Chapter 3

The Return To Ferelden

"No! No way!" Anders cried.

"Why not?" Carver retorted, "I'm a Grey Warden, and so are you!"

"I'm an ex-Grey Warden, and I happen to have deserted from right here in Amaranthine – they'd probably kill me on sight!" the mage protested.

"I could live with that..." the younger man snarled.

"Stop it, both of you!" Hawke snapped, unable to handle it any more. The worst thing was, part of her wanted to side with Carver, where previously she would have agreed with anything Anders said. The change was... troubling.

They had made it past Amaranthine, and were now sheltered in the smallest inlet of the bay Isabela had described. The anchor was holding them neatly in place, although the caravel did occasionally – and worryingly – bump against the cliff face. Outside, the sky was black, but forks of silver rain were still just visible in the air – the deck was soaked, and no-one had wanted to be up there in that storm.

As it was, they were all packed into the cramped hold. With the anchor down and the rudder locked, they didn't need anyone manning the ship, so they had all been free to shelter below deck, and conversation had quickly turned to their destination. When Sara had proposed Vigil's Keep, Carver had immediately agreed, while Anders had vehemently disagreed. Hawke was now stood between the two of them, willing them not to get into a fight, as Aveline and Isabela watched on from the sidelines. In the far corner, Merrill was attending to Varric, using a simple heating spell to dry the sodden, shivering dwarf off – apparently, dwarves didn't mix too well with water...

"I don't see what other option we have," Hawke persisted. Surprisingly, Isabela didn't protest – she had given up on the notion of going to Rivain the very moment it had been pointed out that there were qunari there...

"There are always other options!" Anders argued. "We could stay at sea! We could find the mage underground!"

"We don't even know where the mage underground is-"

"And I wouldn't trust them if we did," Carver interrupted. "You saw those mages when we were fleeing Kirkwall – at least half of them were maleficarum!"

"I... quite," Hawke stammered, uncertainly. Her brother was crossing dangerously close to insulting her too, as a mage. "As for staying at sea, we'll need food at some point, and that means going ashore!"

"Why does it have to be the Grey Wardens, though?" the ex-Warden moaned.

"Because they're the only group the Chantry can't touch," she replied, with a tone of stony determination. For what seemed the first time in years, anger was bubbling up at Anders. He'd gotten them into this mess, she wasn't going to let his whining stop her getting them out of it...

"I... I suppose so," Anders admitted, shakily. "But I'm still not thrilled about the idea."

"You don't have to be," her brother muttered. "We're doing it with or without you." Then, he took on a more conciliatory tone and added, "Besides, they won't kill you, they need every Warden they can get..."

"Maybe you're right," the mage sighed, turning away.

"But," Carver smirked, at his back, "five silvers says the Warden-Commander beats the crap out of you."

At that very moment, the Warden-Commander was undergoing the thoroughly unexciting task of sifting through letters... The murder of an Orlesian noble was doing the rounds, at present – two minor banns had both sent studious letters informing him of it, and embellishing their own roles in obtaining the news. Amazingly, they thought they were important enough to be privy to this great secret, but the Arl of Amaranthine, personal friend of the king, would have been kept in the dark. He swore the Bannorn was getting more and more like the Orlesians they detested every day, one-upping each other for a game with no prize...

Anyway, the news of an Orlesian being assassinated by another Orlesian was rather standard, and was utterly drowned out by the word drifting across from the Free Marches. It had taken less than a day for word to spread of Kirkwall's fall – the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry had been seen all the way across the Waking Sea, in Amaranthine and Highever, and the templars had wasted no time in dispatching messenger birds and couriers to the far corners of Thedas, even before the battle had finished. Within a few hours of the uprising's beginning, templars from Ferelden, Orlais and Nevarra had been on the march, and the Warden-Commander strongly suspected they had been waiting to go to Kirkwall, because their response was remarkably quick.

The departure of the templars was fine by him, however. In his younger days, he had been a staunch ally of the Order – one of his greatest regrets now was that he had participated in the annulment of the Lake Calenhad Circle. Admittedly, it had earned him invaluable templar support in the attack on Denerim – Knight-Commander Greagoir and his men had stormed the rooftop of Fort Drakon, along with the Wardens and the men of Redcliffe, to attack the Archdemon. But the moderate Greagoir had died years prior, taken by sickness as he rebuilt the Circle, and his replacement was an odious figure who took the view of the most pig-headed templars – that the Wardens were just a refuge for apostates and maleficarum, and should be brought under the Chantry's rules... Years of their interference had turned the Warden-Commander from their old ally, to their frequent sparring partner. His loyalty to them had been exceeded and broken long ago by his loyalty to the Wardens – his Wardens, more specifically. The experience of leading them at the Vigil, of taking not one but two apostates into his care, had done a great deal to mellow his views on magic, and the ranks of the Vigil's Wardens had, in the years since, come to accommodate a great number of mages, with only a minority coming from the Circles.

The most remarkable thing about his mental state at present though, was not his musings on the templars but the sense of boredom he felt. The Warden-Commander hadn't left the Vigil in weeks, not unless you counted the brief hour-rides to Amaranthine, and he certainly didn't. It was unerring, to be a fighting man stuck playing politics. True, as a nobleman he had always been lined up for politics – as the eldest son, Fergus got the fun of leading armies, while as the second, Tyran himself was relegated to statesmanship – but he had never really enjoyed the prospect. Put simply, he felt like an old dog now. He had forged his name in the darkest of wars, the Blight, and now he was stuck as a nobleman once more, without a battle to test his blade in – it made him feel rather useless, washed up, even. He greeted bandit raids with morbid relish because, terrible though they were, they gave him a chance to fight, to let the boiling blood rise in his veins once more...

His self-pity was interrupted by a knock at the door, as Varel let himself in without waiting for permission – after six years of working together, the Warden-Commander and his seneschal didn't stand on pretence.

"What news, Varel?" he muttered, over his shoulder, as the other man approached.

"Reports from one of the scouts," the seneschal replied, and Tyran shot upright. A scout report being delivered in the middle of night usually meant something interesting...

"Well, go on then!" he urged. "What have they spotted?"

"A ship," Varel began, "in the southern bays, just off the road to Denerim. They're anchored down in an inlet..."

"Probably sheltering from the storm."

"Indeed, but the crew were gone – either they jumped ship, or they were hiding below deck."

"Why did you bring this to me?" the Warden-Commander frowned, finally. A ship hiding from the storm was nothing remarkable...

"The ship was flying templar colours. More specifically, Kirkwall templar colours."

There was a slight, contemplative pause, as Tyran digested the seneschal's concern, and voiced it himself:

"Why would a templar ship hide in the bay, instead of putting in at Amaranthine?"

"That, my lord, is the question..."

The Warden-Commander stepped back, massaging his brow with his right hand, and looking out towards the window. It was black – the storm that was battering the coast was raking across Vigil's Keep, too, pelting the ramparts and drowning the courtyard in an inch of glistening, silver-moonlit water. Through the darkness, he could just about see the guardsmen on the walls, vainly trying to keep their torches lit despite the downpour. On any other night, he would have dismissed venturing out in this weather without a moment's hesitation, but right now, his boredom and curiosity were teaming up to overpower the rest of his mind.

"Fetch Nathaniel..." he instructed, finally, "Tell him to gather ten of the Wardens, quick riders, and have them horsed and ready at the gates by the turn of the hour."

"You're riding out tonight?" Varel queried, with surprise in his voice and on his face. "There is a storm out there, commander..."

"I had noticed," Tyran scowled. "We can be at the bays by dawn – the storm will be passing by then, and I'll wager the crew will move out at first light. We'll be there to meet them, whoever they are..."

Sure enough, within an hour the Wardens were on the move, and Nathaniel Howe wasn't exactly happy about it...

They were cantering along the Pilgrim's Path in a tight column, two-abreast. Tyran and Nathaniel formed the front row, with Sigrun close behind, and almost a dozen other Wardens following. He chided himself for bundling them all under 'Wardens' – they had names, and identities, after all, but in his mind, he still held his original companions closest, those who had joined along with him, and fought along with him in the darkest days of the Vigil. Tyran, Oghren and Sigrun were the only ones who remained of that original company – Anders was long gone, having abandoned them, Justice had disappeared, died, perhaps, and poor Velanna had given her life defending the Vigil all those years ago.

He pushed himself away from that painful thought, and as a consequence became rather aware of the rain slashing at his face, the sodden braid of hair falling over his eye – he flicked it away with annoyance – and the lightning kissing the horizon. The horses were persisting doggedly, and most of the Wardens, like Tyran, had heavy armour to keep the rain away, but it was still unpleasant, and cold, and the wind was howling all around them, confusing his usually alert senses.

"Why are we doing this?" he moaned aloud.

"Doing what?" Tyran muttered.

"What do you think? Riding out in the middle of the night, in the middle of a storm!"

"We have to check this ship out," the commander sighed, "it would have gone completely unnoticed if our scouts weren't wandering the area, which means the crew didn't want to be found... Templars wouldn't be hiding out there, which leaves raiders or mages as our prime candidates..."

"But that isn't why we're really out here," Nathaniel argued, with cutting scepticism. "We're here because you're bored."

Tyran turned to glare at him, but he knew he was right – he'd always been able to annoy the commander by voicing his silent thoughts. Off the field, it irritated him, but in battle, or in tense negotiations, it was invaluable, enabling Nathaniel to follow his commander's lead without hesitation.

"That's great," Sigrun piped up sarcastically, from behind them. "Next time you're bored, don't bring me out in the rain!"

The commander sighed, and laughed weakly at his two friends' protestations.

"Too late to turn back now," he observed. "Wardens, pick up the pace!"

With a crack of reins, the Warden-Commander sped his horse into a gallop. Nathaniel quickly followed suit, as did Sigrun, who clumsily spurred her mount forwards – the poor girl wasn't exactly a slick rider... Behind them, every Warden in the column sped up, and the clatter of a dozen sets of hooves rang out across the Pilgrim's Path as the Wardens thundered south.

As dawn broke, Sara Hawke was clambering up out of the caravel's hold, tired, hungry, and distinctly annoyed to find the air still sluiced with rain, the tail end of the previous night's storm – more worryingly, a second of storm clouds was swirling around over the Amaranthine Ocean. Isabela was on deck ahead of her, and the others were gathering their meagre gear, following her up one by one.

"What's the verdict?" she called, as the pirate queen scrambled up onto the aft deck.

"Son of a scurvy whore!" was the rather obscene response. Isabela's eyes were clamped to the main sail, and as she looked up, Hawke's jaw dropped. The great, triangular sail had been scarred along the middle, torn from top to tail, presumably by a rocky outcrop as the ship swung in the night.

"So... sailing away isn't an option?" Anders murmured, as he joined them on the deck. "Shame..."

"We'll have to head for the shore," Isabela sighed.

"More swimming?" Varric scowled, appearing at the top of the hold stairs with the others close behind.

"Afraid so..." the pirate smiled, and before anyone could say anything more, she had dashed to the guardrail and hurled herself over, making a neat, arrow-sharp dive into the sea below.

The others followed with varying degrees of reluctance – Hawke, Anders and Merrill dove in right away, the armour-weighted, rather concerned Carver and Aveline joined them once they were assured the water wasn't too deep, and the hydrophobic Varric had to be yanked in with a tug of magic from Sara's hand. The dwarf dropped like a stone, flailing his little legs, and was dragged the rest of the way by Carver.

'The rest of the way' took them onward for about ten minutes, around the mouth of the bay and off to the right, where a wave-cut dip in the cliff line sloped down into a coarse shale beach, by way of a single rocky path. Isabela, as ever with matters of the sea, reached it first, and was already staggering up the beach by the time Hawke got to her feet – as she did, she was using a healing spell to clear up the jagged cuts on her palms from scrabbling onto the shale.

They took a moment to stop and catch their breath, and wait for the others – Merrill and Anders arrived close on Hawke's heels, as did Aveline, but they had to wait a couple of minutes for Carver to reach them, struggling with the weight of his armour and the dwarf he was dragging. Aveline helped pull the two of them to their feet, and the group came together once more on the beach, panting slightly as rain continued to pelt them. Despite the rain, the weather felt nowhere near as oppressive as it had before – the winds were gentler, the rain was less vicious, and the sun was shining down on them like an old friend.

"Where now?" Hawke murmured, looking to Isabela for direction despite the fact that they were back on dry land.

"Well, we should probably head – ah."

She trailed off mid-sentence, and as one, they turned to follow her gaze. 'Ah' seemed to be pretty appropriate, if a little mild, because there were a dozen figures emerging from the tree line...

The 'figures' were descending from horseback, and they glinted in the distance – polished armour, sharpened blades, all reflected the glancing sunlight that was filtering through the veil of rain. Beside her, Anders tensed up as the men began to march towards them, and she shot out an instinctive hand, clamping around his upper arm – she could feel barely-contained magic coursing in his veins, and as she glanced at him, his face was a mask of panic.

"It's alright," she soothed, fervently praying that Vengeance wasn't about to make an appearance. "They're not templars, look at the armour..."

"I know they're not templars," Anders hissed, under his breath, and realisation hit her, before he continued, "I know damn well who they are, and that's the problem!"

It was Carver who moved first – as the shining men, the Wardens, passed down the little rocky path to the beach, her brother was moving to meet them, blade in hand, marching determinedly. For a moment, she thought he was about to do something incredibly stupid, like take a swing at them, but as he reached the two men at the front – one bulky, one lean, one swordsman, one archer – he raised his greatsword high, span it in his hand, and drove into the earth, before dropping to his knee in a low, bowing salute.

"On your feet, Warden," the swordsman called, and as his voice drifted across, Isabela started with what seemed to be recognition – she trotted up the path towards the Wardens without a second thought, and Hawke followed her nervously, dragging Anders with her.

As she approached, Hawke thought the Wardens made a rather impressive sight, just as the legends always said. Their armour glittered in the dawn sun, and their blades shone even more vehemently. She could see men, dwarves, elves, and every one of them looked lethal, grounded in the world of fire and war, yet strangely ethereal...

The two men at the front had detached themselves from the rest of the group, and were waiting for Hawke and her companions, standing where Carver had met them. Only as she approached did she get a proper look at them, and her jaw dropped as she recognised the one on the right, the lean archer. Nathaniel Howe – the man they'd saved from the Deep Roads just months before...

It was the other man, however, who drew her attention most. He was almost the opposite of Nathaniel – his face was smooth and slightly tanned where Howe's was angular and pale, and where Nathaniel wore the lightest of leather armour, this other man was bedecked in hefty, silver-coloured plate. He had a sword in one hand, a honed, deadly-looking thing, and in the other, a great round shield, emblazoned with a white crest on the steel face. Many of the Wardens carried similar shields, but where theirs bore the Warden crest – two familiar griffons, claw to claw – his displayed two wing-like branches, ivory-coloured and set with a blue outline. A noble crest? Whoever he was, she dropped into a kneeling position to greet him, like Carver had, and bowed her head.

"Stand, friend," he rumbled, and Hawke got rather nervously to her feet, looking up at his face – a curving, black tattoo framed his left eye, and his hair was short and dark, much like Carver's. All in all, he was rather a handsome man, but there was a seasoned, formidable air about him that spoke of years of warring...

They stared at each for a moment, before Isabela stepped in with a curtsy – the man's pale grey eyes went wide in recognition at the sight of her, as she murmured:

"Sara Hawke? May I introduce you to Tyran Cousland – Second Teyrn of Highever, Arl of Amaranthine, and Commander of the Grey in Ferelden..."