Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 8-Lothering: Pretty as a Painting
Whatever else one might think of the ancient magisters of the Tevinter Empire, they knew how to build a road. League after league fell behind, as Bronwyn and her companions cantered north.
The sun shone brightly, the sky blazed blue, and their journey up to that point had been surprisingly uneventful. Smoke rose ominously from distant fires, but the road itself was clear. Bandits undoubtedly did not wish to tangle with the army, and even less with the darkspawn.
What about the darkspawn? Alistair had said that Wardens could sense them. Bronwyn had not noticed anything of the sort herself. They stopped every hour to rest the horses—and Scout—though Bronwyn knew not to wound his feelings by saying so. The air seemed a little too still, the birds a little too quiet, but Alistair had not indicated that he felt anything more unusual than that.
Bronwyn glanced behind her to see how Scout was holding up. He was running along, perfectly happy and fit, but something else caught Bronwyn's eye.
"Morrigan! I thought you were going to fly as far as I could ride," she laughed.
The hawk was perched, mightily at her ease, on the broad back of the big pack horse, Trampler. She shrugged her feathers eloquently.
"That's right!" Bronwyn teased. "You said you could. You didn't promise you would!"
"No surprises there," Alistair muttered.
"We all need a rest," Bronwyn told him. "Up ahead is the Fairebourne. It's no more than a brook here, but it's water. The Teyrn's map shows a feeder spring not far from the highway. We'll make Lothering long before sundown."
Morrigan flew off to reconnoiter. Just before the bridge that spanned the stream, they found a worn track leading down to the water, and to fresh sweet grass for the horses. Bronwyn jumped down from her tall bay gelding, and unwrapped the package of waybread and dried apples. Morrigan changed from feathered predator to leather-clad woman, and joined Bronwyn in the shade of a willow; while Alistair secured the horses before coming for his share of the meal.
It seemed an idyllic place. Water trickled sweetly down the stones of the spring, flowing into the Fairebourne on its journey to the Drakon River. Bronwyn ate hungrily, trying to make the food last as long as possible, savoring the apples' smoky sweetness and the bread's yeasty crunch. Scout lapped at the stream, and then came to sprawl at her side, powerful jaws crushing the mealbar she tossed him. The horses cropped the grass, hungry as Wardens.
"It's hard to believe we're at war," Alistair murmured into the pleasant stillness. Morrigan sniffed, picking through her bag of herbs. Bronwyn leaned back against the smooth bark of the willow, shutting her eyes, enjoying the tickling breeze on her face. They were lucky in their weather…
Scout growled low and warningly. Instantly alert, Bronwyn opened her eyes, and was on her feet. Morrigan and Alistair had heard Scout, too, and were getting up, looking about warily.
"What it is, boy?" Bronwyn asked softly. "Wolves?"
He did not respond, and kept up his low rumbling growl. "Bandits? Show me."
The dog was glaring at a clump of bushes on the other side of the stream, his muzzle thrust forward aggressively. Bronwyn eased her sword from its sheath.
"Whoever you are," she called, "Come out now with your hands empty and where I can see them!"
A smothered squeak, and the bushes shook violently. Light footsteps ran away into the undergrowth.
"Scout!" Bronwyn shouted. "Go!"
He burst away, a blur of speed, splashing through the stream and tearing a path through the leaves. Bronwyn followed him, but was only on the far bank of the stream when she heard the thin, high shriek.
"It's a child!" Alistair cried, plunging after her.
Up the shallow slope, fighting past vicious brambles, they were on Scout and his prey almost too quickly to avoid trampling them. Scout had knocked the child down, and being too well-trained to hurt a small human, was simply holding him?—her? to the ground with his solid mass.
The child kicked out, screaming, "No! No! Mother! No! Help!"
"Let go, Scout," Bronwyn ordered, reaching for a skinny arm. Pulling the child up, she found that Scout had caught a boy of perhaps eight or nine, dressed in the rough clothes of a peasant. He shrank away from the imposing sight of Alistair and his sword and shield, and looked up timidly at Bronwyn, not even trying to free himself.
"You shouldn't sneak up on a warriors' camp, boy," Bronwyn told him quietly. "They're likely to think you're an enemy. What are you doing out here all alone?"
He gaped at her. She gave the thin arm an impatient shake.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
"Help," he squeaked, fidgeting desperately. "We need help. Father didn't come home. Mother won't leave without him and something happened over at Old Mackey's holding. I can't find Father."
"They should have gone north weeks ago!" Alistair said, shaking his head.
Bronwyn could only agree. She asked the boy, "How long has your father been gone?"
"Four nights now. Mother doesn't know what to do."
"She needs to go to Lothering," Bronwyn said crisply. "How far is your holding?"
"Not far—over that ridge," the boy whimpered. "I thought maybe you'd help us. You didn't look mean, but I was scared to show myself. There are bad men out here sometimes."
"I daresay there are. Come along. We'll go speak to your mother. And you didn't tell me your name."
His name, it transpired, was Conn, and he had never been on the back of a horse before. Morrigan rolled her eyes, but did not even attempt to object to his presence or their detour. She discreetly slipped away to change form. Bronwyn put the boy on the crupper of her horse and told him to hold tight to her.
"But Tarron won't like it if I up and go without telling him! What if he comes back and doesn't know where we are?"
Bronwyn silently thanked her parents for making her come along on those boring visits to their tenants. She knew how to talk to this woman. Mertha, her name was: wife of Tarron Gale.
The house was small and tidy: a kitchen and sitting room combined, a door to a little bedroom, a door to the larder, and a ladder up to a loft where the older children slept. Four children in all. Conn was the eldest, and then there were three girls like stair steps. The smallest could barely walk, and beamed at Scout, putting out chubby arms to him.
Bronwyn said calmly, "You will leave him a note, telling him that you have gone to Lothering. You will pack the cart, hitch your oxen, and come along now."
The pale and pregnant woman looked at her, lip trembling. "Tarron doesn't like it when I do things without telling him. He doesn't like it when I get ideas in my head."
There was no time for this rubbish. "You can tell him you were commanded by the Grey Wardens to evacuate to Lothering. That is perfectly true. And this is Ferelden. A woman and the mother of a family has every right to 'get ideas in her head,' especially when her children's safety is in question!"
"Yes, my lady!"
Bronwyn fixed the woman with her sternest glare. "Alistair and I will hitch the oxen for you. Take all the food in the house."
"Ser—my lady," Mertha hesitated. "Are you sure there are darkspawn? Tarron says it's just a story Bann Ceorlic put about to get his hands on the south holdings."
"Pretty sure," Alistair managed.
Morrigan strolled into the little house, looking about in disdain. "Why are we wasting our time here? Let her find out for herself!"
The woman gaped at Morrigan.
Bronwyn hastily told her, "This lady is with us. Yes, there are darkspawn. I fought them only days ago. The King's army just won a great battle against them, but there are always stragglers. You are too close to the remains of the horde, and too isolated for safety. I want to hear no more about it. Dress your children warmly."
There was no parchment in the house for a note. Bronwyn dug some out of a saddlebag, and wrote "GONE TO LOTHERING" in her largest, clearest hand. She felt a bit of satisfaction in nailing it to the table. Tarron might not be as bad a fellow as she imagined, but she had heard much more about him than she cared for.
And the boy and the eldest girl were more useful than their mother, who dithered over her belongings. The girl shooed their chickens into a little cage to be put in the cart, and let the sheep out into the pasture, so they would not starve. The boy was eager to be gone, and showed Bronwyn a column of smoke rising above the trees.
"That's Mackey's place. It's been burning all night."
Morrigan jeered, "Are we going to rescue him, too? Are we going to go from hut to hut to wretched hut, continually saving people who had not the sense to save themselves?"
Imagining the fates of the people in the little valley of the Fairbourne made Bronwyn ill, but she knew that Morrigan was right.
"No," she sighed. "We're not. This is already going to cost us a day. We cannot save them all." She thought Morrigan looked a bit too smug at her answer, and glowered. "But I shall save these people."
She was losing time. She was losing time. It gnawed at her, as she packed candles and candlesticks, knowing that her mission should take precedence over one farm family. To walk away, however, was almost certain to sentence them to death.
Alistair had hitched the oxen to the cart, and was uncomplainingly loading the little vehicle with crates and blankets, with a churn and a featherbed and two smoked hams. Morrigan amused herself by sneering at the children and gathering the dried herbs and flowers hanging from the ceiling.
"Boilwort," she murmured. "I know just what to do with that!"
The boy was leading out the family's milk cow, and tying her to the back of the cart. Their speed would be halved, at the best. They would almost certainly have to camp tonight. Bronwyn rubbed the back of her neck irritably, the blood in her veins pounding with frustration. Scout stared out at the forest, ears alert. The wind was in the wrong direction for him to pick up any scents: blowing away from them toward the impenetrable dark green.
The smallest girl was a particularly pretty child. She toddled to Bronwyn, huge blue eyes hopeful.
"Up!"
Mertha, fussing with her pots, called, "Annis, don't bother the Warden!"
"I don't mind," Bronwyn smiled, lifting the little one into her arms. The child nestled there, a warm bundle of life, her white-blonde hair silken and sweet. Bronwyn thought with a pang of Alistair's remarks about the scarcity of Grey Warden children. The idea that she might never have a child of her own made her temples ache with the pressure of I want countered by I cannot. She had always wanted two, herself, and she would name them—
Scout growled.
"Bronwyn."
Alistair was looking at her, tense and wide-eyed.
He was reaching for his sword...
A dark cloud of earth spewed up, just to her right. Before she could turn to see, the genlock was rushing at her, gibbering, needle-like teeth bared in the mad grin of the darkspawn.
Her first impulse was to clutch the child to her, but that was wrong—all wrong—and at once her training came to her. Gritting her teeth, she tossed the wailing little girl aside, heedless of small hands scraping raw on her chainmail, and leaped at the monster, drawing sword and dagger with a smooth metallic whisper. Her blades scissored, nearly severing the genlock's head.
A clang. Alistair, his shield propped against the wagon, had slammed a stewpot instead against the hurlock attacking him, knocking it to the ground. Scout rushed in, and bones snapped as the dog ripped away the creature's face.
Bronwyn could see the pregnant woman framed in the doorway, hands over her mouth in horror, eyes wide and white with fear. The oxen lowed and stamped; the horses whinnied, shying away from the foul stench. Wild, high shrieks filled the air, as the children darted in every direction, distracting the darkspawn from the armed warriors. Trampler squealed in rage, and lashed out with iron-shod hooves, scattering an attacker's head into scarlet splinters.
A backhand and a squelching stab. Another genlock grimaced in agony and fell back, twitching. An arrow thudded into the wagon, and Bronwyn saw the leering archer, not ten yards away...
"Morrigan!" she shouted.
"I am here!"
A blast of cold frosted the creature, slowing it, and Alistair was hacking at it before it could nock another arrow. Another archer was roaring wordlessly, a little further on. Sparks suddenly leaped around it, stunning it, and Bronwyn was on it, cutting its throat in a veil of blood. But there was another one, half-hidden by the encroaching forest—
A green mist enveloped her, and she nearly vomited. Staggering forward, she glared at the chuckling emissary, its staff raised high for another spell.
"Less fighting, more dying!" yelled Alistair. His longsword flashed in a steel arc, and quite suddenly the darkspawn mage was headless, blood pumping from its thick neck. It fell forward, spraying Bronwyn.
"Ugh!" She groaned in disgust, and shook off the last of the spell. Behind her, the mother was screaming, a horrible hoarse sound. Bronwyn wiped foul blood from her eyes. The last of the hurlocks had made a grab for Annis, sitting sobbing in the bloody ground. Morrigan cursed the creature, weakening it. Bronwyn vaulted a low wall while Scout charged, bowling the darkspawn over. The dog gnawed at the creature's wrist, forcing it to drop its crude axe. Bronwyn stabbed down, nailing the monster to the earth. It thrashed wildly, gobbling and choking. Bronwyn twisted her blade, and the creature jerked and was still.
"Darkspawn!" Conn remarked, unnecessarily, crawling out from under the cart. He poked at a dead hurlock with a bare foot.
"Don't touch it!" Bronwyn ordered. "If you have any blood on you, wash it off immediately! Mertha! Do you hear me? Make sure the children haven't any darkspawn blood on them!"
She crouched down by little Annis, to see if she were badly hurt. The child stared at Bronwyn with her huge blue eyes, and uttered a high, piercing shriek. Her mother rushed up to gather her in her arms, and the other children emerged from their hiding places to huddle together.
"Come children!" the woman choked, "Let's have a look at you!" She dabbed at them, now and then glancing up at the Wardens a little fearfully.
Morrigan cast a look over the carnage. "Perhaps we ought not to linger?" she suggested.
Alistair came over to admire Bronwyn's handiwork. "I think we work well together," he quipped. He grinned at Bronwyn. "You've done something new with your hair. I like you as a redhead!"
Bronwyn tried to laugh, and failed miserably. "I must look like a monster. Could you finish loading that blasted cart so we can get out of here?" She stumbled over to the well, and hauled up a bucket. "Here." She shoved the bucket at Morrigan, and leaned over. "Pour it over my head before it congeals."
"Oh, very well. You do look a sight."
It took two buckets before she was clean of the worst of it. "When we get to Lothering," Bronwyn declared, "I swear by the Maker I am washing my hair properly!"
Mertha and the girls were too stunned and terrified to do much more than they were told. Conn was almost too busy—panicky and wild-eyed. No one wanted to stay. The darkspawn lay where they fell, and Mertha only begged to be allowed to lock the door of the house.
Morrigan actually laughed aloud. "She's locking the darkspawn out?"
Bronwyn frowned and hushed her, and then asked softly, "Are you sure you don't want to ride, Morrigan?" It might not be a good idea for Morrigan to shape-change in front of witnesses.
The young witch, however, had already decided what to do. "I shall walk," she declared haughtily. "I enjoy walking."
And so she walked, to the right of Bronwyn's horse, putting the maximum distance between herself and the children and their mother.
The animals were restless and jittery, but calmed down as they moved farther from the farmhold. Bronwyn hoped that no other darkspawn were near. With the noise the chickens alone made, they were a target for any predator in the neighborhood. The children insisted on riding in the cart, and had to be ordered out when they needed to make the climb up to the Highway.
Once there, however, things improved. The younger children had never seen the great stone wonder, stretching out to the horizon. There was enough novelty here to take their minds from their recent danger.
"That was stupid of me," Bronwyn muttered bitterly.
"What?" protested Alistair. "You did great! We are an awesome, awesome team of mighty darkspawn slayers."
"I was distracted by that child...playing nursemaid when I should have been alert."
"Yes, you were stupid," Morrigan agreed tartly. "Mooning over peasant children! Let it be a lesson to you about the dangers of sentimentality. And yes, Alistair, I agree that we are, in fact, rather awesome."
"Whoa!" Alistair laughed. "We agree about something!"
"Don't expect it to happen again."
Bronwyn was still stirred up. "And that sensing darkspawn thing, Alistair... I thought you meant I would feel something and think, 'Aha! Darkspawn!' I just felt irritable and tense and ready to lash out when they attacked."
"That's it," Alistair informed her. "That's how it feels. Next time you feel that way, you can say, 'Aha! Darkspawn!'"
Bronwyn blew out an annoyed breath.
They said little after that, and concentrated on getting as far as they could before the sun was low in the sky. The children napped, and then had to be given some bread to eat. And then they needed to stop and go—very cautiously—into the bushes with their tired mother. Bronwyn would have liked to offer to drive the cart for her, but she must stay exactly where she was. They would just have to stop and camp when Mertha was too exhausted to hold the lines anymore. And Bronwyn knew she must not offer to let any of the children ride with her. As the day wore on, Conn got out and walked, and Drisa walked with him a good part of the way. The children might be wary of the human warriors, but gravitated to Scout's vicinity. He was happy enough for the company, and did not object to a small hand scratching his ears now and then.
So they camped early, by a nameless little stream with good water for their animals. They was much work to be done: unsaddling the horses, unloading the packs, watering and feeding the livestock, keeping track of the children. Conn gathered wood for a fire, and Morrigan started it with a casual wave of her staff. She then withdrew to allow Mertha to cook for them.
Bronwyn was passing by the campfire, when Mertha called to her, very low.
"My lady!"
"Yes? What I can do for you?"
"That woman..." Mertha nodded in Morrigan's direction. "Is she a mage?"
Half-truths and obfuscation would work. "She is indeed. There is nothing for you to fear. There are a number of mages in the King's army—all approved by the Chantry and supervised by the Templars. Alistair himself trained as Templar before he became a Grey Warden. We are very fortunate to have Morrigan with us, don't you think? She did wonders to protect the children."
"I suppose so," the woman answered reluctantly. "But a mage... What if she does something to us?"
"She has no reason to do anything except to continue to serve bravely. I give you my word that she is a friend and quite safe."
"If you say so."
The woman went back to her cooking, only half convinced. Bronwyn sighed, and walked away to help Alistair and Conn with the animals. Alistair was currying Trampler.
"You're quite good at that," she observed after a moment.
"I should be," he grinned. "Raised in a stable. By dogs mostly, but by horses too."
"What do you mean, 'raised in a stable?' I thought Arl Eamon was your guardian!"
"He was, but I slept in the stable," he answered, as if that were perfectly normal. Seeing Bronwyn's expression, he shrugged, "It wasn't so bad. It was warm there at least, and I had a roof over my head. If guess the Arl thought that if I was pampered, people would think I was his."
Bronwyn tried to temper her outrage, since the man was dead, but she could not help saying, "It is not 'pampering' to give a child a proper bed when one has the means to do so! How many beds are there in Castle Redcliffe, anyway?"
"I certainly have no idea," Alistair replied calmly.
Mertha made them a good and plentiful supper—almost plentiful enough for Bronwyn and Alistair. The thick porridge-like stew of barley and carrots and smoked mutton filled all the voids left by the exertions of the day. There was pure spring water to drink and apples to munch afterward. Morrigan decided to take the first watch—Bronwyn suspected to avoid the pandemonium of the children's bedtime. The three oldest children had got over the worst of their fright, and sat close to the Wardens, whispering about darkspawn.
All but Annis. The little girl would not come near Bronwyn. The little girl, in fact, would turn her head away from her, mouth distorting into whimpers of fear. Bronwyn swallowed a lump of misery and dug into her bags for something to lift morale.
"Cake!" she announced. "We'll all feel better for a piece of plumcake."
"Great idea!" Alistair seconded.
The precious cake, which Bronwyn had intended for a later date when luxuries would be harder to come by, was unwrapped and cut into generous wedges. She set one aside for Morrigan, on guard just beyond the trees.
"Oh, my lady!" Mertha reached out uncertainly for the proffered treat. "Thank you kindly! Here, Drisa, give Elwyn this piece."
"Do you know any stories?" Conn asked.
"A few," Bronwyn admitted.
"What about that 'Be bold, but not too bold story?'" Alistair suggested.
"Not tonight," Bronwyn said easily. To him, she mouthed the words, "Too scary." She considered a moment.
"Long ago," she began, "before our fathers' fathers came down from the mountains, a war hound was born to the eldest bitch of a tribal chief. They named him Hahaku, and they gave him everything..."
She told it just as dear old Nan had always told it to her—even on the last day of her life: the great and selfish warhound, puffed up with pride, using its favored position and its strength only to bully others; the chief, at last aware of Hahaku's flaws, rejecting him and matching his son with a more reliable, if weaker dog. The rage of Hahaku, the attack on the chief, and the dog's death by stoning.
"—And what is the moral of this story?" she asked the children.
"'Don't bite important people?" Drisa ventured.
Alistair choked on his cake. Bronwyn glared at him.
"Don't be a bully?" This from Conn.
"That's right!" Bronwyn answered, giving the helpless Alistair another look. "You should never abuse your power. The strong must not take advantage of the weak."
"And if the strong are mean, the weak people remember it," Elwyn said solemnly. She elbowed Conn.
"You are very clever children," Bronwyn told them. "And Drisa, you are right. Biting important people is a very bad idea. I'm sure Scout would agree with that."
Scout gave a considering rumble, cocking his head. Bronwyn laughed. "You certainly wouldn't bite Teyrn Loghain, would you?"
Alistair smirked. "Only if he bit you first."
Scout barked happily, in complete agreement.
"My lady," Mertha asked shyly, "have you seen Teyrn Loghain with your own eyes?"
Bronwyn was glad to answer in the affirmative, wondering why Alistair was making such faces, as Bronwyn confirmed such details as the Teyrn's tall stature and powerful build, his straight and thick black hair falling nearly to his shoulders, his piercing, icy blue eyes, his noble profile, and his shining silverite plate armor.
Mertha told Bronwyn earnestly, "I've raised my children to honor Teyrn Loghain as the hero who freed us from the filthy Orlesians! And to worship the Maker and his Prophet, of course," she added.
The older girl, Drisa, wanted to hear about the King.
"He's young and handsome," Bronwyn told her, smiling. "He has golden hair and wears golden armor, and he's very brave and kind."
"Did you see the Queen, too?" asked Drisa.
Bronwyn shook her head, "The Queen is at the palace in Denerim right now. I haven't seen her in years. Alistair, you must have seen her more recently than I."
Alistair gave a nod, stretching his back a bit. "The Queen. Well...Queen Anora is very pretty. She's tall and blonde and looks like a Queen ought to look."
"Is she nice?" wondered Elwyn.
Bronwyn considered. "She has good manners, and is very clever," she allowed.
"Such a lot of places the two of you must have seen!" Mertha marveled. "You've both been to Denerim? Really?" At their amused nods, she asked, "Is that where you're from? I heard it's bigger than Lothering. There are hundreds of houses and thousands of people there! It's hard to believe."
"It's true that there are thousands of people in Denerim," Bronwyn assured her, "but Alistair is originally from Redcliffe, and I am from Highever."
"Highever!" Mertha gasped, as astonished as she would have been by the name of some fabled city: Minrathous or ancient Arlathan. "That's all the way to The Waking Sea!"
"Have you seen the sea, then?" Conn wanted to know.
With a rush, Bronwyn pictured a summer's day on the Cliffs of Conobar, the grey vastness of The Waking Sea glittering below, the stiff salt breeze, the scent of fish and the cries of the seabirds, the sun hot on her face, the prickleweed and madcap trailing over the stony verge, the feeling that she and Fergus stood alone at the edge of the world...
"Yes." She summoned a smile. "I have seen the sea. But enough talk! I think it's time for little Wardens to get some sleep!"
The children laughed. All but Annis, who still would not look at her.
It took forever to get started in the morning. In the end, an irritated Morrigan deposited the two younger children into the wagon half-dressed, while Mertha obsessively scrubbed at her pans and spoons. At least they had had a good breakfast: a fry-up of eggs and potatoes and wild greens. Mertha was a fine cook, if a slow one. The Gale family seemed better for a night's sleep.
"Let's wear our Warden gear into the town," Bronwyn said to Alistair. "We might get a bit more cooperation that way."
"Fine with me." Alistair liked wearing his Warden tunic. And the children seemed impressed by the helmet. The wings really were, they said, "neat."
"We're going to Lothering!" Drisa cried to her sisters. "We're going to see the town!"
The children besieged their mother with questions. They had never seen such a thing as a town, but their mother had visited Lothering not once but three times, and felt herself wise enough in city ways to prepare them for their adventure.
Their party grew as they met other wayfarers along the road. The first additions were a pair of frightened Chantry brothers, hoping to be invisible in their hooded cloaks, clinging to the low stone walls along the road for cover, greeting the Wardens on horseback like heroes of legend.
A family of city elves was swept up in their wake: husband, wife, and pretty little daughter, carrying their worldly goods on their backs. Mertha and her children gaped at them, and Drisa ran up to touch the little elven girl. Then she ran back to the shelter of the creaking wagon, pleased at her own daring.
"My lady," the elven father asked Bronwyn, civil and humble. "Would you permit us to travel under your protection? We will give you no trouble."
"Of course you may." Bronwyn wondered how Alienage elves had wandered so far south. Perhaps they had been working for the army at Ostagar. It was a serious undertaking, to bring a little child to an army camp, especially an elven child...
Perhaps that's why they're not there anymore.
She caught the relieved look the parents shared. They each gave a hand to their little girl, and followed at the back of the party.
Behind her, Mertha hissed at Conn. "Keep an eye on those knife-ears. They're like to steal the cow when we're not looking!"
An elderly couple with a handcart was overtaken, not two miles from the town ahead, as the road began its slow descent into the valley of the Drakon River.
"There are bandits on the road, ser," the old man warned Alistair. "Neighbor of mine was robbed by 'em on his way to town! And beaten, too!"
"But you're on the road to Lothering," Alistair pointed out mildly.
"No help for it, ser! No help for it. We can't stay, and that's the Maker's truth! We've got a bit put by, and we thought it might be enough for 'em to let us through. But with you and your noble ladies..."
"Right. Two more for Lothering!"
"Where did your neighbor encounter the bandits?" asked Bronwyn.
"Not a mile from the town, on this side of the river. Reckon we'll see 'em soon enough, if they haven't left for greener pastures."
Another good thing about horses. One could see farther. Bronwyn and Alistair scanned the road ahead for possible threats. It was not long before they spotted one.
"There they are," Alistair pointed.
Bronwyn saw the men lounging in the distance. Four—no—five fit and well-armed men, who by rights should be in the army. They had blockaded the road with overturned wagons and scattered crates and barrels.
"Stay together and keep up," she told their charges. "These men are nothing to be feared."
"They are fools to get in our way," Morrigan agreed.
Considering that there were four horses and fifteen people, she half expected the waiting men to melt into the trees and wait for weaker prey. But past success must have given them confidence. Their leader looked up at their approach, and came forward, a handsome young man with a cocky grin.
"Wake up, gentlemen!" he called, "More travelers approaching! And I'd say the pretty one is the leader!"
The leader's biggest stooge gaped at the approaching party, and rumbled, "Uh, dey don't look like dose odders. And dey've got a big dog. And horses."
"Right, horses." Alistair smiled. "You should have seen what Trampler there did to a hurlock's skull yesterday." He mimed an explosion. "Boosh! What a mess."
The bandits edged away nervously.
Bronwyn said. "Lucky for us you're here. This road is a disgrace. It's a wonder anyone can get through to Lothering."
"Well, we let a few through, now and then," the leader smirked. "If the price is right."
"Oh? And what are you? Road guards?"
"Yes!" The leader grinned in delight, white teeth flashing. "That's it exactly! We're road guards! We tax the odd passing traveler to cover our expenses."
"Well, we're Grey Wardens, and we don't pay taxes."
"Grey Warden?" The stooge blurted out, "Dat's her! Dat's da Girl Warden! She's da one dat killed an ogre! Dey was talkin' about her at da tavern!"
The bandits backed away a little further. The leader's smile grew forced. Bronwyn's smile was forced, too. That bloody awful nickname had preceded her. Some idiot courier had blabbed it out, and even these scum had heard it. The leader was looking at her with wary respect.
"The Girl Warden, eh? The Hero of Ostagar, I hear. Well, let's forget about the tax. We'll stand aside and let you get on with your darkpawn-fighting and ogre-killing ways."
"As soon as you clear the road," Bronwyn told him, perfectly seriously. Using the stupid nickname called for some degree of punishment.
"Ah...that's not really how it works..."
"Yes. That's exactly how it works. I am shocked at the condition of the road you've been guarding. How are the army couriers to get through? How is the King to get through? Whoever made this mess must be a traitor to Ferelden. I think it would be an act of patriotism to clean it all up." She drew her dagger and tested its edge. "I'm waiting."
It was astonishing how fast the rubbish went over the sides of the road. The bandits all but polished the stones. Their leader grinned gamely, making her a sweeping bow. Bronwyn waved the rest of the party on and stayed to speak to the man.
"You know," she said, her voice light and conversational, "I've met many old soldiers. I've met many rich old soldiers. I've even met a number of rich old mercenaries." She leaned down and smiled grimly. "But I've never met an old bandit. Ever. I suggest you rethink your career plans. There are opportunities in the south for able men. If I were to find you collecting taxes here again, I might misunderstand the situation and...lose my temper."
"Right," the man said slowly. "No old bandits."
"Not even middle-aged. Think on it." She turned her horse's head and kicked it into a gallop.
The stooge called out after her. "Did you really kill dat ogre? Dat's pretty neat!"
"There it is. Lothering: pretty as a painting," said Alistair, with a wave at the sight unfolding.
Bronwyn agreed that it was quite a pretty place indeed. Close to the ramp leading off the Imperial Highway was a green meadow, where a few tents were pitched. Beyond was a Chantry of very respectable size, a little stone bridge over a stream that flowed into the Drakon further down, some wattle-and-daub houses, and all the usual appurtenances of a country village. Further out, a mill loomed high above the rest on a rocky hill. And further yet, up a gentle rise, was a largish wood and stone edifice, surrounded by outbuildings, which must be Bann Ceorlic's manor.
She turned in the saddle to their new acquaintances. "You all should be safe enough now. Maker watch over you."
But she and Alistair could not just ride away. Everyone came to thank the Wardens, and Conn wanted to shake their hands, and the two older girls wanted to hug Scout and kiss their protectors—Bronwyn and Alistair, at least, as Morrigan refused in disgust. and the elves bowed nearly to the ground. The old couple waved their farewell cheerily, and the brothers quoted a blessing, then hurried off to the secure stone bulk of the Chantry.
"You could have been one of them," Bronwyn pointed out primly to Alistair. "Don't you feel you've made a terrible mistake?"
"I do not," he answered with careless swagger. "I get to wear a helmet with wings and ride a horse. And besides, I never would have been a brother. They would have trained me as a Templar, and I would have had the spiffiest armor in Ferelden. No dull robes for me, thank you!"
"No," drawled Morrigan. "'Tis only your wits that are dull!"
"Oh, yes. Thank you so much for that insight, Morrigan."
There was a defensive wall, Bronwyn noted, but it was really no more than a fence. There were a pair of wooden watchtowers, currently unoccupied. She frowned, as they guided their horses down the ramp. There were no guards, and the flimsy gate was open.
The number of campers in the commons and the number of wagons must be unusual. People came to see the warriors and their horses, a fairly notable sight in these parts. There was gossip, and pointing fingers, and to Bronwyn's furious annoyance, a very distinct call of—
"That's the Girl Warden. You can tell by the wings."
Alistair burst out laughing. "I'd be more impressed if you had wings."
"Funny. It might be convenient, though. We could all fly along with Morrigan. Let's find the tavern and hear the news before we go on up to the manor."
Almost immediately, it became clear that at Dane's Refuge, they would never have to pay for their own drinks. Even after the welcomes and the cheers, and even after Bronwyn's polite greeting, people kept staring and smiling at them in a very unsettling way, apparently expecting them to do something prodigiously heroic at any moment.
"You know," Alistair considered. "If we drink everything that people want to buy for us, we probably won't be able to get back on our horses ever again."
"Probably not, so don't," Bronwyn agreed. The ale at Dane's Refuge was very good, all the same. Music thrummed pleasantly from the minstrel's gallery above.
Morrigan raised her brows with haughty languor, and sipped daintily at a cup of pear wine from a goggling admirer.
Even Scout was growing tired of the adulation, and hid under their table.
"Get off my foot, filthy mongrel!" Morrigan scolded.
Only Danal the barkeep appeared to be sane. He kept pouring drinks, muttering to the other patrons to leave the little party at the back table alone.
Out of the blue, Alistair remarked, "Duncan could hold his liquor—he really could—but a lot the other Wardens were pretty much drunk a lot of the time."
Morrigan sneered. Another cup of pear wine appeared before her.
"It's a hard life," Bronwyn replied, more to her own thoughts than anything else. "Excuse me," she said, and walked over to the bar.
"I was hoping to hear the news," she said to Danal. "Have you heard any rumors?"
"Let's see..." The barkeep considered. "Do you want to hear the rumors about the Girl Warden who won the Battle of Ostagar single-handed?" He gave her a wink.
"I...don't think so."
"How about the rumors that she and Teyrn Loghain are going to beat back the darkspawn before Satinalia? Hand in glove, they are."
"Hmmm." She smiled in spite of herself, but shook her head.
The barkeep pursed his mouth, and continued, more seriously. "Well, I heard that Arlessa Isolde, the young Orlesian wife of Arl Eamon, was cheating on her husband with his brother Bann Teagan, and that she poisoned the Arl so that she and the brother could marry each other!"
Bronwyn was sober quite suddenly. "You don't say?"
Of course, that could be just as ridiculous as the rumors about me.
"And folks up north say that Rendon Howe, the Arl of Amaranthine, has gone clean mad. Murdered the Teyrn of Highever and his wife! Hard to believe."
"Believe it," Bronwyn said shortly.
"And there's always the nasty rumor that the Queen is barren. It's the Maker's Curse, they say, for putting a commoner on the throne."
"That's very unkind," Bronwyn replied at once. "And I'm sure it's not true."
"And then what about people just vanishing from their farmholds?" Danal offered. "Just up and disappearing, no one knows where!"
I know where.
"Thank you for the drinks, but we must be going!" Bronwyn turned and saw a pretty young Chantry sister headed her way. From her earnest, hopeful expression, Bronwyn could tell she wanted something.
"We must be going!" Bronwyn repeated, more loudly for Alistair's benefit. Scout was instantly at her heels. Morrigan quickly downed her wine and rose lithely from the little table. Alistair gave her a wry grin, but moved to the door nearly as fast.
"You know," he muttered as they mounted their horses. "I smelled mutton roasting. If we'd stayed, we probably could have had a free meal!"
"And so we shall—at the manor," Bronwyn said. "Perhaps people there won't gawk at us so!"
Note: Thanks to my reviewers mille libri, Sarah1281, Piceron, Crazy, lemon, jen4306, DutchNight, Laura Proudmore, SSJ Girl, moemie, Shining Girl, Phoenix Fire lady, Angry Girl, Beriathwen, ByLanternLight, Cobar713, luk3us, Zyanic, sleepyowlet, Eva Galana, and khaos974.