92. The Ultimate Proving
It was hard to say what hit the hardest, with the whole sodding-Anvil-of-the-sodding-Void debacle.
First, when they finally got the hordes to manageable levels and were raring to turn back for their fallen princess, the psycho-bitch had turned up and locked the sodding door behind them. They had nothing for it to forge on.
Then, there was the psycho-bitch herself. Branka the sodding Paragon Smith. Paragon of sacrificing her own people and going absolutely off her nut, maybe.
The traps up to the Anvil had been a pain. Garott could handle the mechanical stuff just fine, if it weren't so old and prone to sticking. Didn't help that he really wanted to strangle something at that point, and the only enemies making themselves known were twice his height and made of rock. At least the walking statues were no match for two pissed-off berserkers, a blood mage, a shapeshifter, and a Qunari.
Then there'd been the grand finale. The Anvil itself. And Paragon Caridin, somehow still alive (kinda), asking them to destroy the thing. And they'd been forced to side with the psycho-bitch and kill a sodding legend, because the Stone-damned Blight called for nothing less than every advantage they could muster.
Except for Felicity, actually. The mage had been in tears, begging them not to go through with it, putting up magical shields around the golemized Paragon and screaming how "bringing back golems isn't worth the cost" and "the knowledge of this should be lost." And the irony of that turn-around would have been funny, except a little voice in Garott's mind had kinda agreed with her. Because yeah, it was unpleasant.
But they were Grey Wardens. Grey. Wardens. They were fighting an ancient, impossible evil, and that meant sometimes, they had to do unpleasant things. It was time Felicity sodding got the message.
And then, after leaving Branka to her work, dragging a roaring mad Oghren and an inconsolable Felicity and a barely conscious Kazar (blood magic uses blood, kid... regulate that), they'd had to find a way back around Branka's block, only to come back to Marnan way too late.
They found her body in the tunnel entrance off the Broodmother's chamber, surrounded by dead darkspawn and still holding her battleaxe.
But the spawn hadn't gotten Marnan's body—the Wardens made sure of that, giving her to magma as hot and inexorable as she'd been.
The whole thing was a debacle, and a mess, and had killed the princess, and would have been a waste of sodding time if not for the addition of the golems. As such, even after the long trek back to Orzammar to cool off, Garott was in no mood to deal with any more of this nug-dung. Judging by how quiet everyone else was on the trip back (especially Felicity, which was as good as a miracle after the golem thing), they agreed with him.
They arrived in Orzammar with no fanfare, and headed straight for the Diamond Quarter to get this thing done, once and for all.
The Assembly Hall went dead silent as the Wardens stormed in. Prince Bhelen, on the floor, cut himself off mid-speech. Lord Harrowmont stood on the dais above him, expression distasteful as he gazed down at the prince. Both contenders looked up at the Wardens expectantly, as did the entirety of the assembled deshyrs.
Garott didn't know what they expected, though he doubted seven blood-covered Wardens and a dog was really what they had hoped for. Cousland was at their head, Marnan's axe strapped across his back over his greatsword, the weapon still stained from all the Tainted blood the old girl had spilled before they'd taken her down.
Garott and the mutt were on either side of the prettyboy, with the other Wardens and companions spreading out behind them. Garott himself carried Branka's crown, tucked in his knapsack.
They stopped in the middle of the room.
"Ah, the Wardens return!" Bhelen said, eying Garott with a pleased air. "Welcome back… tell us, was your mission successful? Did you find Branka?"
Harrowmont, meanwhile, frowned, no doubt noticing the loss of his particular pawn.
"Yeah, we found 'er all right," Oghren grumbled.
Bhelen raised his brows expectantly. "Well?"
"We found Branka," Garott said, digging through his bag to retrieve the crown. "We found Branka, and Caridin, and the sodding Anvil of the Void." He pulled out the crown, holding it up. "Paragon Branka figured making a golem army was too important to leave, so she made a crown for the rightful king instead of coming herself."
Bhelen grinned, sensing victory. "And who did the Paragon choose, Warden?"
He could feel eyes on him, both dwarven and non. His fellow Wardens watched him, but didn't intervene. Bhelen's name was on the tip of his tongue, but then he saw Marnan's axe in the corner of his eye, reminding him that this bastard was responsible for exiling her, and for slaughtering her family, and for sending them out again, and he couldn't do it. Contract be damned, differences aside, she'd been a good person, and Garott wasn't going to let it end this way.
"Sod it! Branka didn't sodding care!" Garott threw the crown to the ground, to the gasps of the assembled deshyrs. "Caridin didn't sodding care. I don't sodding care!" Garott stalked up to Percival and yanked the axe off his back. "The only person I woulda trusted with that crown is dead in the Deep Roads!" He swung the axe down with all his might, where it lodged in the Assembly Hall floor at Bhelen's startled feet. "Dead because you nug-humpers couldn't stop bickering between yourselves long enough to realize that the walls are caving in around you!" Garott waved an accusing hand around the entire hall. "Marnan Aeducan died fighting next to topsiders and the Legion of the Dead to protect the world from darkspawn, while you, the so-called elite, sat on your asses, bickering over which of these assholes gets to sit in a pretty chair while civilization falls!"
This earned him shouts of protest, and Bhelen looked livid. "Now, you listen here, you ascended casteless thug…"
"No, you listen." Garott surged forward, yanking Bhelen up and gripping him by the throat like the prince was a seedy seller during a shakedown back in his Carta days. "We are in the middle of a Blight, you slimy son of a bitch, and the Grey Wardens have had enough. This is going to be settled, now."
The hall guards started in on Garott, but Sten drew his hammer and kept them back with a glare. To one side, the dog growled, and there was the crackling of a loaded lightning spell somewhere behind him. Garott ignored all of it.
Still grabbing the prince by the collar of his fancy coat, Garott started dragging Bhelen toward the door like a naughty child being hauled off to bed without dinner. "You two are going to settle this the old-fashioned, dwarven way: by beating one another to bits on the Proving Grounds."
"Now wait a minute!" Harrowmont scurried down the dais. "Give us a moment to gather our men! To choose a champion!"
"NO! No champions. No time to sabotage the other team. Just you two assholes, with weapons, trying to stab each other to death."
The Assembly broke into excited murmurs. This may have been gross misconduct, but the idea of an impromptu Proving overwrote any scandalized feelings. Harrowmont protested into the rising excitement, but Hugo growled and herded him after Garott like a wayward nug. Bhelen remained apparently speechlessly flabbergasted at the idea of being man-handled, and Garott tugged him on.
It became a parade, the Wardens dragging and herding the two contenders for the crown through the Diamond Quarter, with the deshyrs crowding out in a train behind them. They attracted attention as they headed down through the district, making more nobles fall in line behind the excited Assembly. Guards joined as well, eying the Wardens and their captives guardedly, but either too respectful of Wardens or too curious to intervene.
Or maybe they were just as sick of the whole thing as Garott was.
The Commons were bustling, which meant that word spread fast about what was going on. By the time they were marching across that great bridge to the Proving Arena, it seemed that the entirety of Orzammar was trailing behind them to watch the show. The guards at the entrance took one look at Bhelen, one look at Harrowmont, and one look at Garott's face, and promptly ushered them inside.
"Get these two bastards prepped," Garott said, shoving the prince into the arms of the astonished barracks master. "They're going on the field in five." The sturdy dwarf glanced back at the crowd filing up toward the stands and nodded. By now, the pair of contenders seemed resigned to their fate, and glared at one another as they shuffled into the barracks to get armored and armed.
Garott wasn't surprised to see the Proving master scurrying down from the stands. "What's the meaning of… you?" He stared at Garott. "What's going on? We have no bouts scheduled for hours."
"Impromptu bout," Garott said.
The Proving master eyed the crowd still streaming in. "Stone! I haven't seen this many people since Marnan Aeducan took the field in her own glory Proving!"
"Yeah, well this is sorta related." Garott glanced back at the barracks. "The contenders'll be winning the Orzammar crown."
The Proving master's eyes went wide. "I… I see. To the death?"
"I suppose that depends on who wins, don't it?" Garott turned and led his companions up into the stands. The Grounds master came with, waving the Wardens into the premium box beside him. They squeezed onto a pair of benches that were haphazardly placed in the box.
"I take it this is unconventional," Felicity posited, sitting down near the back. She hadn't said much since the whole thing with Caridin and the golems, instead burying herself in her codex on the way back to Orzammar.
"Yeah," Garott grunted. "But it's entertaining, and that means the deshyrs are gonna go with it. They love their political theater."
Even the Proving master smirked at that.
In the stands around them, a roar went up, and the two contenders stepped onto the field.
Neither of these men were natural fighters, and it showed. Bhelen wore a set that was all shiny and undented… ceremonial, at best. Harrowmont, meanwhile, moved stiffly under his set, unused to the weight. Bhelen had a longsword and shield, whereas Harrowmont fidgeted with a shield and hammer. Garott wondered if either knew which ends of their weapons to operate.
The two stood facing one another in the middle of the arena, and the Proving master moved to the front of the box.
"This is the ultimate Proving!" the master belted out, his voice filling the arena. "Fought under the eyes of the Paragons of Orzammar, to determine our next king! Two contenders! Only one crown! Which of these outstanding men will win the throne of Orzammar?
"Will it be Prince Bhelen Aeducan, last child of our late, great King Endrin and current head of the Great House Aeducan?" Bhelen pumped a fist, and a cheer went up.
"Or will it be Lord Pyral Harrowmont, who has served the Assembly and the previous king for his entire life?" Another set of cheers rose as Harrowmont bowed toward the stands.
"The Assembly can't decide! The Paragons can't decide! Now, the Stone will decide in the ultimate test! Fighters, ready your weapons!"
The two politicians held their weapons ready.
"First one to fall is vanquished, and the last standing is declared King of Orzammar! FIGHT!"
The stand roared as the two circled one another. Bhelen stepped forward first, testing Harrowmont's defense with a short swing. The blow bounced off the older man's shield. Harrowmont responded by skittering back, hiding behind his shield. When Bhelen stepped in again, the older man once again raised his shield to deflect the blows, then struck out with his hammer. Bhelen dodged aside, not even bothering with the shield.
The fight that followed was a metaphor for the entire sodding situation. Both were careful men—they wouldn't have lasted this long if they weren't—and that meant a long time of the two just circling, planning their next steps. Bhelen was more aggressive than Harrowmont, though, which meant most of any clashing was Bhelen's doing while the younger man maneuvered around the elder, his sword seeking a weak spot.
Harrowmont, meanwhile, turtled up behind his shield, using that like a weapon in itself to fend Bhelen off and tire him out. While Bhelen circled, Harrowmont stood his ground, waiting patiently for his opponent to strike before offering a swift counter. A counter that Bhelen always anticipated and out-maneuvered.
No wonder the election had gone on so long. As opponents, their styles were pretty much perfectly matched. No wonder they'd needed a third party to intervene.
No third party would step in now, though. There were only the two nobles and the cheers of the crowd.
Then, Harrowmont made a mistake, raising his shield too high and letting Bhelen get a foot up under it. A kick sent the shield spinning across the Grounds, and that was the end of it. Bhelen didn't hesitate to go for the kill, neatly removing his opponent's head from his body, and a thunderous cheer swept through the arena.
Bhelen raised his bloodied sword high in victory, and the crowd took up the cry of "Bhelen! Bhelen!"
"Victory goes to Bhelen Aeducan!" the Proving master shouted, some magic of acoustics making his voice carry over the noise of the crowd. "The Stone has decided!"
Garott felt something hard and cool pressed into his arm, and turned to see Morrigan pressing Branka's crown against him. She arched a brow and smirked, and Garott snorted a laugh and took it.
He hooked a rope to one of the columns in their box and rappelled down the side of the arena, landing in the pit after a couple bounces. The crowd cheered again, some probably recognizing him as a Warden, others as the cheeky duster who had once infiltrated the Proving and kicked the honor out of the Warrior caste's best fighters.
Garott waved and held up the crown, and the roar was deafening. A rhythmic pounded started somewhere to the left of the stands, and was soon taken up throughout the whole arena, dwarves taking weapons and feet against the ground like a giant drum.
Bhelen watched Garott approach with a smirk, dropping to his knees and presenting the top of his head. Garott obliged, placing Branka's crown on Bhelen's head, and the crowd devolved into cheers again. Bhelen stood and turned to the crowd, raising his arms to bask in their adulation.
"May it be my honor to present," the Proving master cried, "his majesty, your newly appointed sovereign, King Bhelen Aeducan!" Cheers drowned him out, the noise fit to bring the cavern down on top of them. Whether it was actual support of their new sovereign, relief at the stand-still finally seeing a conclusion, or just the burst of adrenaline of seeing a good old-fashioned beheading, it was hard to say.
"By the way, Warden," Bhelen said softly, still turning to acknowledge his adoring public, "you are so very fired."
Garott smirked at his new king. "Glad to be of service. Next time you need to fight for power, just do everyone a favor and hire a hitman."
The new king of Orzammar chuckled. "Will do, Warden. Will do."