Author's Note
May I have an opinion if the violence in this is worthy of an M rating? I have the eternal problem of teetering between T and M… Shrug. :)
Cousland
Rather than seek out a place to rest her head, Ceostre bid her hound to silence and settled her pack before him. The mabari let out a small whine, his great dark eyes regarding her with a very human expression. They knew each other so well—had gone through hell together and returned side by side—that words were not needed between them.
She considered her armor. Its clinking would no doubt reveal her presence, and if all went well she would not need it. She sheathed several knives about her person, and drew her cloak tight against her form. She patted the hound's neck and chest before rising from her kneel in one fluid motion, stalking off into the shadow.
She envisioned the relief map of that she had quickly calculated from her brief view at Ostagar. Amongst blade work, horse riding, house management, conduct, politicking, and other things, the Cousland nobles had been trained to access the area and situation in an instant and how to best apply their skills in the event. And yet, none of them, from kitchen servant to Teryn of Highever, had foreseen Howe's betrayal. Sweet whispers of blood and sorrow tormented her, and she bowed her head for a moment before blocking them out and moving in the direction of the army officers' tents.
She passed the small sentry posts consisting of solitary chairs and private campfires, usually only manned by one or two soldiers, with the ease of a natural acrobat. Not a hair stirred as she crossed the encampment, her boots deathly silent against the soft earth—muddy from the recent rains—and occasional patches of weathered paving. In all honesty, most of her surreptitiousness was redundant. To the casual eye, she was merely another fellow soldier to seek solace from darkspawn-riddled terror in the stars.
As she neared the part of the camp where officers of lesser importance slept, the guard became less drunk and more wary. She passed them like a breath through fangs, and picked a tent that seemed not so vital that she would be caught, yet would likely keep records of the information she sought. Ceostre paused for a moment to ascertain that the guard would not see her, then slipped into the tent.
There was no one inside, and she didn't know whether to bless or curse the Maker. The tent's inhabitant could return at anytime, and she scanned its contents rapidly. There was a small chest; she reached into her hood and pulled a hairpin out, bending it into proper form. The lock was well-made, but not difficult in the slightest, and she smiled for a moment as the final tumbler fell in place. Her delight faded as she quickly realized that the chest, save for objects of little importance to her—a picture here, a coin there—was empty of value.
So continued this pattern, until Ceostre grew slightly chagrined. Such small annoyance in such a bleak core of a person was akin to raging frustration, and she found herself glancing from time to time to the slowly lightening sky. Perhaps it was this that caused her to falter, a casual misstep or scruff of a boot, but whatever the reason, she found herself unexpectedly surrounded by guards.
"What's this? A scavenger amongst the corpse of an army? Well, I got something to tell you, you thieving wretch; the darkspawn don't have us yet." A sword was pointed at her, and she waited patiently for them to arrest her. She contemplated killing them, but her search was long fruitless, and she surmised that she would be taken to someone of importance who knew what she wanted.
"Now wait just a minute," someone said in a slight country drawl that he could not prevent, "What would a scoundrel like 'im be doing in this part of the encampment? Looks to me like 'e's a spy."
"You idiot! The darkspawn don't have spies!"
"Yeah, yeah, but who's to say that the Orlesians don't have 'em?"
"Shut up, you two. We follow standard procedure." The man prepared to swing his sword. Ceostre waited patiently.
"Woah there, let's not be hasty. Maybe the normal procedure is to kill a thief, but what about a spy?"
"Thieves, spies, bloody darkspawn, they're all the same. I say we kill him."
"Don't they torture 'em spies before killing 'em?"
"Shut up!"
"Gentlemen," she said, her tone bored and irritated at the same time. "I propose a third option. Perhaps you would like to bind my hands and take me to the leader of your troop?"
"Maker's Breath! It's a woman! What do we do now?"
"Well, all I know is that there are plenty of cold bedrolls tonight…"
"You stupid ass! She's still a spy, not some army whore!"
This was getting her nowhere. She was reluctant to shed blood and blacken her reputation, but these fools would bicker until sunrise. She made a scene of drawing one of her knives, the steel singing as it was pulled from its sheath. With the hilt in her hand, a familiar shade of red veiled her eyes. She suppressed the blood-lust as she had done with increasing difficulty since the defilement of Highever, and shifted into feral crouch. That was all the incentive that the idiots needed to attack.
One of them brought a long two-handed sword over his head. Irrational and clumsy. She took a step back, the sword raising a tiny cloud of dust and earth as it slammed into the earth before her. Obviously no one had ever told him the difference between a maul and a real weapon. She gripped her dagger with her teeth and sprang forward, running up the blade in one step. The soles of her boots protected her, but she feared that they would no longer be suitable for long treks. She nimbly stepped on the hilt and lunged at him, the sword sinking into the dirt. Grasping his shoulders and vaulting herself over him, she took advantage of her momentum and flipped him over her head, crouching as she did so. As he hit the ground with a thud, she leapt on his back, resembling a protective lioness over her kill, and took the knife from her lips, holding it to the back of his neck. The fight was over before the man under her thrall even had a chance to blink.
"Cease," she barked to the rest of the stunned group. "Or may this man's life be forfeit."
"Aw, Maker," the country one moaned. "What are we gonna do now?"
"Shut up!"
"Indeed," Ceostre hissed, fighting back the desperate urge to kill them all. "Unbuckle your sword belts and discard them. Now, gentlemen. I'm not a patient woman." They complied reluctantly. Below her, the man tried to buck her off. She unleashed a devastating blow to the back of his head with her free hand and suppressed a snarl, a monstrous part of her reveling in the stinging of her knuckles and hungering for release. She inhaled slowly and reined it in. That is for Howe, and Howe exclusively.
"What d'ya want?" She opened her eyes and looked up.
"What do you know of a man by the surname Cousland?"
"Never heard of 'im." he said nervously.
"I know him," someone else offered. Ceostre smiled; she had her doubts about why such guards of low intelligence and skill would be about here, but at least one of them kept his wits about him. "He was sent scouting in the Korcari Wilds a few days ago. Hasn't shown up since." She clenched her teeth together and barely suppressed a scream.
"Don't lie to me. A man of his rank wouldn't be scouting." The men exchanged nervous glances. One of the braver ones sized her up.
"What's he to you?" The blood pounded in her temples, her knuckles white against the black leather-wrapped hilt of her tiny weapon.
Claw their hearts from their chests. Crush their thick-headed skulls. Drink their blood. She obeyed, digging her knife deep into the nape of his neck before lunging at them. Despite the voice commanding her to slaughter them all, she did not fully appease it, as she reverted to her old habit of silent and deadly efficiency. They fell before her as she cut through them like a knife through butter. Common sense made her spare one, and she hooked an elbow about his throat while poking her dagger in his side.
"Confess the truth," she murmured in his ear as he struggled for breath, "and you may yet have a painless death."
"You'll pay for this, you treacherous bitch." He managed, which was quite a feat considering he was turning an uncomely shade of purple. He even spat, although with her behind him it didn't exactly work. She released her chokehold and kicked him to the ground. He grasped her boot and pulled her down, and she stabbed his shoulder in response. He let out a shout of pain before she slammed her hand over his mouth, and she cursed.
"Going… going to die…" he mumbled with eyes triumphant. Her head whipped up, her eyes darting as men roused from their bedrolls. She returned her gaze to the man and bared her teeth.
"You're right. You are going to die." She said, pulling her hood back. Reaching down with her blade in her hand, he let out a gurgling scream as a spray of blood splattered her face.
She stood in all her bloodied glory, waiting warily as she was surrounded. She wasn't sure if she would be captured or killed. With swords in both her hands she could have crippled any army and handed victory to the darkspawn, but her chances were small with only knives secreted about her person. She hesitated for a moment before dropping her knife.
Someone stole forth from behind her and brought their sword hilt upon her skull. She supposed she deserved that. As she crumpled to the ground, she faced the reality that she just didn't care.
Cousland
Waken by a dull, yet rapidly growing, pain in the back of her head, Ceostre stirred to the sound of a concerned voice. She assumed, with the rickety motion of the room and the sound of slowly turning wheels, that she was either drunk or in a wagon, and groaned.
"Cece?" Her eyes snapped open, and she jerked upwards only to be stopped by thick manacles pinning her wrists down. Ignoring the pain that lanced through her skull, she sought out the source of the voice. She glimpsed an ill-shaven figure shackled similarly and froze.
"Fergus?" she whispered hesitantly.
"Cece… Oh, Andraste, I thought you…" her brother swallowed and stopped, unable to continue.
"You know what happened, then?" He nodded, closing his eyes briefly. She shook her tangled and blood-encrusted hair out and worked a pin in her mouth while he mustered his strength.
"The soldiers Howe had donated beforehand into my ranks revealed themselves as we stepped just off the Imperial Highway. My men's rations had been laced with poison and the ale dosed." He gestured about him. "And thus, this." She paused in her chewing of the hairpin.
"Where exactly is this?" She pursed the pin between her lips and fiddled with the lock on her cuffs.
"We're surrounded by a hundred or so of those loyal to Howe north of Ostagar but south of said road. Speaking of which, how did you… That is, I assumed you reached Ostagar?"
Her restraints loosened, and she slipped her hands from them. Crawling over to him, she began working on his. She noticed rings of chafing, bloody flesh on his wrists and tsked, nodding.
"Duncan, the Grey Warden; you remember him? At our parent's behest, he performed the Right of Conscription on me and helped me escape."
"Then that is fortunate. You are lucky to have been accepted in an order where legend has originated." She smiled bitterly and pulled the handcuffs from him, but did not argue.
"Perhaps. You know of Highever's fate?" His jaw worked and he nodded once, and Ceostre wrapped her arms around him.
"Will you not weep?" She asked when it became apparent of his stoicism. He gave a tight smile.
"Weeping is a luxury that we cannot afford at the moment. Besides, I have done nothing but cry since our demise. And yet, here my little sister is," He ruffled her hair affectionately. "And already she has managed to relieve us of our bonds."
"You flatter me," she said, sitting up, her brows creased slightly. "I am no heroine. In truth, I have not… dealt with it very well." Dealt with it? That is laughable. I have slaughtered anyone who crossed my path and wallowed in wretchedness, she thought. "I am only doing what I was taught to do." He regarded her funnily and flexed his hands, twisting them to and fro, shrugging.
"No worse than I, I suppose. You have a plan, I take it?"
"I… it should take us a few hours with horses to reach Ostagar, maybe a day or two on foot. The thing is… when I was captured it was near the officers' tents in the encampment," He listened gravely and did not offer judgment as to what she was doing in such a place. "by men in standard army regalia." Fergus paled.
"I still do not understand what Howe meant by attacking the estate," he said, "but whatever his motivation he is no longer a suitable ally for King Cailan. You must bring word to him—"
"We must bring word to him." She insisted, glaring at him.
"Cece…"
"Are you ill? Injured?" Her voice was unsteady, and she cursed it. He gestured to his side, and, peering carefully, she saw through a hole in his thread-bare shirt a festering stab wound.
"Maker, this just gets better and better." Her attempt at humor fell flat, but for the first time in days it was genuine. She suddenly felt almost whole inside at the sight of her elder brother, a fragile richness that could be shattered at any moment. Nevertheless, he smiled.
"Can you walk?"
"I fear what will happen if I should prove unable." He replied, winking. She sighed. Her weapons and knife-riddled clothing had been taken and spread through Howe's men, no doubt, and she chafed at the fact that she would have to replace Cousland-made equipment for the ability of a lesser smith and seamstress. She had been provided with a horrible-quality dress, the kind a peasant might wear, and she tore with ease strips to bind his wound. She had him take off his shirt and put it back on once she was done.
"Thank you. Stay here while I deal with the guards." He went despite her protests, stating that for all his wounds and her well-performed nursing he was most certainly not a cripple, and had leapt through the wagon's back flaps before she could so much plant a fist in his shirt. She fumed for a moment and braced herself as the wagon came to a lurching halt, then ran after him. As she stepped out of the wagon, she came face to face with Fergus, and he shoved a handful of blood-stained chainmail in her face.
"Put this on," he said. "We don't have a lot of time."
"I never would have guessed," she huffed, throwing her arms through its sleeves and wrapping the terrible-fitting sword belt about her waist several times. He jabbed some weapons in their sheaths and tugged her arm, and then they were sprinting for their lives. Already men were stirring and pointing, and she mouthed some very foul expletives.
"Where are the fucking horses?" She hissed, and he swerved direction so that she stumbled and nearly tripped. His grip kept her going, and what seemed like the whole hundred traitors were hot on their heels.
She desperately wished for her vials of nasty fumes and poisons, but that was not to be the case. Fergus drew his long sword, and with impressive strength broke a path through the wall of soldiers before him. She narrowly dodged a swipe at her head, and they came in sight of the steeds. Her regard for the Maker improved dramatically as she saw they were saddled and bridled, and they ran for all they were worth.
She plucked two throwing knives from her belt and hurled them at the riders of the closest mounts, and Fergus pushed them back while she scrambled on top. She then proceeded to empty nearly all of her throwing arsenal in the bodies of their pursuers while Fergus claimed his own, and then she lashed the reins against her horse. The beasts shot forward, and with grim determination, the Cousland siblings made a break for the tree line.