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Keeper Lanaya, she still hadn't got used to the new title even after holding it for several months, looked at her clan with pride. In spite of the casualties from the Werewolves and the loss of Keeper Zathrian they had put aside their grief and answered the ancient Grey Warden treaties with vigour. They had sent word of the war to every clan in Ferelden, along with a full account of the Warden's aid, and all had answered. They had assembled in the woodlands around the Human town of Redcliffe. The joyful reunions among the Dalish were somewhat muted due the proximity of so many Humans and Darkspawn but no less heartfelt.
Shortly after their arrival the Keepers gathered together to take counsel. Lanaya was carefully questioned about Zathrian's fate and the curse. As with the Clan she had answered truthfully. It was a sad tale and not easy for her to tell but its' lesson was too important to be ignored. The Keepers were deeply disturbed that one of their own could fall so far but reluctantly agreed that his tale should be spread, if only to prevent a similar disaster.
After that she had faced another surprise; she was unanimously voted to speak for the Dalish to the humans. The young Keeper was unsure whether this was a vote of confidence or a punishment but she agreed all the same. Escorted by a couple of hunters she ignored the stares and whispers. Bann Teagan was the first human noble she had ever met and he proved to be very courteous. As the army grew she became accustomed to dealing with so many outsiders and she in turn was welcomed by the Human and Dwarf leadership. Her advice had been listened to, if not always agreed with. As a result the Dalish were now the eyes and ears of the army and their archers would, unlike the massed human bowmen, be used to target leading Darkspawn.
Other Dalish had followed her example, becoming less insular. At first other elves, sick of being servants to humans, joined them, eager for freedom. They provided new perspectives and crafts that their nomadic kin had lost. Gradually links had been made with the dwarfs and humans, particularly the imprisoned mages. The clans had grown and become stronger for it or least the young Keeper thought. In the peace and privacy of her own tent, once Mithra was thoroughly tired out, she had her own dreams. Their neutrality during the Second Blight had been one of the main reasons why the Dales had been lost. Perhaps this Blight and the friendships that it fostered could help restore something, perhaps even a new homeland.
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Leske had been on edge for days. He had heard that his old friend Odin had joined their army just before they marched out. He was hoping to avoid another reunion. Back in Dust Town he had done what he had to survive and if he failed, he'd be dead. That is how he'd grown up, it was what he had always believed and what he had always seen. Now… well the world had turned surface-side.
Barely a few weeks after the Carta's destruction King Bhelen announced that any Casteless would be welcome to join the Warrior's surface exhibition. At first he was suspicious, what sane duster wouldn't be? In any case his wounds were still rather tender. But the word kept coming, join the army, fight the Darkspawn. In truth he didn't have any other option, no money to get to the surface and too many in Dustown who might want revenge.
So he signed up. They knew who he was, Jarvia's right hand could not simply disappear but he was not stopped. The Warrior Caste looked down on the new recruits, no difference there. Insults and beatings occurred but mostly the Dusters were ignored. Their officers armed them with smith made weapons, trained them up as soldiers and drilled them hard. Still hot meals and blankets made it worthwhile as far as most Dusters were concerned.
"Make way"
Leske jumped, he really had been lost in thought, and just as well his sergeant wasn't looking otherwise he'd never hear the end of it. A ten-foot steel Golem sneaking up on you was not a story he wanted anyone to hear. He glanced at the Golem as it stomped past. He had heard the rumours of course, the entire army had; that the Golem was none other than Paragon Caradin. Unlike any other Golems he could talk and think, and could not be ordered around by a control rod. He had, at the request of Odin Brosca returned to fight the Darkspawn. Apparently he had also joined the Legion of the Dead (no one was quite sure if that was possible for a Golem to join the Legion but strangely no one decided to challenge it) as penance for some ancient crime. Leske had heard that Smiths and Shapers had plagued the Golem with questions in the city and all along the march. He hadn't answered most of them judging by the disgruntled looks his questioners. Leske could understand, the Golem had his past, so did he, better it be forgotten and everyone move on.
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Rincewind trudged along in the mud, towards a massive, deadly battle. He really should be used to this kind of horrible joke. At least the company wasn't too bad, as dangerously insane adventurers go.
"Rincewind, good to see you again old chap."
The Wizzard saw that damn portal hovering about two feet above him; apparently he was the only one who could see it.
"Forget about me did you?" He felt one or two snide comments were entirely justified given the circumstances.
"Not at all," replied the Archchancellor. "We have all been working all hours to get you, Cohen and the Luggage back home."
One of Rincewind's eyebrows rose, "I see, and how many hours a day have you been working?"
"All"
"I understand completely."
The Archancellor did not look remotely abashed and continued, "The good news is we have found a way to return all of you alive and well."
Rincwind wasn't fooled for an instant, they was a catch in there somewhere.
"But…"
"There is no but"
"But…"
"There is no but; we'll be ready to bring you back in a week."
Ah, there it was. "A week? We're about to fight a huge battle!"
The Archancellor could only shrug, "Well that's unfortunate, but this ritual is very intricate and cannot be rushed."
"Well," said Rincewind desperately trying to find a bright side in this mess. "At least Cohen and the Luggage will be happy."
"That's the spirit old boy."
Then it got worse, as he bumped into his least favourite person, in this world anyway.
Knight Commander Greagoir gave his former captive a momentary look of surprise before his training kicked in.
"SEIZE THAT APOSTATE!"
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This spate of frustrations shows no signs of abetting though the First Enchanter as he watched Knight Commander frantically order a pursuit of Rincewind. The 'Wizzard' may have been an appalling student but no one could accuse his brief stay at the Circle of being dull. His escape had been the talk of Mage and Templar alike for months. A few of the Libertarian faction had even been writing good luck messages on the rebuilt section of the wall, so far no one had been caught.
First Enchanter Irving did feel somewhat torn between sympathy and amusement at Greagoir's situation. The last year had been fairly disastrous; multiple escape attempts, which was not unusual in itself but the fact that so many had been successful was a surprise. Then there that had been loss of dozens of phylacteries, curtsey of Rincewind's improvised explosion. Even the march to war had been a setback; the Knight Commander had been hoping to restore some prestige only to be told by all the army commanders that he was to ignore any and all Apostates (particularly the Dalish mages) in the army. The Templars and the Chantry Priests had of course protested only to be unanimously overruled by the entire command. Apparently magic existing to serve was, for once, being taken literally.
Irving was feeling like a proud father; dozens of the Circle best and brightest had volunteered to join. All the more inspiring considering how many had barely survived the demon attack a few short months ago. Even those imprisoned for various misdemeanours had to a man demanded to help. It had taken days of argument but they were all released, even Anders, albeit under heavy guard. He hoped this support would be remembered.
At that point he noticed none other than their new King with a wounded soldier on his shoulder approaching the mage contingent. Irving had met him before of course, back when he had been a Grey Warden. He had been trained as a Templar but seemed happy to turn to Mages when needed. That was a good sign.
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The Luggage and Poacher were probably enjoying the march more than anyone else by a fair margin. Their wanderings had become a source of bemusement and speculation for the rank and file, even more when their regular Darkspawn hunts were noticed. Between the two of them hundreds of the creatures had been slain, competiveness it seemed brought out the best in them and they had gained popularity for it. Troops began petting both of them for good luck, as well as feeding Poacher scraps. If he hadn't been running around so much he might have put on quite a lot of weight. One old soldier swore that if he returned home he'd name the family inn after them. 'The Mabari and War-chest' sounded like a fine name to him and his comrades agreed. Wherever the two creatures went soldiers cheered them on but every night they returned to their friend's campsite exhausted from their activities.
At the moment the two had just finished off another dozen or so Darkspawn. The Dalish nearby didn't even have time to draw their bows while a small contingent of Avvar barbarians where openly discussing which of their ancestral gods had sent them here. The general noise was interrupted by a rather ragged looking man with a sequinned hat running away from a squad of Templars and straight towards the blood spattered War Chest. The wooden menace seemed utterly unsurprised by this (although no one there could really tell) and opened its' lid as far as it could.
The man prompted dived headfirst into the chest. The lid shut behind him. The Templars, eager not to collide with the Darkspawn slaughtering monster they had heard about, came to an abrupt halt. The Luggage issued a loud belch in their direction before turning around and trotting away. The Templars looked at each other and shrugged; their job was done and they wanted a hot meal. Running long distances in heavy armour is never easy.
An hour later Rincewind was in a crumpled heap in the Grey Warden campsite. Cohen looked up with his unique grin.
"Faked your own death again?"
The Wizzard steadied himself and grumbled, "I don't make a habit of doing it you know."
Cohen caught Odin's eye. They begged to differ.
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The city was on the brink of panic. The news of the Darkspawn horde marching on Denerim had arrived and was rapidly followed by wild rumour and fear. The guards were stretched to the limit to prevent riots and looting in a city already overcrowded with refugees. With the King and Queen gone and no Arl appointed the command of the city was unclear and critically delayed any efforts to control the situation. A watch was on the walls but no other defences were being readied. Many of the people barred up their homes in the understandable but naïve hope that they could hide from the Darkspawn and protect their homes. Others better informed (or perhaps more fearful) and with money were at the docks, desperately seeking passage to anywhere with whatever they had to spare. Those with nothing to lose decided to leave the city by land and retreat to the hills and forests for protection.
If the Darkspawn reached the city only a day earlier this was what they would have faced. The quick victory and the massacre that followed would have rightfully gone down as the darkest day in Ferelden's history, an injury that the nation could not have recovered from. But it was not to be; salvation came from two different directions and very few could say that they expected it. The first rode in on a stray donkey, still recovering from a wound inflected months before but ready to serve. The others arrived by sea, the recently sown banner flying atop their mast was a most welcome sight.
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