used to be - as a peacock without plumage, no-one will give you a second glance."
Clad in his old, battered leather armour, and satisfied with the way the pieces of his plan seemed to be falling into place, Loghain strode quickly towards the knoll where the horses were tied: a squat smear of dark rock jutting into a sky like a marble lid. It was gray with dawn, and cloudless, at once translucent and obscure, like a mirror on which cobwebs and dust had accumulated for years. The silty Drakon river crawled sluggishly around the base, dark-glinting as salmon-skin, reminding him irresistibly of a metallic noose. At the base, the charred remains of the moribund tent were an intimation of what they would find at Ostagar. The top was shrouded by the fringe of fir trees that stood like dour sentinels. The hard-packed earth and jagged slate made more of an impression through leather boots than sabatons, but Loghain found himself relishing the sensation, body falling into long-forgotten lines as he adjusted for the sinuous curve of the bow across his back. The sword that served him well was still belted about his waist, but he had left the wyvern shield behind. The faint citrus scents of gorse, scrub, and the small wind-blasted plants that clung to the hill's edge mixed with the chill sharpness of the air. He followed the scent of horse, found the dun-coloured stallion that had carried him since the start of the campaign, and greeted him with more affection than he showed any human. The frost from the horse's nostrils formed silky grey tendrils pearly as mist, lit by the dawn. Dauntless was a cross between the sturdy Ferelden horses from north of Highever, and the Orlesian destriers he had insulted earlier. He placed the sheepskin saddle-cloth about the long glistening back, then saddled and bridled him. Then he untied the animal, mounted up, and waited for Jowan, Ser Otto and the Warden to join him. Pir Surana and his men would be waiting at the edge of the forest - as always, it was a competition between them who could spot the other first. Loghain seldom won.
The trio who did join him were not the three he was expecting. His heart sank when the lean, hard-muscled form of Rylock strode towards him, plain leather armour somehow making her look more like a Templar than ever. Devoid of pomp and purple sash, she was all sinew and angle, purpose and faith.
"Don't you trust Ser Otto?" he barked.
The tough keen eyes beneath shadowing sockets narrowed. Her pupils were pinpoints of intensity. "I trust Ser Otto completely - but he is needed here to guard Jowan. It is the Blood Mage I do not trust."
Loghain digested this, the sinking feeling in his chest only just preceding the sight of - Wynne…
Clad in a dark grey travelling cloak, the mage was using her staff to aid her balance: the impression of frailty deceptive, as Loghain had discovered.
"Wynne's duties…" he began.
"…have been redefined."
"I see. And yours?"
An edge of regret rimmed the dark, quiet eyes. Too proud to make the admission easily and too honest to deny it, Rylock said simply, "I have placed Templar-Sergeant Rocald in charge during my absence. He was an experienced soldier before he joined the Order. I am - better suited to tracking creatures such as this emissary than to command in war."
Loghain grunted. Sergeant Rocald: a man-at-arms at Castle Redcliffe, who had joined the Templar Order after his wife and daughter had died at the hands of the child abomination. Cauthrien had said he fought like a panther in a sheep-pen. Only Rylock could look him in the eye for long.
Rylock's mount was a sturdy, reliable gelding with an odd white spot like a flame in the centre of his forehead. She caressed the big brown backside with one scarred hand, its leather bindings leaving her fingers free. The Templar as an animal-lover - who'd have thought it? Rylock mounted up - all angles and muscle and grace - and Loghain found himself thinking, incongruously, of Rowan: of how riding had transmuted her sturdy practicality to unrivalled radiance. Irritated with the memory - and annoyed that his plans for the Joining supplies had been dented - Loghain muttered:
"Who needs a husband when you've got a gelding?"
Rylock spared him one haughty glance, not deigning to respond.
Wynne approached. Her arched brows were narrowed in a frown, their edges raised like the uplifted wings of a pale eagle. Of all the people he might have wished to join him at Ostagar, Wynne would not have been his first choice. Last night, she had offered a form of redemption - now the raw memories rose between them without words.
Wynne glared suspiciously at the colourless old nag assigned to her - a beast clearly too decrepit for any rider expect one who did not know what she was doing. She bristled at Loghain's ill-concealed smirk.
"This thing's almost dead already. I assure you in my time I've ridden stronger beasts." Her ocean-blue eyes held the gloss of a satisfied cat.
Loghain raised an eyebrow. "Madam - you are in grave danger of over-estimating your own abilities."
Wynne's electric gaze crackled like the glowing nimbus at the end of her staff - but Loghain was saved from a mage's wrath by the sight of the Warden. Wynne's mouth formed a startled "o" - Rylock glanced in her direction, then looked quickly away, face carefully expressionless.
The Warden had clearly taken Loghain's instructions as a challenge. She cut a dashing figure as she skimmed towards them, seeming almost to bounce, buoyed by the wings of her own inventiveness. Soft, supple leather dark as a blue-black bruise fitted her like a second skin, lined by velvet and gilded by intricate designs about waist and shoulders. It was an unpleasantly familiar costume: the Shadow of the Empire worn by King Meghren's elite assassins. Stories had it they still operated within Ferelden. Loghain did not doubt this was true - but they certainly would not be parading their calling by wearing such a distinctive uniform. Moles hidden deep within ordinary society, like the snake coiled within Denerim who had passed the Empress' letters, would dress to fit in. Those outfits that remained were mostly to be found in bad theatre - which, given the Warden's pretensions of bardhood, was probably where she had acquired it. As if that explosion of sartorial decadence was not enough, she had teamed the outfit with a dark cloak that billowed like a bat's wings, high leather boots, and cowl. And rather than scrub her face clean of make-up, she had chosen to disguise it with an opera mask. Amber eyes peered from behind its slits, so bright with glee they looked full, as though they might spill over. Her mabari gamboled around her, mirroring her exuberance.
"A Warden doesn't fight darkspawn in less than her best."
"Well - if your Warden senses fail us, I can always throw the creatures a second-rate actor while the rest of us make our escape."
The Warden stalked towards her black horse - a gift from Arl Eamon, built for speed rather than endurance - in a flurry of cloak and huffing and indignant flounces. Her mabari - who had taken a shine to Loghain earlier - now gave him a warning bark. Their indignation was interrupted by Wynne's discovery that her horse had taken exception to her earlier comments. The mage's exasperated wail announced the devilment the beast had in mind.
Wynne was struggling to do up the strap looped under the animal to secure the saddle. "She's holding her breath. I knew she was being too quiet."
The Warden grabbed the leather strap, pulled with Wynne. The horse grunted. "Maybe she'll exhale if we wait."
The Warden's suggestion carried no hope, and Wynne answered accordingly. "This stubborn oat-burner will stand here with a gut full of air, taking teeny-tiny breaths, until we buckle up. You know it. I know it. The horse knows it. I'll mount up - get five paces down the trail - and she'll breathe out in one big "whoosh" and both saddle and I will be in the dirt. I'm going to have to take drastic steps." She hefted her staff meaningfully.
The Warden's face fell. "Are you sure? It seems so harsh."
Wynne gathered herself, brought the tip of her staff level with the animal's belly. One sharp poke sent compressed breath exploding from the horse in a lip-flapping, nostril flaring rush. The other end of the creature erupted in a ghastly, burbling bugling.
Both women yelped dismay, but gathered themselves quickly to yank on the strap, drawing it several holes tighter. The horse danced - an intricate piece of footwork that took it absolutely nowhere, but brimmed with immense satisfaction. It turned to fix a sardonic eye on the mage, as if to warn: "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."
Moving so quickly the animal had no time to escape, the Warden had it by the nose, opened its mouth. She peered inside. Wide-eyed with disbelief, Wynne asked, "What are you doing?"
"Looking for the problem." The Warden let go, stepped back. "That horse is too mean, nasty and rude to be just an ordinary animal. There's got to be a man in there somewhere."
Wynne clapped a hand to her mouth. Laughter squealed past. Even Rylock's dour expression was softened by a hint of amusement. All three women traded a glance of complete agreement.
Loghain rolled his eyes.
Song inspirations for this one are:
The Bannorn: Cream - Political Man
Rilian: Florence and the Machine - Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)
AN: I am truly sorry for the massive delay in posting (especially as my last AN promised to post within a week lol) I'm going to make the chapters a little shorter, and prod myself to manage one a week until this story is finished. Wish me luck :)
The references to Maric dragging a reluctant Loghain to victory dances during the rebellion come straight from icey cold's awesome Interlude X: Maric's Waltz. icey is also responsible for the chilling but very plausible idea that the knight who raped and murdered Loghain's mother was not Orlesian.
I'd like to thank Josie, Tyanilth, Shakespira, icey cold and Arsinoe: our various discussions on the financial situation of Ferelden have helped a lot in providing the backdrop for the dire straits Loghain and the army find themselves in.
With regards to the West Hill/West Hills issue, pointed out by Tyanilth in the excellent chapter 45 of The Hourglass, I have decided that as it's already been established in DATM canon that Wulf is Arl of West Hill on the northern coast, with Alfstanna as one of his Banns, I'm going to keep it that way. So: Wulf gets a reprieve - his Arling was not destroyed by darkspawn, and the invisible Arling in southern Ferelden never existed. To me, this also helps explain the inconsistencies between the lack of a "Ferelden navy" in game lore - yet the DLC pack suggesting they have one. I can buy Loghain choosing to build up the nation's defences over the past thirty years - but it clearly happened at the expense of the country's economy. Massive military expenditure = Ferelden folds like a house of cards when the darkspawn attack. But no way would Loghain have built up a navy yet allowed forts like West Hill to decay - therefore Wulf, Alfstanna and others must be manning viable defences. When given the choice between attempting to rationalize the developers' mistakes, and changing things so that (hopefully!) they make sense, I've decided to go with the latter...