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Chapter 12 – All the King's Men

In no more than a watch's time, Alistair gathered a party of six, two of which were of the Maric's Shield, part of Anora's personal guard, one was a knight of Eamon's who had volunteered, and three were men-at-arms from the castle guard, quite green, but eager to prove themselves. Apart from those, there were three squires armed with bows and shortswords and a cook – Anora had insisted that he took one with – who rode the first of the four mules.

On the 27th of Molioris, at the break of dawn, the royal company was on its way. Alistair king of Ferelden rode out from the Redcliffe castle in front of his men. They carried no banners and no insignia. The king was clad in an inconspicuous veridium mail, and he mounted a roan palfrey, mild-tempered but quick of pace, the kind that, while looking far less conspicuous than those of the other knights, was the kind of horse levelheaded enough to get one past the darkspawn they could meet ahead without making too much fuss about it. The rest of the party were also lightly equipped; even ser Kirn, Arl Eamon's knight, had received clear orders not to bring with more than one set of mails. Nor had any of them anything more to sleep on than their bedrolls, and each carried only one keg of ale and one small sack of traveler's loaf; they were to feed on game and the fruits of the land. The company was merry and eager, but the king was weary of what he could learn on the way.

They rode unhindered for four days' time, with the benefit of the sunny weather and of the well-kept routes, so that in the fifth day they were heading at pace towards West Hill. Alistair would have had them go to Highever without any detour, but the men and horses were getting tired and a bit morose; more so, since they were running out of ale. Around mid-day, they left the main road and took the path that led to bann Franderel's fortress. Alistair rode well ahead of his men, lost in thoughts. He was to finally see Leliana after all these months. He dreaded the moment when he'd have to ask about Kallian's fate. The two notes still concealed in his glove burned his palm. He was sure that, when he'd confront Leliana, everything would prove to have a reasonable explanation. He wasn't so sure, however, that he'd be able to trust the reality of it, and find resolution.

In his troubled state of mind, he failed to take note of the familiar feeling that he was being watched by unfriendly eyes – the feeling that had nagged him for a while already, obstinately seeking to remind him that he was still a Warden. In the past months he'd quite forgotten that not all the darkspawn had been swallowed by the depths for good with the defeat of the Archdemon. Not in the metaphorical sense, at least, as it was quite literally from within the bowels of the earth that perhaps two dozen darkspawn emerged, at the same time with Alistair's call of warning.

Had he been in his old company, two dozen darkspawn wouldn't have accounted much. Had the present party here been afoot, they would have perhaps been able to put some order in their ranks. But, as it was, the horses reared and neighed and got entangled in the harnesses of the others, the mules stood frozen on the spot, and the cook started screaming while Alistair fumbled to turn back and dismount his palfrey, desperately far off from his men.

Two of the squires were the first to go down. They had not even gotten the chance to dismount. Three genlocks disemboweled ser Kirn's horse with claws and teeth, catching the poor knight under a mass of tepid, gushing flesh. The other two knights were holding their ground though, giving the Redcliffe men just enough time to regroup and draw their bows.

Then Alistair finally arrived at the spot and entered the fray. One overhead strike freed ser Mhairi of the Maric's Shield from the clench of the three hurlocks that had all gathered upon her, cleaving one of the unwholesome creatures right in two. He found himself surrounded in no time by other five genlock scouts, which had just finished tearing the poor cook in pieces, fresh blood still dripping from their maws. The last squire stood her ground for a while, at the other end of the field, surprisingly skilled with her shortsword and dagger; but it didn't take long before she too was felled, leaving the only knight still standing alone to face seven, maybe eight darkspawn by himself. They didn't even have room enough to strike all at once, so they crowded and pushed one another grotesquely, while they positively cut one another while trying to get a hit in. Seeing that the poor man was not likely to last long, gravely injured as he was, Kallian would perhaps have thrown an acid vial or a fire bomb on the bunch – but Alistair couldn't bring himself to do it, although he had a couple left, safely stashed in his pouch. He shouted to ser Mhairi instead, in an attempt to convince her to set back-to-back with him, but she didn't listen. She was too preoccupied with getting in his way, in a clumsy attempt of shielding him with her body – a noble endeavor, no doubt, which was worth less than nothing given the state of things. Alistair turned and bashed the closest hurlock with his shield, move that sent a stream of black ichor right in his face.

He could swear that he'd brought down at least four of them. It mattered little in the circumstances. They kept coming, and he was running out of strength. There were no arrows flying through the air any more – the archers were dead, most likely. Alistair felt quite the idiot; by all accounts, it seemed stupid to end like this; with the Blight gone, him being king of Ferelden and all. It was dumb to die like that, took a glance towards ser Mhairi; like him, she wasn't injured yet; she didn't look like she was to last longer than that, though. A surge of anger passed him through. He let the berserker rage engulf him, and he cried out, waving his fury at the darkspawn that had encircled them, fighting one another to get closer and get a nip of their blood. One, two, three, he threw the grenades carefully up and over their heads, where he knew that a second row of genlocks were trying hard to get their turn; he was rewarded with piercing howls of pain and the sizzling sound of burning meat.

"Less fighting, more dying, blast you!" he shouted through his teeth, pummeling one hurlock's face into oblivion with his shield, and launching an assault over another. Ser Mhairi let out a battle cry of her own, and Alistair felt better for it – maybe they had a second wind in them, after all. He lunged forth, barely noticing the blade that got in, wrecking his side. He would not feel much while in the rage, anyway; but some constraint was due. He turned swiftly to his left and barged in with his shield, parrying right with his sword. Mhairi too was giving a hard time to a genlock behind him – he heard a grunt, and then a yelp, and then the gurgling sound of the blood gushing out of a severed neck. Good for her.

It was getting easier now, the darkspawn tired too eventually, as Alistair knew only too well. He stepped forward, allowing himself to be encircled completely once more. Hopefully ser Mhairi had gotten to some sense and would flank them, instead of flying in to protect him. There were only five of them left. Maybe they still had some hope to get out of this alive.

Indeed, she did. Mhairi took down one, and Alistair felled another with his shield. Then he turned sharply to the right and got a good angle on a hurlock that seemed to insist on tackling his companion instead of himself. With a nice strike on its nape, he got it down. He nearly failed to parry the hit from the one in front of him, though, and the shock of the blow sent him reeling two steps backwards. The genlock to his left lunged forth and almost got Mhairi in the back. Alistair managed to step in just in time, though, with a shield bash; Mhairi, at the end of her strength, jammed the genlock down where it had fallen, impaling her sword to the hilt in its chest, but she buckled on one knee right after. Alistair faced the last hurlock standing alone, as he prepared his final blow. With his sword held high overhead, he released a shout and went charging, when the hurlock's battle axe caught him in the riff – too late in the move to break the arch of his sword, though. He managed to land his blow before collapsing face down in the gruesome remains of the beast, which had been cleaved in half.

"Nope, definitely not dead."

Oh, Maker, had he just said that aloud?

Alistair didn't dare move just yet. He was alive, no doubt, but that axe in the guts had been no trifle. Not that he could feel anything, with the shock and all, but, for the Maker's sake, he could hear the gurgling.

Ser Mhairi was fretting behind him. He could also hear the noise of hooves approaching fast. Not many, maybe two or three riders in whole.

"We're late. See for survivors," a woman's voice said. The sound of armored feet hitting the ground as they dismounted had never been as welcome to Alistair's ears. He groaned, trying to get their attention.

Keen steps approached, and armored hands turned him gently. He groaned again.

"Over here! This one's had it bad," he heard the woman say again, very close this time. A second set of steps closed in, and he began to feel the familiar soothing effects of healing magic. The afternoon sun was blinding him, and, between that and the blue light of magic, he saw the eerie apparition of the owner of those gentle hands. Her face was shadowed by the sun, but her eyes were clearly rendered, hazel, with a trace of crimson red around the irises, like lit by a glow from inside; her hair was long and purely white. It must have been the light, but even so, Alistair found her incredibly beautiful – if a little scary. His vision was blurred, anyway. He closed his eyes, trying to clear it, but he didn't get to open them again – one moment later he succumbed to a deep, healing sleep.

Alistair woke in a tent, cozily cushioned against soft furs. Restful sounds, of people gathered around a campfire late at night, were coming from outside. It was pitch black, too. He scrambled out of his cot, to find that he was half-naked and mostly wrapped in bandages from chest to thighs. Nothing hurt, though, and nothing seemed unnaturally placed, so Alistair dared to explore around a little. He found the tent's entrance and he stuck his head outside, just enough that he could see a bit around. The campfire was right in front of the tent and on the logs around it several people nursed mugs of ale and shared tales. He recognized the woman from before among them, and she saw him too.

"Ser Mhairi, I think you may want to check on His Majesty. Perhaps he has awaken," she said with all the due demeanor and loud enough that Alistair could hear it, before she averted her gaze, apparently profoundly preoccupied with the tips of the trees around. Alistair thought he saw her stiffen a smile.

Not very kingly, either, to be surprised while sticking one's head out of a tent, to see what goes around it. Alistair crawled back, so that when ser Mhairi arrived, he was safely tucked in and among the furs of his cot, covered up to his chin.

Ser Mhairi helped him dress. A clean shirt, a light brigandine and an inconspicuous pair of trousers was all they had him wear, but Alistair didn't mind. His armor, likely, had been turned to scrap. As he got out, he found everybody standing, with her in front of them. She did no curtsy; she saluted like a soldier, with a brisk bow of her head; it behooved her.

"I am Clarice Cousland, of Highever, your Majesty. These are my men, at your disposition."

She didn't look in the slightest as scary as in the afternoon. She was almost as tall as him, however, and quite impressive in her red steel plate. Alistair responded also with a clear-cut nod.

"Thank you, my Lady. Your help was invaluable." He turned his attention to the others. "I hear ser Kirn has made it, too, but I can't see him here."

"We found ser Kirn caught under his dead horse, both of his legs severely broken. He'll take longer to recover, I'm afraid."

"But he will, eventually? That is all good news. I would very much like to see him."

"Our healer, Anders, is with him right now." Clarice Cousland gestured towards one of her men. "Go see if we can visit."

Alistair knew enough of the kingly business already to make the difference between blind obedience and the firm but polite refusal of bending to the whims of a monarch. Clarice was used to command among her people, obviously, and she was also used to think of her people's needs first and before any requests from above; Alistair approved with a wave.

Everyone was standing on their feet, awkwardly, as if unsure about what was to do next. The man who had checked on ser Kirn returned and said that they couldn't see him yet, but that Anders was expecting him to be out and about in the morning. Alistair headed for the logs.

"If I may, my Lady, there would be nothing that I would like more right now than sharing the warmth of your campfire with the men. It is long since I last indulged in such."

"Of course, your Majesty. Stout?" Clarice poured one herself and offered it to the king, without much decorum. Likewise, Alistair took it and gratefully gulped half of it, before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. The time spent with Oghren seemed to have rubbed off on him.

"So… you're on the road, my Lady?" he gestured at the camp around. "May I ask whereto?"

"We were heading to the Circle, your Majesty. It is a long story, quite, but Highever seems to have a bit of a demon problem. The castle is uninhabitable."

"Oh. I see."

"My brother, Fergus, is there, doing his best to contain the problem, and I left to the Circle to seek help."

"That seems the sensible thing to do." Alistair mulled around his stout. Then he added, mindfully - "Forgive my bluntness, my Lady, but I must ask. I see the laurels on the shields of your men, and I don't doubt your word. But everyone thought the Cousland line lost. You also speak of your brother, but neither of you have joined us at the Landsmeet, if I recall."

"My brother – well – he was kept in the dungeons in Highever all this time. There's been a time when I myself thought him dead. As for myself, I couldn't very well come, as much as I would have desired to seek justice for my name. We Couslands were branded as traitors, maybe your Majesty remembers. Rendon Howe saw to that – after butchering all my family in front of me. Oren – my brother's son – was six." She spoke heatedly, in anger, and it sounded like it was a story that she'd told before, relentlessly, to whomever may have wanted to listen. It may have been the fire, but Alistair thought he saw the shade of red in her eyes again.

"My Lady. I am deeply sorry for your loss. It appears to me there were no depths that scoundrel would have denied himself sinking into. I'm afraid this isn't bound to comfort much, but know that the Warden, Maker rest her, has felled Rendon Howe.

"I know… 'Maker rest her'? Your Majesty, what are you saying?"

"Don't you know? The Warden passed away in doing battle with the Archdemon. They got her alive from atop Fort Drakon, but she lasted only until day the next."

"Your Majesty, you are mistaken. The Warden is very much alive."

"Really? Wow! This is the best news I've received since… I don't know when. My Lady, thank you for the news! This calls for another stout!"

Clarice, though, was wide-eyed and looked upset, fearful, even.

"By all means, your Majesty, have one more, but I, if you'll forgive me, must retire. I am at the moment very much distraught."

"Oh. I'm sorry. How very insensitive of me. I am sorry, my Lady to have caused you so much pain in remembering things that ... – I don't even find the words to describe them. Have a restful night, and thank you for the good news again."

AN: First: I know that I didn't give translations for the Orlesian bits in the last chapter. I assure you we'll find out some more about the notes (also the full content of the second one) as soon as Alistair meets - well, someone who reads and speaks Orlesian. I also apologise for any grammar mistakes and the unavoidable clumsiness of the sentences - my French is not good at all, and I relied on Google translate heavily.

Second: Anora has the box with Leliana's notes - which means, of course, that the box the girls recovered from the Royal Palace is the wrong box.

Third: We'll see more of Kallian's family later in the story and, no, their position won't change just yet. Change doesn't come easily, plus, the family's attitude will have an impact on Kallian's decisions further on. Also, as I said, this story will have a cannon epilogue (not necessarily the one derived from Kallian's choices so far) and there's a line there that sheds some light on the matter (the one about Soris falling in love with a human woman). So, there will be a resolution of sorts.

Well, enough with the spoilers.. One more thing: Flemeth is not, in this story, a dragon shape-changer, although I like that theory a lot; however, I'd rather have her be the Goddess of destiny and fortune, the keeper of the equilibrium between darkness and light, or an agent of such a divinity. And (spoiler/teaser) she'll have her intervention further on... (I couldn't stop myself from saying it, so, there...)

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you didn't mind me lingering with Alistair and Clarice too much. If you did, sorry about that. We'll be with them for a little longer, I'm afraid. I love writing this dark, tempered, arrogant and honorable noble, surprisingly :).

Lionheart, you were missed at the last. Hope you're still around.