Disclaimer: The Dragon Age world doesn't belong to me.
Chapter 4 – A Pouch of Gold
"I take it that you know each other" Clarice stated, slowly mulling the words over. "Care to tell us again who you are?"
This was not the first time in her life when Kallian wondered whether Fen'Harel the Dread Wolf was one and the same with the shemlen Maker, or the Maker had simply been Fen'Harel's unacknowledged offspring that had inherited some unbecoming features from his great-great-great-great-grandfather. One might have thought that the God of tricks favored the trickster, but then again, who was to say that tricking the trickster into thinking they could trick fate wouldn't be an exquisite entertainment for a treacherous god? She viciously measured each and every warrior that had a sword pointed at her. They were too many to fight them, surely, but blood was burning in her veins and she would gladly have pursued, had she found a way to win this fight. They had captured Leliana. They were keeping her in irons. Judging by the amount of blood that soaked that Maker-cursed covering, they had blinded her, not Anora's men. Why? What was it to them? Could it be that Anora had sent her prisoner to this camp of petty poachers, instead of the Highever garrison? Quite unlikely. They must have caught up with the wagon. Or, more likely, Leliana had made her escape, only to run into this barbaric merry band. If that was the truth, it didn't bode well. Slim chance she could get Leliana – or herself – out of the place in one piece. Or, with minimum loss of limbs, she thought dryly.
"I am Kallian of the Grey Wardens" she said slowly, mirroring Clarice's tone. The time for games had passed.
"Nelaros?" Clarice certainly did abide her time. Kallian was happy to oblige. As long as they talked, they didn't fight – and that was a good thing, was it not?
"Died on our wedding day, defending my honor from the human noble who was trying to exercise his right of first night."
"Have you ever met Rendon Howe?"
"I met him once, at Loghain's side. The second time I met him it was in battle, and he died at my hand."
"What of general Loghain?"
"There was a Landsmeet that you may have heard of, where the Wardens demanded that they be cleared of the accusation of treason, and that Loghain step down from the self-assigned position of Regent. They also demanded that Theirin blood be restored to their rightful rule, in the person of Alistair, the son of Maric. Loghain refused to step down as requested by the Landsmeet and was challenged to a test of arms, which he lost. For the reason of being a seasoned warrior and an accomplished general he was conscripted into the Grey Wardens. We fought together in Denerim, and he fell the Archdemon – but that you already know"
The rumor around, though, shown that the others didn't – not that it came as a surprise.
"It was you who bested Loghain in the Landsmeet." Clarice muttered.
"Yes."
That gave her a little pause, but the questioning begun anew as mercilessly.
"Queen Anora?"
"We stroke a deal before the Landsmeet – that she should retain her position and privileges by marring Alistair. We both felt this alliance was the most solid outcome that one could hope from the Landsmeet – one that would quench the civil war and allow Ferelden to fight the Blight. Apparently, she sought no more the presence of the Wardens after the battle of Denerim, seeing that she betrayed me and my companions, one of which you hold right there."
"Warden. Word of your deeds reached us here. If I have your word that you leave never to return to this land, I will let you go with your life. But your companion remains here."
Right. What had she expected? Shems, it seemed, had taken to the habit of sending her off empty-handed with the air that they were actually offering a bargain. Was there something etched to her forehead that bade them do so, Kallian wondered.
"I'm sorry, but leaving with my life is not what I came here for. She is," Kallian pointed at Leliana, "and I'm not going anywhere without her."
Clarice seemed genuinely unhappy at the answer.
"That, I understand." She went on, carefully weighing every word, as if they tore through her flesh. "You, Warden, must also understand that I cannot let her go. The reasons are mine own. All I can offer you is this: you and I take weapons and fight to the death – if, and only if, you give me here and now your word that, would you best me, you will lead my men and free my city from the evil that enslaves it. Then, you take your companion and go."
Right. More demands. To think she'd really liked this Clarice only hours ago. Kallian was definitely losing her touch with people.
"How can I trust your word, when you acted all but honorably with your prisoner? Was she not whole when delivered to you?"
"She was whole."
"Then you harmed me. I demand satisfaction."
Kallian's caramel eyes dug themselves in the hazel ones. Where before had been lenience and understanding, now only pain and determination remained. Kallian couldn't bring herself to try and fathom this; her own pain and anger demanded – ahh, poor Ser Landry, it had been him who had taught Kallian the meaning of the word, at the tip of his sword – satisfaction. Her father would have washed her mouth with lye on hearing her utter words as grand as this one, but she was far away from home. Maybe, she had a thing for greatness – the last time she'd entered the Alienage she had worn Evon the Great's Mail, whoever Evon had been, most likely a stub of a man, since his mail had fit Kallian perfectly – but satisfaction was a word that people like Clarice understood; and, honestly, how was she supposed to say to someone "I want your head on a pike and your bowels in the dirt" without sounding gruesomely uncivil? In the view of the battle to come, Kallian's head had become particularly light; but it seemed she wasn't losing her touch after all - truly, the word 'satisfaction' seemed to steer something in Clarice.
"I, Clarice Cousland, daughter of Bryce Cousland teyrn of Highever, and last of my line, I will grant you your satisfaction." she stated darkly, drawing her impressive sword.
Kalian unwound her cloak, revealing her crippled right arm for the first time. She quietly ordered Con to sit. Then she balanced her sword in her left hand, probing it, getting accustomed to its weight. Clarice Cousland heir of the teyrnir of Highever let out a war cry that could make the stones crack.
"Right. That was supposed to make me fall on my back in awe." Kallian was still probing and waiting. She had all the time in the world.
The first blow was meant to cleave her right in two, but she was no longer there when it fell. She took a duel stance but didn't strike back just yet – without a breach in the warrior's defense, it would have been a waste. She danced away and around, waiting for the second blow to get on its course. Only then she struck at the exposed right flank. Step, stab, back, dodge. She drew little blood.
All it took was a glimpse to Clarice's face to make Kallian cringe. She wasn't easily scared, not by any thing natural – but this, the overpowering fear that froze the marrow in her very bones, reminded Kallian of staring in the hollering mouth of a shriek. Not that Clarice was less silent than death itself. Not that her eyes had changed color, or that she'd grown an extra nose. But something was there, in that face.
Not even the hard blow of Clarice's pommel got Kallian out of the abased state she'd fell into; she staggered backwards slightly, without falling, and she stood there, unable to break the stare, her arm failing her, unable to raise blade. What did, though, bring her back, was Leliana's call from the side.
"Kallian! She is a reaver!"
That made sense. And, while understanding broke fear, taunting was a good way to demean it.
"Ah, reaver? The lady is a reaver? So, that is your well-guarded secret that you hope to keep from anyone?" Kallian could well see she'd struck a nerve, so she continued with the taunting while evading yet another mighty blow. "That is why you pull eyes of people out, the eyes of good people, of my loved ones and friends?" The swords clashed with lightning. "That's why no one can leave here once they know?" Pinpoint strike. "So that no one outside this camp can learn of what you are? Not while you're alive?" Kick below the belt.
Clarice bent over as her foot found its target. This was the one chance to make this final, Kallian thought. She plucked Fang form her boot with her right hand and darted forward with the punisher's fury. She delivered four blows in a row that went through and below the warrior's plate, and, while the bones in her right hand cracked open again, so did Clarice's armor, and she fell on her back in a roar of steel, tangled in her own sword.
Then, the real nightmare begun.
Clarice's men, who had stood their side before, charged at Kallian from the rear, bringing her to her knees. She spat blood, as, clearly, at least one sword had pierced much more than armor, and Kallian got ready to receive a final blow. She found herself wrapped up in a force field instead – Morrigan must have been nearby. Clarice had been revived by someone, judging by the glittering blue light that had engulfed her body a moment before, and she was now staggering back to her feet only to be pushed back by the icing power of a blizzard. Leliana had begun to hum a small, captivating tune that stunned full-fledged warriors on spot, keeping Clarice's men within the tempest that Morrinag had added in for good measure. It was a massacre. Kallian got back to her feet, slowly regaining her strength. People begun to fall from exhaustion, and the place got filled with crooked bodies horribly maimed by huge frostbite wounds and lightning burns.
Clarice seemed to thrive in the mayhem. The storm and frost were burning and deforming her face, scorching skin that seemed to grow anew on the spot. She stood her ground, seemingly in the center of a reddish whirl of energy that drew from the corpses of her fallen companions, leaving them mere husks. It was a terrible sight to behold, that of a face torn and mending at the same time.
Then, the world around Kallian shattered. Somehow, Morrigan had exploded the force field to the outside, sweeping everybody still alive off their feet – except Clarice, of course, who was, by all accounts, indomitable. Not the same could be said about her mind, it seemed, as she regarded the battlefield with a miserable air that only matched the grim sight. She oozed an aura of pain so terrible that Kallian herself buried her head in her hands, filled with the hollowness of despair, as memories of past battles came back to her in vivid images, breaking her will. In a corner of her mind she heard Leliana scream curtly, and the finality of it got her back to the reality at hand.
"Call off your men, Clarice, or we'll all die in this Maker-forsaken hole!" she called, out of despair than of anything else. She didn't expect it to happen, really.
"Halt!"
There was a tremor in the air that came with the command. The storm faded away and died, and a mage emerged from the back of the tents tossing healing spells at those alive. Clarice had crumbled in a heap of red steel and silverite, looking small, but the reddish glow about her hadn't ceased, as the flesh and skin on her face and hands were knitting of their own accord.
"Stop that. It's your men you're feeding on."Kallian said with disgust.
"I know – can't" Clarice panted, seemingly appalled herself.
The mage had apparently taken mercy of her state, as he closed the remaining wounds with a flicker of the hand, and the glowing ceased.
Kallian didn't dare lower her guard just yet. But Leliana had cried with despair earlier, and now she was nowhere in sight. The itching need to go to her was growing, and shadowing everything else.
"Go see to your wounded," Clarice said. "I won't fight you anymore. Anders?"
"Yes, can I heal her now?" the mage was eager to help. It seemed he'd offered his services earlier. Kallian narrowed her eyes, but she chose to say nothing as she headed to the place where Leliana's body lay limp. She was still breathing, though barely, and she seemed unharmed, except for the cloth wrapped around her eyes. The mage named Anders kneeled beside her and started his incantations. He raised soon enough, though, with a somewhat puzzled brow.
"I can't figure it. It seems there is nothing wrong with her – except the obvious, of course, but I can't do much about that, now. It's too late. I could only knit the wounds."
Kallian had watched the mage's work carefully. She eyed him wearily and knelt at Leliana's side, herself. She touched her cheek gently and then removed the blindfold with caring moves. The view was dismal –empty sockets, where those clear blue orbs used to be – the beauty of her lover marred forever. She stroke Leliana's cheek once more, then she stood up, not willing to let her anger boil over again. There had been enough bloodshed for one evening.
"So you don't know what has happened to her."
"I'm sorry, Warden." The mage shook his head and reached for her right hand. "If I may…"
Kallian pulled her arm grudgingly, but blue light had already seared through her forearm, and she felt the bones set in place with a sharp pain. She sighed.
"You shouldn't have."
No one else had said a word. When she turned, she saw both Morrigan and Zevran standing there. She had no idea when they had come in the clearing.
"Let's go" she whispered to them, afraid that her voice would sound hoarse if she tried to speak aloud.
"One word, Warden."
No. She couldn't bear to hear another word from a – creature – warrior – thing so cruel and haughty as this Clarice Cousland. Well. Maybe she had a question.
"What did you do to turn like this?"
"I did – nothing. It is how I woke up, in the moat. Reaver, you call it? I woke up like this, among the dead; my hair had whitened overnight. I swear to you, I've done nothing of my will to become a one."
The words rang true, Kallian could see – but she could give Clarice little comfort – or, rather, none. Morrigan took the mercy to answer.
"'Tis more than blood magic that which dark spirits teach. A moment of weakness from your part may have caught their attention. These things can happen; a power such as yours is sought by many. You must know, though, that it will consume you, lest you struggle to retain your human understanding. You may want to keep your blood lust checked, for one."
"Thank you." Clarice bowed her head, then she turned back to Kallian. She had to speak.
"Warden. I have met Duncan of the Grey Wardens the night Highever was attacked. He dragged me out of the castle against my will. He made use of The Right of Conscription, as I was more prone to meet my end with my family than flee. I ran back into the city to fight, knowing that he wouldn't follow. The rest is as I've told you."
Kallian didn't know what to make of this.
"What do you wish of me?"
"I have a conscription claim on my head. I was asking you for the time to set my affairs here proper. Then, I'll be willing to abide by it."
"I never heard Duncan say a word of it. As for my part, I doubt I will soon have the desire to fight alongside you. Consider yourself free." Kallian couldn't have sounded more bitter, and Clarice flinched.
"If there is anything that you would ask of me in compensation, let me know."
"I might just ask something of you, sometime." Feeling a little guilty towards the Wardens for denying such a promising recruit, Kallian was trying to get over her bad blood and not refuse. "There is also something that you could do for me now, if you will. Take this pouch of gold to Nelaros' kin."