Blessed Maker.
Prayer or blasphemy, the line between the two had begun to blur in Alistair's mind and he had little idea how he intended the thought to be taken if the Maker was indeed looking on him.
He doubted it though. The multiple tensions which radiated out from the moving mass behind him did not suggest the presence of divine intervention in support of the greater cause. After two days of almost constant riding from Recliffe, the three companions had reached the army. Having already been turned back towards Denerim, Alistair had assumed that the hardest part of the journey was behind them. But it had soon become clear that Shale and Sten had imposed order simply through an exploitation of the fear and intimidation their presence created among the various factions. With his arrival, an unspoken assumption had arisen amongst the soldiers that he would prevent the golem and Quanri from inflicting any of the grievous bodily harm that they had previously threatened. Without the continued threat of severe punishment, the uneasy peace between the groups had begun to crumble and now men clashed with elves, elves clashed with dwarves and the dwarves clashed with everyone. Regardless of the Blight, old hostilities died hard.
And where hostilities had not previously existed, Oghren remained diligent in his duty to fill the gap. His behaviour had ensured fractions with all those who did not share his particular point of view. And with views limited to drink and women, kindred spirits had been difficult to find and adversaries all too easy.
Alistair rubbed at his forehead with a stifled groan. As the army moved closer to Denerim, the greater the pounding in his head grew. He assumed it was an effect of the taint but it was one he had never had experience of before. The pain was cloying as it crept into his mind and hindered any attempt towards tactical thinking let alone a resolution to the splintering of the army he now led.
"T'was my understanding that the call of the Old Gods was pleasurable for those with the taint." Riding next to him, Morrigan had caught his grimace and seized on the opportunity to bait him with an eagerness that he had not seen since before the Landsmeet.
Alistair ignored her, choosing instead to concentrate on telling himself that the pain was not as bad as he thought. He was beginning to realise that he preferred Morrigan as the constant ominous shadow who had accompanied him on the journey to Redcliffe rather than the insufferable harpy she had reverted back to.
He knew she intended her behaviour as a unique form of punishment. Travelling with both her and then Wynne, Alistair had become accustomed to magic being freely practiced around him. What was unfortunate was that he had forgotten that he was in the minority. From what he had been able to gather, the Templars had not reacted well to the sight of a shape-shifting apostate transforming in front of them. And although the combined pressure of Sten, Shale and Ohgren had prevented the Templars from physically harming her, it remained clear that Morrigan placed the blame for the entire incident firmly on his shoulders.
At least that was what they were intent on pretending.
Relegated to the back of the army due to the mini tremors caused by her footsteps, Shale had informed him of the disagreement between the Witch and Templars as soon as the three horse riders had drawn near. Unable to recognise Morrigan amidst the other mages, Alistair had dismounted and pushed his way through the ranks towards them in search of answers. As he neared and news of his arrival had spread throughout the army, the mages had become strangely unsettled. The unexpected disruption in the tightly controlled unit had unnerved the Templars, causing them to strike out at the dissenting mage who had pushed her way to the front and towards Alistair.
Pretending meant that neither he nor Morrigan had to acknowledge the existence of the frightened young woman, dressed in unfamiliar Circle robes and suffering from severe lyrium withdrawal, who had crumpled to the ground at his feet with a cry. They did not have to face the fact that her shaking hand had clung onto his, nails digging into his palm, as he helped her back to her feet. Both could overlook how the mage had continued to clutch at him longer than was necessary for her to regain her balance. And they could certainly ignore the fact that the look in the mage's eyes had revealed she was as frightened by her own powerlessness as she was by the Templars' intimidation.
It was Wynne who had provided the necessary break in tension that threatened to escalate between Alistair and the Knight-Captain as a result. As she passed Alistair, she pressed the two vials of lyrium that had been retrieved from the Emissaries into his spare hand while greeting the familiar faces from the Tower. He had accepted the diversion and ushered Morrigan away, slipping her the vials as the closing ranks of the army hid them from the direct eye line of the Templars.
But the Knight-Captain was clearly reluctant to renege his watch over such a dangerous apostate and despite the distance which Alistair was maintaining from the Circle mages, it had not escaped his attention that there were now two Templars flanking them. Morrigan's current behaviour was proof that it had not escaped her notice either. Yet being able to account for her renewed enthusiasm for tormenting him did not stop him from wanting to throttle her. He could have sworn that she was deliberately speaking in a higher tone than usual.
Riordan pulled his horse alongside Alistair's as he overheard Morrigan's comment. "Are you alright?"
Alistair shrugged in an attempt to save face in front of the older Warden.
"You must try to block it out. It will only get worse."
"Brilliant." Alistair muttered under his breath, wincing as another stab of pain pulsated through his skull.
Before Riordan could respond, a shout went up from the front of the army and the three turned their attention in the direction of the cause. In the distance ahead was a small figure of a horse and rider. Guiding their horses away from the army, they kicked their horses into a canter to ride out and meet the figure while the army continued to march behind them.
As they drew near, it became clear that the man was sparsely equipped both in armour and weaponry. He was dressed so that his weight was as light as possible for the benefit of the horse. A scout.
The apprehension with which he drew his horse up was soon replaced with a marked relief. On recognising Alistair, he let out an exclamation.
"Thank the Maker! Your Majesty, I have orders that you must return to Denerim. There is news that the Horde lies just to the North."
"Who orders the King, I wonder?" Morrigan continued to amuse herself although she did so under her breath.
Alistair eyed the scout, evidence of hard travel apparent from the state of his clothing and horse. "When were you sent?"
"A day ago. But we did not expect you to be even this close."
"Then Denerim may yet be saved." Riordan murmured to Alistair.
He made a non-committal noise as a though occurred to him. Rumour had informed their return but it was unlikely a scout would be sent on the basis of rumour alone. "How do you know this?"
"The Bard brought reports of the Horde."
Alistair started and the movement resulted in a small kick, causing his horse to skitter. He hurriedly settled it. "What?"
The man fidgeted and made an obvious effort to avoid Alistair's gaze.
"There is something else?" Riordan prodded the man.
"The Warden..."
The scout had barely spoken the words before Alistair's horse began snorting, trying to toss its head into the air as the bit between its teeth was pulled to the back of its mouth. Alistair's knuckles were white as he continued to pull back on the reins, an action symptomatic of the tension which now filled his posture. He fixed a hard stare on the man in front of him, the colour of his face matching that of his knuckles.
Morrigan had also paled at the words but had succeeded in controlling herself. She reached out and wrenched the reins from Alistair's hand to give the horse more freedom. He appeared not to notice, still focused on the scout.
Through clenched teeth, he managed to force out, "What about the Warden?"
"It is only rumour. I was not given a message." The man began to backtrack, sensitive to the apparently negative reaction his words had produced.
"Tell. Me. Now." Alistair's tone was harsh, each word clipped.
Riordan studied him with a frown, confused by the younger Warden's behaviour.
"The Bard brought her back from the Marches." The look which flew between Alistair and Morrigan hinted more to Riordan than the revelation itself. The scout remained oblivious. "She is in the city."
"Elissa is in Denerim?" Alistair heard the change in his voice even as he spoke but Morrigan let it pass without comment. She could feel the small flicker of her own hope splutter into life at the news.
The scout nodded. "That's what I heard. She was injured but she was taken to the Chantry for healing."
"What injuries?" Morrigan demanded.
"I don't know, the rumours were conflicted."
"But she is alive?" Alistair pressed him.
"Of course." The scout looked puzzled by the question, clearly under the impression that Grey Wardens could not be killed by something as mundane as a few injuries.
Alistair made to question the scout further but Riordan interrupted him before he could speak. Without acknowledging Alistair, he issued abrupt instructions to the scout while gesturing behind at the army who were quickly closing the small distance that lay between them. "Inform the Qunari that we have confirmation the Horde lies at Denerim. No one rests until we reach the city."
The scout hesitated, sensing that Alistair wished to speak more but the unwavering stare from Riordan convinced him to kick his horse past the three and towards the mass behind them.
Riordan turned his head back towards the Witch and younger Warden.
"I think there is something you wish to tell me." The deliberate manner of his delivery only served to emphasise the storm which raged beneath his collected exterior. "Don't you?"