Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 9: To the Manor Born
Bann Ceorlic's manor looked like many another of those belonging to Ferelden's lesser nobility. A good looking house, with well-kept-up outbuildings. Not a castle, certainly, but a typical fortified manor house.
Not as fortified as most, however. What had once been a deep defensive ditch backed by a low stone palisade had been softened by time and flowering vines. The "fortifications" would now serve to keep the sheep out of the front garden, but were now otherwise simply decorative landscaping. Bronwyn was somewhat scandalized that the bann had not spent the sums necessary to maintain his defenses. Of course, this was south-central Ferelden, and far from any of the usual foreign threats…
She dismounted in the handsome stone courtyard, and a stable boy came out to see to the horses. Emerging from the carved front doors was a portly man who was obviously Ceorlic's seneschal.
"I am the Grey Warden Bronwyn Cousland," Bronwyn introduced herself crisply to the man. Grey Wardens were supposed to have no family names, but Bronwyn's was too powerful a tool to cast aside. "I have here a letter of introduction from Teyrn Loghain, permitting me the use of this manor. This is Warden Alistair, and this is Lady Morrigan. We shall only be troubling you for a day or two before we travel north."
The seneschal goggled. "A Cousland! What an honor, my lady! I am Rurik—Seneschal of Lothering Manor. We haven't had a Cousland visit us in—well, years! Teyrn Bryce is your father, then?"
"My father died recently. My brother, Fergus, is now teyrn." Well, it was not official until he was confirmed at the next Landsmeet, but there was no use in puzzling the man with legalities.
"I am sorry to hear of your loss, my lady. Your father was a great man, and once did me the honor to shake my hand."
"I thank you for your courtesy." It never hurt to be polite to staff. This man's goodwill might make the difference between mediocre food and service, and a pleasant stay indeed. "Our horses have had a hard journey."
"They shall have the best of care, my lady," the seneschal replied, with a stern nod to the boy, and another man standing in the stable door. "We have accommodations for your fine hound in our kennels—"
Scout's growl was barely audible.
"I would prefer to keep my mabari with me," Bronwyn said pleasantly.
"As you wish, my lady." The seneschal was unsurprised. Many nobles did, though Lady Rosalyn was not fond of animals in the house. She was not here, however, and this was a Cousland. "If it please you, come to the Hall, and I shall show you to your rooms and have a dinner served to you directly." He leaned closer and whispered discreetly, as they walked up a flagged path lined with flowering shrubs. "Do your companions require separate rooms?"
Bronwyn nearly laughed aloud at the thought of Morrigan and Alistair being taken for a married couple. "Yes, separate, if you please, Rurik. And we would be so very grateful if baths could be arranged tonight."
"Of course! Our bathing facilities are of the most modern contriving. Bann Ceorlic is a stickler for cleanliness and proper comfort!"
"I am glad to hear it."
She only needed to step inside the Great Hall of the manor to see where Bann Ceorlic had spent the money that should have gone to his defenses. Lothering Manor was a little jewelbox—every wooden pillar was elaborately carved with dogs and deer, with garlands of flowers twisting up their length, and riots of oak leaves at the top. The table was polished like armor, and even the benches were padded. There were fine tapestries on the walls, and silken banners hanging from the ceiling. A large portrait of the bann himself, full length and clad in the height of fashion, dominated the wall opposite his high seat at the end of the Hall nearest the fire.
Scout, unimpressed by the grandeur, sat down to scratch his ear while the humans gazed about them.
They were led upstairs—the stairs also polished and with carved banisters. The seneschal opened a door with a flourish and there was a pause, as three jaws dropped. Bronwyn's and Morrigan's hastily snapped theirs shut, out of pride, but Alistair's remaining hanging.
"Maker's Breath!" he gasped.
"This is your room, Warden Alistair," the seneschal smugly declared. He did so like it when visitors admired his master's domain. Bann Ceorlic's taste was unequalled, even by those of greater wealth and station. "The bathing room is that door down the hall."
After her initial shock, Bronwyn carefully schooled her face to show polite appreciation. This guest room was nicer than her own bedchamber at home! Far nicer, and far more luxurious. Morrigan's room was equally handsome, and she wondered how many gorgeous bedchambers the manor boasted. Morrigan's face was absolutely blank as she walked into the room assigned and shut the door behind her.
"And this is yours, my lady. I hope it meets with your approval."
"Very nice indeed. A paradise of comfort after the camp at Ostagar, I assure you."
"I shall have the servants retrieve your luggage and lay out your gown for dinner."
"Actually, I'm traveling light at the moment, and shall simply wear the breeches and jerkin I brought."
"If you prefer, my lady, Lady Rosalyn left behind a number of her gowns on her departure for the townhouse in Denerim. They are last year's fashion, but perhaps something would suit."
Well, why not?
"What a pleasant idea. Do so, by all means. My thanks."
"There is a small parlor across the hall. My lord prefers it for its privacy. You may find it a comfortable place to sit with your friends. I shall have a fire lit for you, my lady."
He left, and Bronwyn could explore her new chamber without let or hindrance. Andraste's Nightgown! Mother would have been appalled by the extravagance displayed. Of course, not all of it was new: the current bann's father had been a notorious Orlesian collaborator, and had clearly done well by it. King Maric had shown the son great mercy in allowing him to inherit the bannorn.
The room was fully paneled with varnished walnut, rich and dark. The bed was wide, long, and high, and the carved posts were thick as tree trunks. The bedcovers and window hangings were of mossy green velvet, and the coverlet and pillows stuffed with down. The little table by the bed was carved in the form of a flower, and supported a silver double candlestick and wax candles—not tallow tapers. There was a corner fireplace with a cushioned chair and footstool set demurely before it.
She was provided with a polished vanity and bench, and the mirror of the vanity was Tevinter silver-backed glass, and not polished metal. The armoire was a splendid piece of Nevarran silkwood, fragrant and capacious. There was a little traveling desk on the vanity, filled with parchment and ink and quills and sealing wax, and every possible little luxury. The mullioned windows opened out over the garden, and a rich scent of musk roses and gillyflowers rose up to greet her. Scout trotted over to pick up the smells, whuffed dismissively, and then found a comfortable corner for sprawling.
Bronwyn was filthy from travel, and decided to find the bathroom at once, if only to clean her hands and face before dinner.
"Stay here, Scout. I'll be back in a minute."
Not a sound emerged from her companion's rooms, as Bronwyn sought the designated door. She opened it, and her jaw dropped once more. Gingerly, she reached out to touch items that her father had told her of when he returned from Orlais: a wash basin of painted porcelain, with taps that would allow water—either cold or hot—to pour in with a mere touch. There was a commode, also of porcelain, of the design that allowed one to pull a chain to dispose of the waste down a copper pipe. The bath was a lovely thing of tin, extravagantly enameled in malachite green and deep lapis blue, also with taps for hot and cold water. There were soft and thick towels on a shelf, and all manner of soaps and oils in easy reach. There was a sheepskin rug on the floor, warm and soft.
She had never seen such a bathroom, herself, and was shocked to imagine what it had cost to buy the items and install the pipes and boiler to run it. That did not prevent her from washing her face and hands with a lavish amount of the scented soap provided. There was a little mirror above the basin, and after getting a look at herself she washed her face again, rather embarrassed at the amount of grime that was flowing down the drain. Another scrub, and she got at the bit of dried blood that was crusted in her ear. Why had Morrigan not told her she was walking about with darkspawn blood on her?
There was noise through the wall, and when Bronwyn stepped out, she saw servants busily at work in the room next to the bath, feeding a fire under a huge water boiler. As Bronwyn had guessed, the water for the boiler was piped from above—probably a cistern on the roof to catch the rain. The servants bowed to her, and one assured her that "there will be plenty of hot water by this evening, my lady!"
She could not resist having a look into Bann Ceorlic's private parlor, and it was even more than she expected. The floor was not stone, but polished, inlaid wood, covered with silken rugs. It was stuffed to excess with upholstered, cushioned furniture in the Orlesian style. It was quite impossible to conceive of sitting on any of it in her dirty chainmail. She stepped hastily away, and found that other servants were arriving with their gear. One carried a large cushion and a folded sheepskin.
"For your hound, my lady," the servant explained. Bronwyn bit back an incredulous laugh. Scout had a blanket of his own at home, but a cushion?
Taking a moment to direct them to the right rooms, she knocked at Morrigan's door, and almost jumped when Morrigan opened it instantly. The young witch was attempting to be inscrutable, but failing. The silken beauty of her surroundings had clearly made an impression. A servant brought in her packs, bowed, and left.
Bronwyn smiled. "You must see the bathroom. It's all fitted up in the latest Orlesian fashion, and it's amazing. The seneschal is sending up a servant with some of Lady Rosalyn's gowns. I'm to pick one to wear to dinner. Why don't you join me? It would keep your own gown clean for a later occasion."
Morrigan was silent a moment more, and then shrugged. "Amusing, I suppose. Let us see this 'bathroom,' first, then."
Dinner was sumptuous, and the three of them, splendid in borrowed and somewhat ill-fitting finery, sat long over it. Scout played with a meaty bone in front of the fire: he had already raided the larder, Bronwyn was told. The seneschal apologized for the simplicity of the meal: the bann's Orlesian head cook had traveled north with his master. Only a small staff was left at the manor to maintain it against the bann's return, and to serve the guests who came their way.
After they retired to the privacy of the little parlor, Alistair remarked, "A man who knows what he likes."
Morrigan smoothed the red velvet of her gown, studying the play of light on the folds of the skirt. "And who has the coin required. 'Tis all the better for us, at any rate."
"You would hardly know we're at war," Bronwyn agreed. "There are almost no guards here: only servants. Rurik told me that the bann and his lady took a strong party of his men to Denerim with them. The rest were sent south to the army with a captain. His sons are in the Free Marches—" she smirked at her companions "—for their education. The usual excuse when someone wants either to hide their children's disgrace or protect them from danger. Not particularly admirable."
"You can't say he's not contributing the war effort!" Alistair grinned. "He's providing us with previously unknown luxury. Unknown to me, at least! I imagine Highever Castle is much grander."
"Ha!" Bronwyn shook her head. "My father has expenses other than his own pleasures. We'd have to drill tunnels through stone walls ten feet thick to put in water pipes like Bann Ceorlic's. Let's enjoy it while we can. I, for one, can't wait to wash my hair!"
A soapy scrub for a bemused Scout, leaving him smelling like a field of meadowsweet. Then for her a hot bath; essence of apple-blossom in her freshly washed hair; a dressing gown of silk brocade; a servant girl to comb out the tangles in front of a crackling fire; her ragged nails trimmed; a clean nightgown of the finest linen laid out on the bed for her: Bronwyn had never felt so pampered, even when she was a child. It was pleasant, but it also made her feel a little guilty. How could she be enjoying herself, when the soldiers at Ostagar were living on porridge and stale bread? When Duncan was dead and ashes? When her parents were gone and their murderer unpunished?
She sighed, and dismissed the servant. Sitting at the vanity, she took out some parchment from the lap desk, and began a letter to Fergus.
"My lord brother—or silly old Fergus, as you prefer—"
She had decided that he would know everything: so she filled the letter with the events of the past two days. The letter would not be sent until she left the Circle, and had real news, but it would calm her own mind to think through her adventures on a daily basis.
"I can see why Father used to roll his eyes at the mention of Bann Ceorlic. Such a sybarite the man is! My bedchamber boasts lavish and entirely undeserved comfort, but it all pales in comparison to the bathroom—"
Detailing its wonders kept her up until her hair was nearly dry, and she could braid it neatly for the night. It was dark: even the moon had set, and the flickering light of the candles swam before her tired eyes. Scout was already curled up and dreaming on his ridiculous cushion. Slipping into the wide bed, she found it just as soft as she had hoped…
This is the Fade. She has been here before, and will no doubt be here again.
Darkspawn grunt and squeal and shit, crouching by huge fires. Bronwyn is dressed in her delicate white nightgown, walking barefoot amongst them, but they take no notice. She is one of them, and they are one with her. The foul reek permeates into her very flesh and flows through her veins. At a crude forge, a bent figure is hammering out blades. It is a human—or was: his eyes dull, his face blotched with taint, his craftsmanship listless and slovenly. He is becoming useless for work, and will soon be good only for meat. He will not care. The caring bit left his mind long ago.
Heads on poles line the tunnel—heads of humans and heads of dwarves. They are half-flayed and eyeless. Bronwyn is deep in the Dead Trenches. The words mean nothing and everything to her. She has never heard of them before and she has always known them. This is home: this is her destiny.
Far away sounds a voice of infinite beauty: a wise voice and a terrible. It is the Old God Urthemiel, now perverted and incarnate as the Archdemon. The God of Beauty is their God now: its voice sweeter than any before it, fairer even the mighty First, the God Dumat. Their God will lead them up into the sunlit lands, to kill and eat, to take what is theirs back into the dark places. The exquisite voice sings out its commands, and far away a woman's voice screams in counterpoint. They are doing what must be done, what they have always done, and it is good…
The Dead Trenches recede, and Bronwyn is in a room she knows well. This is a real dream, a recurring dream, and not a bloodtaint vision, then. Her body relaxes, sinking into the familiar.
She is sitting on an embroidered footstool by the fire, brushing out her hair, waiting for him. Rain is falling, water sheeting the mullioned windows. A sweet sound: a sound that the warmth of the fire transforms into the music of safety and comfort.
He enters, fierce and shining as a falling star. His eyes seek out Bronwyn, sitting by the fire, and she waits for his gaze to soften, as it does only for her.
Instead, he strides forward and grasps her wrist, caring nothing for her pain. He drags her to the wide writing table, and he slaps down the papers in front of her. His eyes are icy shards of anger and suspicion. His mouth is moving, calling her spy and traitor…
And the hurlock gibbers, its face inches from hers…
"Ugh!" Bronwyn woke, staring up at the dim velvet canopy above. "Dream," she mumbled, and turned over, instantly forgetting it all. "Bad dream…"
When her eyes opened again, the canopy was green as young leaves. She winced at the brightness and lay back on the down pillows.
She was in a real bed, in a real bedchamber, and pale yellow sunshine was streaming through real windows. In fact, she was in a fabulous bed, in a gorgeous bedchamber. There was no reason for her to rise early, and no one was currently threatening to kill her. She could laze here, and if she were very, very bad, she could summon a servant and have her breakfast brought to her on a tray, like horrible old Aunt Luvinia.
"I'm not that far gone," she groaned.
Scout whined and came over to press his nose against her arm.
Time for you to get up and for me to go out.
"Yes, I know. I'm up. See me getting up." They would move on today, but there was no reason to leave until they were well rested. A good breakfast for humans and beasts, and then back to the Imperial Highway.
A soft knock at the door.
"Who is it?" she called blearily.
"It's Kara, my lady. The seneschal sent me to tell you breakfast would be ready soon, and to help you dress."
"Come in, then."
It was the same servant who had seen to her last night. Nice little thing. At Highever, Bronwyn was expected to be able to dress herself. Kara came in, a bundle of linen in her arm. Scout dodged past her, paws pattering down the stairs, eager to mark out the garden as his own.
"I have your laundry done, my lady."
"Oh. Good." That was right. The girl had taken her shirts and small clothes with her last night. She must have washed them and let them dry overnight. A hint of lavender drifted through the room.
And then she rose early to iron it all. I must thank her with silver before I go.
She stumbled to the bathroom, and returned to find Kara ready with her best shirt and her Warden's tunic.
"What's that noise below?" she asked. "Is it Market Day here?"
"No, my lady," the girl told her, wide-eyed. "Some freeholders have come to seek audience with you. The seneschal bade them wait until you had your breakfast."
"Very well," Bronwyn sighed. It was now most unlikely she would be leaving Lothering that day. She had better have something to eat, because dealing with the freeholders might take some time.
Alistair, she discovered, was already downstairs and eating his way through the feast provided. Morrigan had breakfasted early, and was reading in the library. Bronwyn decided that she wanted to make a good impression, and put on her armor and her tunic over it. Then she went down for a quick meal. Her hair, wavy from last night's braiding, she would wear down, for there was no time to arrange it.
"Your adoring public awaits," Alistair smirked at her, filling the last empty places with a snack of dried cherries. "They began arriving just after dawn, I'm told."
"Get your armor on," she warned him. "We need to make a decent appearance."
A bowl of porridge later, she told the seneschal to move the table and benches out of the way, and show their visitors in. Scout loped back to her, all the better for a visit outside. Morrigan, grand once again in red velvet (Bronwyn suspected she would wear it until they were actually leaving), strolled in to see the show.
"Both of you should enter with me, and stand by the High Seat," Bronwyn said to her companions. An audience was nothing new. Father had made her sit by him on his regular First Day and Twelfth Day appearances since she was old enough to understand what was going on. He was Lord of High, Middle, and Low Justice in Highever, and hearing lawsuits and criminal cases had taken much of his time. When he was away, Mother had undertaken the duty, and it had been interesting to see how differently she judged. Lothering was an unknown place, of course, and no doubt would have its share of surprises.
The four of them waited at the top of the stairs, until the Seneschal's voice rang out.
"People of Lothering: Lady Bronwyn Cousland, Grey Warden of Ferelden!"
Alistair snorted a laugh at the pomp of it all, and Bronwyn elbowed him.
"Do try to make a stab at dignity, Alistair," Morrigan said, her voice acid with reproof. "No matter how it pains you."
Bronwyn thought that their entrance was effective. The Hall was filled to bursting with farm folk, with villagers, with a pair of well-dressed surface dwarves who must surely be traders, with some ragged refugees. The Chantry was represented as well, with three Templars and a clutch of priests, including the young redheaded sister from the tavern.
Bronwyn was ready with some words of thanks for their kind welcome, but never said them, for even before she could take the High Seat, pandemonium broke out.
"—Are the darkspawn coming?"
"—Is it true all the other Wardens were killed?"
"—Are the Orlesians invading?"
"—What about my crops, then?"
"—You're the Girl Warden, aren't you?"
Father would never have permitted an audience to get so out of control. Bronwyn raised her hand and shouted, "Silence!" Alistair unslung his shield, and banged the hilt of his sword against it until the noise subsided.
"Now," Bronwyn said calmly into the uneasy quiet. "I am here, and I will answer your questions as best I may. Yes, I am indeed the Grey Warden Bronwyn. I was at Ostagar for the battle, as was Warden Alistair here. By the Maker's favor, by the valor of our King Cailan, and by the wisdom of Teyrn Loghain it was a great victory for Ferelden. Sadly, yes: the other Wardens were killed. Our victory has stemmed the darkspawn movement north, but we must all be vigilant."
An anxious man—a farmer from the dirt on his boots—called out, "I heard the King sent for the Orlesians. Are they coming back to take over?"
The noise in the hall threatened to burst forth again. Bronwyn raised her voice.
"The Orlesians are not coming in force. Some Orlesian Grey Wardens may eventually join in our struggle against the Blight, but that is because Grey Wardens fight darkspawn wherever they are. The Empress has indeed offered the services of her chevaliers, but Teyrn Loghain does not deem that necessary or advisable at this time."
"I'll just wager he don't!" one village woman shouted, and laughter rippled through the room.
Bronwyn raised her hand again, and smiled tolerantly.
"What about the bandits, now?" another man complained. "Why don't the Templars do something about them—and the wolves and spiders, too?"
A tall, dark-skinned Templar looked harassed. "Hunting beasts and bandits is not the mission of the Chantry—"
"Why not?" shrilled a woman. "You've got swords and that fancy armor! Seems like you do nought but stand around all day, safe in the Chantry! I heard that Girl Warden there—" she pointed at Bronwyn in a very impertinent way "—wasn't here an hour before she chased a gang of the rascals away. Why can't the Templars do the like?"
The Chantry contingent bristled, and Bronwyn asked, "Do you not have a village militia to deal with these things? Who is your mayor?"
The seneschal intervened, somewhat embarrassed. "There is no mayor of Lothering. Bann Ceorlic prefers to manage these affairs directly."
"Well," Bronwyn asked, "who was delegated to lead in his absence?"
That raised more noise. The upshot was that the bann had departed, leaving no instructions for the defense of his bannorn whatever, other than guards to protect his personal manor. Bronwyn fought to keep her face impassive, but was shocked at such indifference to the safety of his own people. If her cousin Arl Bryland were told of this, he might be able to sway a number of the freeholders to his own vassalage. She knew that South Reach was not so carelessly looked after.
She silenced the noise once more. "It's clear that you must have a militia, and that you need someone to lead it—"
"Could you not stay, my lady?" an old man pleaded. "I'm sure we'd all be honored to have you lead us."
Another outburst of anxious, eager voices.
"I cannot." Bronwyn shook her head. "I am on my way north on a vital mission. However—" she shouted, to quell the disappointment. "I can stay long enough to help you organize yourselves for your own defense. We are Fereldans!" she urged, seeing the doubting faces about her. "We're not cowed Orlesian serfs, waiting for our masters to decide what's best for us. Teyrn Loghain didn't chase the chevaliers out of our country by staying on his farm, waiting for someone else to do the job! He saw what needed to be done, and he did it!"
"Well..."muttered one man. "He is a Hero, after all."
Bronwyn interrupted him ruthlessly. "—And he didn't do it alone! He had people just like you and me who stood with him. And we won. Now I want to see every fit man and woman at noon in the field across from the Chantry. That means everyone who isn't pregnant or doesn't have children who can't be looked after by someone else for a few hours a day. We'll muster for a weapon-showing and you can choose a leader: a strong and fair man or woman you trust. It doesn't have to be the best warrior, but he or she should have good sense. And some of you older folk might have served in the last war. We could use your advice. You're more than welcome to join us."
"My lady—" a dark-haired young woman asked, biting her lip. "Some of us aren't trained to arms like you. What can we do?"
"Can you ring a bell?" Bronwyn asked her.
"I—I—well—"
"If you can ring a bell, you can take a turn at watch in one of the towers or up in the mill. You should have people there all the time, and then your militia can deal with trouble before it's on you. The river is a natural barrier and that should protect you as far as the bridge—"
"There's spiders down by the river," a man objected. "Spiders and bears and more of them bandits."
"And wolves!" added another voice from the back.
"What a pack of children!" sneered Morrigan, softly in Bronwyn's ear. "Explain to me why you are trying so desperately to pretend they are not?"
"Children grow up," Bronwyn whispered back. "And these had better grow up soon, or they'll die." Aloud she shouted, "Very well! I and my companions will have a look at these spiders and bears and...whatever. And we'll kill them, and at noon I want to see all of you so I can tell you about it!"
"What if we don't have a weapon?" whined another man. He was one of those idiots Bronwyn had seen gossiping outside the tavern.
"I see a thumping great knife right there on your belt! If you have a knife, you have a pike. You must have a carpenter in this town. I want him to bring some poles to the muster, and someone else should bring rope or leather cording. They'll be paid, never fear. Now I'm off to do battle. Someone point us at these blasted bandits, for Maker's sake!"
They could not leave instantly. Morrigan had to change from red velvet to black leather, Alistair fetched their helmets and bows, and Bronwyn remained to talk with the persistent questioners. Scout, of course, was perfect just as he was.
The dark-skinned Templar introduced himself as Ser Bryant, Knight-Commander of the Lothering Chantry. He seemed a pleasant and cooperative enough man, and he hoped that Bronwyn would be paying a visit to the Revered Mother before her departure.
"Of course I shall, Ser Bryant. I should be most grateful for her blessing on our enterprise. I hope to be there before the weapon-showing, or certainly after. Do you have any information about these local nuisances before I go out in pursuit?"
Not really, it appeared. Privately, Bronwyn sympathized with the villagers. The Templars were one of the best-armed forces in all Ferelden, and they had done exactly nothing to assist their country in its time of greatest danger. No: that was not true—they had sent two Templars to stand guard over seven mages at Ostagar, but she had not heard that they engaged in the battle personally. Their task, she gathered, was to kill those mages if they showed any signs of demonic possession or blood magic.
It was all very well to fight mages-turned-abominations, but those cases were few and far between, and Bronwyn was not convinced that all mages that refused to be caged in the Circle were mortal dangers. Their numbers were too small, and they did not rampage about the country, eating people. Morrigan had proved herself a friend, and even Flemeth was not dangerous in the way a single hurlock could be.
However, there was nothing to be gained by antagonizing this man, who seemed well-disposed enough toward her.
She headed to the door, trying to get past all the well-wishers, when she found the red-headed sister standing in front of her, blue eyes wide, words tumbling from her in a torrent.
"I was so glad when I heard the Grey Wardens were here in Lothering! You are sworn to fight the darkspawn, yes? I know that after what happened at Ostagar you'll need all the help you can get! That's why I'm coming along."
"Ah." Bronwyn raised her brows, and noticed a pair of older sisters rolling their eyes at each other. Was there something wrong with this young woman? Other than her speech, which was odd…
She asked, "Why are you so eager to come with me?"
Quite seriously, the sister answered, "The Maker told me to."
One of the older sisters broke in, and tried to pull the young woman away. "Come, Sister Leliana. Excuse her, Warden, she is a little…" there was a quick, explicit gesture to her head.
Sister Leliana jerked her arm free, and pleaded with Bronwyn. "I know that sounds insane, but what you do—what you are meant to do, is the Maker's work. Let me help."
Bronwyn shot the smirking older women a cool look. This girl was the first person she had met since she left Ostagar who had actually offered to help, rather than demand something for herself. She did not deserve mockery.
"I very much appreciate your offer. Never doubt that. I hope that you will remember me in your prayers. There is so much you can do for the people here. I can only offer you danger and hardship, and in fact I must be off now to fight."
Alistair arrived, and they slapped on their helmets and took bows with them as well as their swords. Alistair had confessed that he was no sort of archer at all—"not something we're trained for in the Templars"—but Bronwyn had insisted he take the crossbow that had belonged to Hayward of Ayesleigh, in order to have a ranged weapon. Morrigan stalked proudly down the stairs in her revealing Wilder garments, ignoring the whispers of admiration or disapproval.
Bronwyn nodded to her companions. "Let's go," and glanced at the red-headed girl, who was arguing with her fellow sisters in angry whispers.
As Bronwyn stepped outside, the girl broke away, trying to follow, calling out, "But I can fight! I can do more than fight! I put all that behind me when I came here, but if it is the Maker's will, I will take it up again, gladly. Let me help you!"
The girl's speech…the accent... Bronwyn scowled. An Orlesian! Here in Lothering!
"It cannot be," Bronwyn said firmly. "I will say no more."
It seemed half the village was following them—not to help, of course, but to gawk. Well, if they wanted a show, they'd get one. They had been eager enough to give directions to the camp of the local bandits.
It was all too scandalously easy. The bandits were few, and no match for heavily armed warriors accompanied by a mage and a mabari. Morrigan froze them, Alistair smashed them down with his shield, Bronwyn slashed their throats, and Scout shredded them. A few more appeared out of the trees, and two of those ran away, escaping north on the Highway. The others foolishly tried to support their fellows. One had a huge maul that would have flattened Bronwyn, had she obligingly stood still.
She did not. She danced in, too close for the maul to be of use, and the man slumped backwards, spurting blood, His friend rushed forward to avenge him, and Bronwyn thrust low, arm extended, and ran him through. He must be the last, for from the safety of the mill, there were shouts and applause, celebrating the Wardens' victory. Alistair grimaced at her.
"They could have done this for themselves, you know."
"Oooh!" cried Morrigan in mock horror. "But that would have been dangerous!"
The only person within fifty yards was the crazy Orlesian Chantry sister, who was marching in their direction, pretty face set in determined lines. She was wearing a big dagger in a harness over her right shoulder. It looked very odd, contrasting with the soft colors of her demure long robes.
"Stop!" Bronwyn called to her. "You'll get hurt!"
Morrigan shrugged. "What harm can she do? Perhaps she will be useful as bait for the bears."
"Now that's just mean," Alistair said.
They set off along the river, looking for the lair they had been told of. Behind them, Sister Leliana was rummaging through the corpses of the bandits, apparently with some success. She now had a longbow and a quiver added to her weaponry. Bronwyn shook her head, and decided to let the poor girl be.
Bows were a good starting point with the bears. Bronwyn wished she had a boar spear with her, but with Morrigan's help they were dispatched fairly quickly. A few arrows that were not their own found the bears' vulnerable spots. Bronwyn looked behind and gave the Chantry sister a nod. Sister Leliana was a good shot.
"Now the spiders," Bronwyn said grimly. "They're south of here. A hole in one of those hills, they said."
"Isn't it lunchtime yet?" Alistair complained. "Haven't we already slain our share this morning? Don't we get a break for tea?"
"Very funny. Spiders first. Then tea."
"How many do you suppose there are—oh—that's wonderful!"
"Those are—really big spiders," Bronwyn agreed.
They might have had some trouble without Morrigan's ability to slow the creatures. They were each as long as Bronwyn was tall, and they were aggressive and vicious. Sister Leliana kept up a steady rain of arrows from her position behind them. Bronwyn pulled her sword from one of the distended abdomens, and was suddenly knocked down from behind.
She kicked out, scrambling around onto her back, dodging the pincers. Her sword was too long, but she stabbed upward with her dagger, wincing at the shrill, alien shriek. It was hairy and heavy and it stank, and she could hear Alistair shouting as he tried to hack it apart it without killing Bronwyn in the process.
Another shriek, and the spider shivered violently and was still.
"Get this bastard off me, Alistair," Bronwyn snarled. The filthy creature was pushed away, and she looked up to see Leliana standing nearby, wiping her blade.
"I can fight," she repeated simply.
"So it would seem," Bronwyn agreed. "Where does a sister learn to fight that like that?"
A dimpling smile. "I wasn't born in the Chantry, you know."
Bronwyn studied her a moment, then asked abruptly. "When did you come from Orlais?"
"Oh!" Leliana looked at her uneasily. "I am a native of Ferelden. At least my mother was. I wanted to return to my homeland, and I have been at Lothering Chantry for the past two years."
"Two years?" Bronwyn would check that out. It seemed very odd—very peculiar—that the first person to offer to help them was so obviously Orlesian.
The girl pleaded, "I loved my quiet life in the Chantry, but what you are doing is so much more important. So—will you let me help you?"
Morrigan, busily at work removing the spiders' poison sacs with a sharp knife, looked at Bronwyn and shrugged.
Kindhearted Alistair put in a word. "She does have skill, even if she seems a little—strange. I vote to let her come along."
"Alistair," Bronwyn whispered in his ear. "She's one Archdemon short of a Blight."
"Yes," he agreed, "But she's more 'Ooh! Pretty colors!' than 'Muahaha! I am Princess Stabbity-Stab. Kill! Kill!'"
Bronwyn stared at him. "Ye-es," she said. "I suppose you have a point. Well—Sister Leliana—"
"Just Leliana—I have not taken my vows. I am only Affirmed as a lay sister."
"All right, then. Leliana. Welcome to our company. Tell me, are you asking to become a Grey Warden, or are you just asking to help us?"
"Oh!" The pretty face puzzled over that. "I think just to help you. But if I need to be a Grey Warden to do that, I would not refuse."
"You don't—yet. I was just wondering. And another thing: you can't go about with us in your Chantry robes, you know."
"Oh, I have some—things—I have kept from my life before the Chantry. When we get back to the village I will get them from my chest and put them on again. It has been a long time, but I am ready."
Note: There aren't as many bandits in the area in my story as there are in-game. The large number of canon bandits are probably mostly soldiers fleeing the disaster at Ostagar, who have turned bandit to survive. Since in my story Ostagar was a victory, there haven't been as many deserters.
Thank you, Bioware, for your wonderful dialogue.
Thanks to my reviewers: bioncafemme, Shining Girl, Deviate Fish, Zyanic, Angry Girl, Sarah1281, mille libri, phoenixandashes, piceron, Amhran Comhrac, Eva Galana, khaos974, ByLanternLight, sleepyowlet, zabiGG, kitza, Shakespira, almostinsane, Cobar713, Carnie Heart, and sadness. You are all very kind and helpful.