Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: T

Spoilers: May contain spoilers for Origins, Awakening, and Dragon Age II as well as the novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Torture

"I think I found something - maybe it's a counter to the drugs they used?"

"Put that down, woman, that's a bottle of deer piss."

"Ew. Why in the name of the great sodding ancestors would they have a bottle of deer piss in their supplies?"

"I suspect they used it to keep the dogs from smelling them. Hunters douse themselves with it, sometimes, to keep their prey from noticing their presence and to attract bucks."

"Ugh. That's…really gross. Glad we never had to do things like that to catch nugs or deepstalkers."

"I think this is the stuff they used on Birdie," Varric said. He tossed Loghain a small vial. "They've sure got plenty of it - there's ten more bottles here. Bet they planned on keeping us drugged all the way to Val Royeaux. I don't think there's an antidote - we're just going to have to wait for it to wear off I guess."

"Hey, our 'new friend' seems to be waking up," Elilia said.

"Good. Let's see what he has to say for himself."

The surviving attacker was clearly frightened to come to bound hand and foot, face-to-face with his former prey, but he made a brave show of defiance.

Loghain knelt down before him. "So what was the plan, eh? Some sort of ransom situation, or was the Empress thinking more along the lines of a public execution? That's probably what I would do, in her situation. Having the Hero of Ferelden drawn and quartered before a crowd of thousands in Val Royeaux would demoralize our men pretty badly."

The Orlesian snarled in his native tongue, the gist of which was a demand that Loghain perform an impossible and highly unnatural act upon himself, and spit in his face. Loghain calmly wiped away the spittle, drew back and punched the man. The dull crunch of breaking cartilage made Varric wince.

"Don't think for a moment that your continued existence is something I consider necessary," Loghain said, still perfectly calm. "You were sent here by the bloody Empress, that's all I really need to know. But your death could be a lot less painful and prolonged if you'd cooperate just enough to clarify a few non-essential details."

Blood streamed from the man's broken nose. Still he snarled curses in Orlesian.

Loghain nodded at Elilia. "Loose one of his arms for me, won't you please?"

She untied one of the man's wrists and Loghain took the man's arm in both hands and held it out straight. "Tell me what your plans were."

"Go fuck yourself, Ferelden Dog Lord."

"Believe it or not, I understood you well enough when you said it in Orlesian," Loghain said. "Let's see if we can't get you to say something a little more useful now."

Almost gently, he rotated the man's arm to its furthest range and then paused a moment, just long enough to hold the man's gaze with his own steady, icy blue eyes. Then he ratcheted the arm quite sharply, yanking the shoulder joint out of socket. The Orlesian screamed in agony. Varric paled noticeably.

"Hey, not to tell you your business or anything, but you do know you catch more flies with honey, right?" the dwarf said uncomfortably.

"Ferelden has been using honey-coated diplomacy with the damned Orlesians since we kicked them out of here forty-odd years ago. They've shown they prefer the taste of blood." Loghain returned his attention to their captive. "Ready to talk, yet?"

White-faced, sweating, trembling with fear and pain, the Orlesian was still defiant. "Fuck you, Ferelden."

"Pity." Loghain slammed a hard hand into the man's elbow, shattering it, and Varric turned away from the sight, pale and nauseated. Once he could speak without being drowned out by the Orlesian's howls of pain Loghain continued, in that same perfectly calm, reasonable tone he'd used throughout. "You're rather a slim-built man. I daresay it wouldn't be terribly difficult for me to rip your arm clean off at the shoulder, and I could then use it to beat you to death. I confess its an attractive idea. But I'm a patient man, and you've got three limbs remaining. I can keep dislocating your joints and breaking your bones until you say something sensible or expire from the violation, whichever comes first. I have some experience with this so believe me when I tell you, Ser, that it takes a long time to die this way. Be a smart lad, and just tell me what I want to know. I won't make you suffer one moment longer than you make me make you suffer."

"I…I'll tell you," the Orlesian sobbed out. "I'll tell you everything - please."

"Good man. On your time."

It took a bit for the man to choke down his pain enough to speak. "We were…to take you to Jader. There we were to send word to your King that we were holding the Queen's father and the Hero of Ferelden hostage."

"And what, exactly, was that meant to accomplish?"

The man shook his head. "We were to demand that your King allow our legions within your borders for pacification. Ferelden would become a protectorate of the Empire but could keep its government, with limitations. We were told not to expect our demands to be met, however."

"So then the plan was to…?"

"Kill you both, defile the bodies, and return them to Denerim to illustrate the wages of Ferelden's arrogance in defying your rightful sovereign."

"Hmph. A decent plan, as far as it goes. Do you know anything more about the Empress' plans?"

The man shook his head again. "We were given a target and a rough idea of what to do when we had you, nothing more. We didn't even know how we were going to get our hands on you until we discovered that you were leaving Denerim unaccompanied by guards. We were after you - the Hero of Ferelden was an unexpected bonus."

"Very well." Loghain reached for the knife he had replaced in his boot.

"Wait! Wait! I know something more! A rumor only, but something you would do well to hear!" Loghain's hand stopped on its way and hovered in the air near the boot strapping expectantly. "What I have to say will be of great value to you, if it is true. When I tell you, will you let me go?"

"You will go in peace."

The man licked his bloodless lips and eyed the hand that still hovered near the hilt of the half-hidden blade. His eyes flicked back and forth from hand to face several times as he spoke. "The Empress, she secretly employs many agents. Bards, you would call them, although many are not truly of that ilk. Many of these agents, in fact, are apostates. Some years back, even before your Blight, the Empress supposedly installed a good number of her apostates in your capital to work a certain, shall we say, chaos amongst your nobility. They used blood magic to do it."

Elilia spoke up. "We wiped out rather a large nest of blood mages in the back alleys of Denerim, Loghain, if you recall."

The Orlesian nodded. "It is rumored those were they. The Empress was quite distressed when they were reported dead - mostly because she still had to pay the mercenary companies she hired their guards from, it is said."

"That was long ago, and those mages are dead," Loghain said. "How is it you think this information is of value to me now?"

"Ah but you see, before the Blight, and even during, it was very difficult or even impossible, they say, to get any significant amount of blood from the targeted nobles, so the magic the mages could work secretly was quite limited. But there was one Ferelden nobleman who bled frequently for his country, and it was simplicity itself to pay unscrupulous Healers to fill a vial or two in exchange for a few gold sovereigns. It is rumored that even before the Blight the Empress kept a vial of his blood in a golden stand upon her vanity table, as a trophy."

Elilia's blanched face and terrified eyes gave testament to the fact she fully understood what their informant was implying. Loghain understood, as well, but kept his reaction carefully schooled.

"And this nobleman was…?"

"It was you, Lord Loghain," the Orlesian said. "It was you. I do not know how much influence the maleficarum exerted upon you, but it is sure they had much. Killing the mages put a halt upon the Empress' immediate plans, but it is rumored that there are still phylacteries of your blood kept safe in many places around the Empire - and further still. Some say she made quite a profit selling a vial or two to interested parties in other lands, but I am not so sure of that myself. I believe she would keep you as her own prize, for the rumors were that she was very happy in her ownership. Now…will you let me go?"

"Yes." Loghain took his boot knife and plunged it into the Orlesian's throat. Varric, who had turned back to absorb this fresh horror with a storyteller's interest, protested weakly.

"You said you'd let him go in peace," he muttered.

"So I did. I did not tell him that he would go alive. In fact from the very first I warned him that the best he could hope for was to die quickly. I believe I delivered upon that promise."

Laz socked Varric on the shoulder. "Come on, salroka, you know we couldn't let the duster go free. Sure, busted up as he was he'd probably have left, but where would he go? Straight to his sodding Empress to tell her what happened - and how bloody close their plans came to working. I say let the bitch sit and stew in her juices as long as possible."

"I know, I know. I just…I guess I don't have the stomach for this kind of thing," the storyteller said miserably. "Andraste's ass, I need a drink. I hope these bastards left some of that wine they were sucking down."

He moved off through the shambles of the camp, checking discarded bottles for an elusive sip or two of alcohol. Elilia was still staring, horror-struck, at Loghain.

"This…changes everything," she said at last.

"It changes nothing," Loghain said brusquely. "Nothing that is past, in any event. It does perhaps illustrate that you would have been wiser by far had you slain me at the Landsmeet, or allowed me to die of the Bloody Lung. If the Orlesian's story had any truth in it, then I'm rather a grave liability."

She shook her head. "It all fits now. There was so much I didn't completely understand…I could see you doing those things, if there were no other recourse, but I didn't understand why you felt compelled to do them then."

"Don't," he told her, quite firmly. Almost angrily. "Don't make excuses for me. It doesn't matter if every bloody maleficar in Thedas had a finger in my head. It changes nothing. What's done is done, and I've done plenty to deserve every ounce of opprobrium I've received. I do Ferelden's dirty work, and some of it has been bloody dirty indeed. You can't keep a King on his throne if you're afraid to suffer the Maker's wrath."

Any response she might have made was abruptly cut off by Varric's cry of triumph as he came up with several unopened bottles of chardonnay that had lain hidden beneath the canvas of a half-trampled tent. "Not bad stuff, either," he said happily. "If we had some fish or fowl to eat along with it we could have a fine dinner, but I'm not particular. Beef and mutton go just as well with white wine as red when you're thirsty enough."

He came back and handed Loghain and Elilia each a bottle, carefully not looking at the dead man with the gaping wound in his throat. "I say we scrounge up everything salvageable from these guys' camp outfit, load it and poor Birdie in the wagon, and head back to the road to make our own camp. I don't really feel like sleeping here tonight, but we can't go too far with the poor little girl still out cold."

"Sounds like a plan to me. Elilia, could you and Laz see to that, please? I'm rather thirsty myself, and I think Master Varric and I should share a drink and have a little private discussion. Give Elilia your bottle, Ser, and you can have it later. For now you'll drink from mine."

The dwarf looked downright frightened at this turn of events, but he seized upon the word "later" like a lifeline, and handed over his bottle of chardonnay. That there would be a "later" held the promise that he was not being taken to his death. Large hand upon the man's shoulder, Loghain led him off some little way into the trees. Champion rose and followed along, and he watched the dog more than his captive as they walked. There was a new strut in the animal's gait that verified his suspicions quite as much as the way the other dogs ceded ground to her when she passed. She'd won herself the position of Alpha. In all his life he'd never heard of a mabari smart enough to come up with a complex strategy on its own - they were highly intelligent, yes, capable of executing complicated orders, but they were not known for their ability to formulate tactics for themselves. Champion was obviously an exceptional animal, and he was gladder than ever that he'd followed Elilia to the stables that day.

When they were out of sight of camp he stopped and leaned against the bole of a large tree, took his knife and dug the cork out of the bottle. Varric watched the operation with a certain mien of distaste. Loghain had wiped it clean, but it was still the blade he'd used to dirk the Orlesian. "Sorry, only knife I've got slender enough to do the job. Don't be hair-shirted, booze drowns blood every time, I find."

He offered the dwarf first taste. Varric shrugged as he accepted the bottle. "Never been one for abnegation, particularly where fine Orlesian wine is concerned." He took a deep swallow and handed the bottle back. Loghain took a swig without even wiping off the rim of the bottle's mouth.

"So," he said as he handed off the bottle again. "Our late lamented friend back there was sent by the Empress of Orlais. Who sent you, Master Dwarf?"

Varric hesitated, then downed another pull of wine and handed the bottle back. "I'm here entirely of my own volition, messer. But you are correct in your assumption that our meeting was not entirely accidental."

He sighed, determined to make a clean breast of it and trust in the truth to set him free. "I, serrah, am a Merchant Prince, by inheritance the head of a family business deeply entrenched in the politics of the Dwarven Merchants' Guild. We are sellers of fine goods throughout the Free Marches, but my own personal line of work leads me to be more a purveyor of information. In Kirkwall I was an institution - I knew everyone, from the Viscount to the panhandlers of Darktown, and everyone knew me - and trusted me. It's exactly the kind of notoriety someone like me needs in order to function. But I'm not in Kirkwall anymore, I'm in Ferelden, where I know no one and am likewise unknown. Don't get me wrong - I like it here, and hope to make this place my new center of operations. People just don't seem to be as uppity here as they are in other places, and that's a good thing. But until I have an entrée into the higher levels of society I'll never be comfortable or useful. If I were still with Hawke I could probably use her name to get an audience with your King and Queen and so offer my services, but Hawke's not here - yet. When I heard that you and the Hero of Ferelden were leaving Denerim on a secret mission it seemed like the perfect opportunity to insinuate myself into the upper echelons and start building those needed contacts. The plan was to get ahead of you and set up somewhere, friendly travelers willing to share a bite of lunch or something like that, and then offer to join forces. Being waylaid by bandits wasn't on the itinerary, but when you rushed to our defense it did make me feel a lot easier in my mind about asking to link up."

"To whom do you sell your information, oh Merchant Prince of Spies?" Loghain asked, and kept the bottle passing back and forth from himself to the dwarf as they spoke, like a solemn ritual.

Varric drew himself up to his full height. "To the worthiest bidder, serrah, and not the highest. And ofttimes the only coinage I ask in payment is that of security and friendship."

"I see. And you would extend the hand of friendship to Ferelden?"

"I came here to see if Ferelden was worth it. I have come to believe that she is."

"And what makes you think that?"

Varric gestured expansively. "You do. And she does - the Hero, that is. And Hawke made me believe it before ever I set foot on your shores. There's something about Ferelden. Like any place else it has its shortcomings, but somehow it seems to breed more of the Extraordinaries, the people who have the strength and the stones to fly in the face of everybody screaming at them about what is Right and what is Acceptable and defy them all and get shit done. Orlais can't stop singing the praises of Ser Aveline, because someone willing to step out of line and shake a fist in the face of convention is so damned unheard of there they just can't get over it. But Ferelden - by the ancestors, man! You've got Dane and Hafter and Loghain and Maric and Elilia Cousland and Kireani Hawke…you've got bloody boiling Andraste herself! Something in the dirt here or the water or maybe even the bloody air seems almost to breed heroes. With the mess the world is in, heroes are something we're in dire need of. So if I can help even a little, I feel I should offer Ferelden my services. Besides, the rest of the world may have conveniently overlooked the fact but I am well aware that all Thedas owes you a debt of gratitude for stopping the Blight before it could spread."

He took a last swallow and passed the bottle, now more than two-thirds empty, back to Loghain. The big man contemplated the liquid through the thick green glass for a time, then threw his long neck back and drained it in a single gulping swallow. He threw the empty bottle down and smashed the glass beneath his boot. If there was symbolism in the act, Varric was uncertain of its meaning.

"Well enough. Let's get back and pitch in before the ladies think we ran off and left them to do all the packing like typical menfolk."