Victory at Ostagar:
Chapter 22: The Last of the Paragons
Raucous, animal, mindless: the shattering scream of the Broodmother gave notice that whatever this creature might once have been, it was now a monster.
"Stinks worse than a cesspit," Oghren grunted, just before a massive tentacle shot out of the ground and slammed him against the wall of the cavern.
Horribly startled, Bronwyn ducked away from another tentacle, and nearly tripped backwards onto the vile and spongy floor. The strands, the ropy matter they had seen before, it was all the Broodmother. So were these tree-like tentacles, suddenly bursting out of the floor, flailing at them, smashing them down. They were tough as dragonthorn, hard as whitewood. The warriors hewed at them with the swords, with just about the same effect as they would have had in cutting down a tree. Oghren, with his massive axe, stumbled toward one of them, half-dazed. The tentacle wriggled, and he struck at it with a bellow and a two-handed blow, biting deep.
Bronwyn saw only the Broodmother's bloated body. There were the shriveled useless arms, the tiny, distorted head...
Kill the head, and the body dies.
"Freeze it!" she shouted to Tara. "Freeze that thing! Morrigan! Lock it down!"
She was fast: she had always been fast. She could dart past the sweeping tentacles and close with the creature. The feeble, atrophied arms held no weapons, the slack, mindless face hid no clever tactics. "Follow me!" she shouted.
"I'm with you, Boss!" Brosca yelped, and pounded after her.
Bronwyn dodged the thick, stumpy tentacles nearest the gross bulk of the creature. She vaulted up, clambering on the doughy grey flesh, pulling herself up toward the lolling head. Her boot slipped, and she dug a dagger into the screaming Broodmother to give herself purchase. Down below, Scout's jaws closed on a massive grey nipple. Bronwyn grimaced in disgust.
Up closer, the arms did not look so impotent: the bony fingers ended in claws that sliced out, ripping at a leather strap. Zevran was beneath her, stabbing into the body, defeated by the massive layer of fat protecting the creature's vitals. Brosca used her daggers to scramble up, and was suddenly flung away by a grasping tentacle.
Bronwyn glanced to see if the dwarf was all right, and then turned back to face the Broodmother. She had attained eye-level with the monster now, and stared deep into the red and rheumy eyes. The Broodmother opened her mouth, almost as if she meant to speak. Bronwyn paused in mid-stab. In a flash, she wondered if she was wrong, and it was possible to communicate with this creature.
And then the mouthful of poisoned spit hit her full in the face.
She saw that thick gobbet of phlegm, green as early apples and young leaves, for a split-second, before she saw nothing else. She shrieked, her eyes on fire, her face on fire. Fire raged red before her. She groped for the Broodmother's face, stabbing, ever stabbing. She scissored her sword and dagger against something that might be the flabby neck, and she gritted her teeth at the feel of bone and cartilage parting. More wet slime sprayed on her, hot and viscous. The Broodmother's howls become guttural, choked on her own blood. Bronwyn stabbed the thing again and again, and felt it weakening.
A lull, and a gasp of relief. She tried to wipe her eyes with the back of her gauntlet, but she was still blind. The Broodmother shuddered and grunted as if deflating. Bronwyn's grip slackened, as she took a deep breath.
Then she shrieked again as a claw ripped down her face, tearing the skin away. There was a horrible moment of cold air on bone, and she was falling, landing hard on solid rock. Scout howled, and Zevran swore in Antivan.
"Finish her!" Morrigan was raging nearby, her magic crackling wildly. "Finish her!"
Hacking sounds, the noise of blades on butchered meat echoed wetly. The Broodmother uttered a long moan and was silent as last. It all barely registered on Bronwyn. Zevran was dragging her away, one hand holding her face together. There were screams when people saw her, and Anders shouting, pushing everyone aside.
"Maker's blood! Put her there. Elevate her head a bit. Yes, thanks, Tara! Lie still, Bronwyn. Let me have a look at you."
Sheer pain made it difficult to speak, difficult to think. Bronwyn trembled on the cold stone, her head in Tara's lap. Scout whined, driving Bronwyn in a panic.
"Is Scout all right? Is he hurt? Tell me!"
Alistair was murmuring in her ear, his voice thick. "Scout's fine, Bronwyn! Just a little scratch. He's already healed. Don't try to talk-"
"Hold her still!" Anders snapped. "Here! Sten! Help hold her!"
Huge hard hands grasped her on either side of her skull. Someone was sitting on her legs. Disembodied hands held her wrists. Panic swelled, bursting out of her in a shriek.
"Yell all you want," Anders said to her. "That might help. I've got to clean this wound before I can heal it. It's going to hurt a lot."
"It already hurts a lot," Bronwyn choked, swallowing sour bile, swimming in nausea. She screamed as something ripped her face away again. Scout whimpered pitifully, and then growled. Anders muttered, "Quit it, you bloody mutt, I'm trying to help her. Sit down by her so she can feel you. That might calm her down a little."
Massive doggy warmth curled against her side. The musty canine smell of Scout drifted up to her, reassuring and familiar. Faint and far off, she heard sobbing, and Morrigan scolding someone.
"Be quiet, fool! Tears are useless."
"Is the Boss going to die?' That was Brosca, sounding scared.
With terrible calm, Sten asked, "Will she be blind?"
"Shut up! Everybody just shut up!" Anders' shout was warm on Bronwyn's face. "She's not going to die! That's not going to happen!" He added, a little more uncertainly, "And she won't be blind... Just shut up and let me work!"
A silence more dreadful than clamoring panic blanketed Bronwyn's world. There was now only Anders' ragged breathing; scrapes of boots on stone; an occasional grunt from one of her captors, Scout's quick, anxious pants. Cold water splashing in her face made her whimper. Anders pried her eyelids open and bathed the sightless orbs. Bronwyn tried to imagine that the lights had gone out and everyone was as in the dark as she, but that illusion was spoiled when Anders said, "A little more light, Morrigan. Cullen: hold the torch a bit higher so I don't cast a shadow."
She moaned when a white-hot seam of fire scorched down her face, around her eye.
"You're doing fine, Bronwyn," Anders murmured. "I am the best, remember? You're still going to make all the other noble ladies jealous with that face of yours."
"What's wrong with her eyes?"
"Brosca! Shut up and stand back. Now." Anders' voice grew soothing. "Your eyes were irritated by the poison, Bronwyn. That's why you can't see right now. I'm going to cast several layers of healing spells on your eyes, and then I'm going to close and immobilize them. We'll put a bandage over them, with a poultice to ease the pain. It will take some hours to work, so maybe we should get some rest and eat something."
"The Healer speaks sense," Sten rumbled.
There was a pause, and a longer pause. Bronwyn longed to see what was going on, but Anders was murmuring strange words, and her eyes felt sore and heavy, as if they had turned to heated stones inside her skull. She bit back a cowardly whimper.
"Right," Alistair said at last. "Oghren: keep watch at the mouth of the tunnel over there. Brosca, the other side. There doesn't seem to be any other way darkspawn can get at us. Morrigan and Leliana, get a fire going with whatever you can."
Anders's hands were gentle as he pressed a damp poultice over her eyes, and bound it round and round with a linen bandage.
"You can let go of her now," he told the rest, and Bronwyn sighed with relief as her legs and arms were released. Sten removed his hands from her head, careful not to jar her.
"Thank you all for your help," she said softly.
Zevran's lighthearted voice came from somewhere near her feet.
"Anything for a chance to get closer to you, Fair and Noble One."
Bronwyn smiled, and smiled again as she caught the scent of the poultice on her eyes. It had a musky, flowery fragrance that recalled the gardens of Highever: roses and feverfew and yellow madcap. She forced herself to slow her breathing. Scout pressed closer, and she groped out, smoothing his short, silky coat. A wet tongue licked her jaw.
"It's all right, boy," she whispered. "I'm all right now."
Tara brushed Bronwyn's hair back. "Anders," she asked "Can Bronwyn have some water?"
He nodded, and then remembering that Bronwyn could not see him, said, "Yes. Would you like some water, Bronwyn?'
"Thank you," she managed. "That would be very nice."
Cool, with a heavy mineral tang like all water they had found in the Deep Roads: it soothed her throat and calmed her somewhat. "I need to talk to Alistair, Call him over here."
"Alistair!" Tara's clear voice rose of the hum of conversation and activity. "Bronwyn wants you."
A familiar tread, a crunch of boots, the creak of leather and the clank of metal as he crouched down by her. "I'm here, Bronwyn."
"Alone," she said. "I need to speak to him alone. Just for a little while."
Most of the companions were not surprised to hear Alistair start shouting.
"Absolutely not!" he protested. "How can you even imagine I'd do that?"
Sten and Zevran looked at each other. Zevran blew out a breath. "Would he be able to do it, do you think?"
Sten frowned, and considered the matter. "No. He would not. She would have to order someone else to. It is the logical decision if she is blind, but he is not a logical man. I would not relish the duty, but I would follow orders, as a soldier must."
"And I swore to be her man, without reservation," Zevran mused. "It would be ironic beyond measure if I left the Crows to follow her, only to kill her at last."
At first hesitating, the companions came back when Alistair waved to them, and then began crowding around their fallen leader.
"Is there anything you would like, Bronwyn?" Leliana asked, hovering. "Anything we can do for you? Anything at all?"
"You could try not harassing her with your useless sympathy!" Morrigan suggested.
"I would like not to think about myself," Bronwyn said quietly. "I would like to be distracted. Could I hear a story, do you think?"
"That's a great idea!" Alistair seized on the suggestion. "Tara, it's your turn. Are you ready? If you aren't-"
"Stories?" Oghren asked, nonplussed. "She wants to hear a story at a time like this?"
Brosca gave him a shove. She whispered. "It's a thing they do. Everybody tells a story. Shut up and pay attention."
The group settled down to listen, and those on guard sat a little further off to keep their eyes on the possible points of attack.
"Wait!" said Tara. "Let me think! Uh-yes. Yes. I've got one, but it's going to sound stupid," she apologized. "I can't remember any grand epics or noble romances right now. The only story I can think of is one I learned when I was a very little girl."
"From your mother?" asked Alistair.
Tara shook her head. "I suppose other people have family to tell them stories, but I don't remember my family at all, so they don't count. I can't remember anything before the Circle. When I arrived I was very, very young, and I made a friend who was a little older than I was. He knew how to read, and I didn't. In a corner of the library, on a low, low shelf, he found a thin little book of children's stories, and he read them all to me, over and over. This is the one I liked the best, because it's about friendship and about magic, and about how both can save us. It's the story of Sparrow the Elf Child."
Tara's story of Sparrow the Elf Child
Long ago, in the days when the elves of the Dales fell to the Exalted Marches, there was a human lord who lived with his little son in a remote castle.
One day, when the lord was out hunting, he heard a strange cry. He followed the sound and at last came to a big tree where a little elf child was sitting on a high branch. The child was trembling and covered in blood, and the lord guessed that this elf child had escaped the slaughter of her clan. The lord was a kindly man, and he said, "I will protect this child, and bring her up with my little Roland."
So he took her home to his castle, and the two children were brought up together like brother and sister. The foundling was called Sparrow, because she had been found in a tree like a little bird. Roland and Sparrow were very fond of each other and could not bear to be out of the other's sight.
But the lord had a younger brother, who was secretly envious, and all he thought of, all day long, were ways to get his hands on his brother's lands. When the lord had to go to Lydes, he left his brother in charge of the castle, and made him swear to look after the two children. And so he rode away.
Sparrow was very small, and very good at hiding, and the day after the lord left for town she overheard the wicked brother talking to two of his henchmen.
He said, "Take the boy into the forest and kill him. We shall say he was lost, and then I shall be heir to my brother's castle and land."
Sparrow ran to Roland and said, "Never forsake me, and I will never forsake you."
Roland answered, "I will never forsake you as long as I live."
Then Sparrow said, "I must tell you what I heard. Your uncle is planning to kill you, so he can inherit your father's castle. We must leave quickly and run away."
So the children got up, dressed in warm cloaks, and hurriedly left the castle.
The henchmen looked for the boy, and could not find him. The brother shouted, "Fools, go look for him! And when you find him, kill him!"
The children grew tired, and rested under a linden tree. They heard the men coming, and Sparrow said to Roland, "Never forsake me, and I will never forsake you."
Roland answered, "I will never forsake you as long as I live."
Then Sparrow said. "Do not be frightened. I shall turn you into a rosebush, and I will be a bee buzzing nearby."
When the three men reached the wood, they found nothing but a rosebush and a bee buzzing by it. They stumbled and bled as the rose's thorns ripped their legs.
They said, "Let us leave this place. We have lost the trail."
So they went home, and told the brother that they had seen nothing but a rosebush and a bee buzzing by it.
"Fools!" raged the brother. "You ought to have hacked the rosebush to pieces and crushed the bee. Off with you now, and do it!"
But the children heard them coming a long way off, and Sparrow said to Roland, "Never forsake me, and I will never forsake you."
Roland promised, "I will never forsake you as long as I live."
Sparrow said, "Do not be frightened. You shall become a warm rock, and I a serpent sunning myself upon it."
The henchman found nothing but a serpent sunning itself on a large boulder. When they tried to get by, the serpent hissed at them and stung them.
"Let us leave this place," they said. "We have lost the trail."
When they returned to the brother, they told him that they had seen nothing but a rock, with a serpent sunning itself upon it.
"You idiots!" stormed the brother. "You should have cut off the serpent's head and smashed the rock to flinders. Why must I do everything myself? Get out of here before I kill you!"
So he ran off in search of the children alone. The children saw the brother a long way off.
Sparrow said, "Never forsake me, and I will never forsake you."
Roland answered, "I will never forsake you as long as I live."
"Do not be frightened. You shall become a clear stream, and I a duck swimming in it."
When the brother reached the stream, he lay down on the bank and tried to drink it up, but the duck swam forward and seized his nose with her bill and dragged him underwater. The brother thrashed and shouted, but he was carried away and drowned, and that was the end of him.
When he was dead, the children went home, and they were very glad when their father came back. He wondered what had become of his brother, but the children never told: neither that the brother had tried to kill them, nor that Sparrow had done magic. And they lived happily together to a very great age.
"A lovely story, Tara," Bronwyn murmured. "Thank you."
Anders thought about it. "That was Jowan who told you the story, wasn't it?" He said to the others, "Jowan was a mage who perpetrated the most spectacular escape in recent memory. Successful too, or at least if the Templars caught up to him, they're not telling."
"They'd tell us if they caught him," Tara said.
Cullen was angry at the sound of the name. "Jowan was a blood mage. He deceived us all—especially you, Tara, and that poor initiate. Then he ran away and left the two of you to pay for his crimes. I know he was your good friend for years and years, but what he did was unforgivable!"
"He was my first friend, and my best friend, and they were going to make him Tranquil!" Tara shot back. "He was terrified at the idea. Who wouldn't be? To be stripped of emotion—to be ripped from the Fade—to be made an obedient slave of the Chantry? It makes me sick. No one should have that done to them against their will, and in fact, I don't think it should be done at all. Jowan wasn't half as powerful as I am, and using blood magic he knocked the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter off their feet when they confronted him. Me, too," she confessed. "If I'd had my wits about me, I would have run out the door right after him. I'll never be so unprepared again."
Alistair protested, "The Tranquil aren't slaves! Don't you think you're exaggerating—"
"They are so!" Tara hissed. "Do they get paid for all the amazing things they create? No. Are they given any choice about where they go and what they do? No. Mundane humans in Ferelden are so proud of their freedoms, but they certainly don't want to share them with anyone else!"
"Don't say 'mundane,'" Cullen was indignant. "It makes you sound like a Libertarian!"
Tartly, Tara answered, "If I wasn't a Libertarian before I was locked up, I certainly am now!"
"Could we not argue about politics right now?" Leliana pleaded. "Bronwyn needs rest and quiet. Everyone have something to eat. I have the rations here. You are a wonderful storyteller, Tara. Your tale was sweet and deceptively simple. That is a subtle art."
Bronwyn wanted to refuse to the piece of hard waybread, but ate it hungrily enough. It stuck in her teeth until Tara handed her another cup of water to wash it down.
Sitting down by her, Anders said, "I'm going to cast Sleep on you, Bronwyn. You'll sleep a pretty long time. Later, I'll take off the bandages and we'll know more about how you're doing."
"And you're going to be fine," Alistair insisted. "Don't worry about anyt-"
She was already asleep. This was the Fade, which she knew well. She stepped cautiously through the fog, careful not to stumble. Vague shapes formed and broke at a distance. Darkspawn chuckled and gibbered, but she walked past them, and they did not seem to see her.
The path before her was winding and treacherous. A small boy dashed in front of her, chasing a ball.
"Oren?"
He was gone, and from far away, another woman's voice echoed, "Oren? Oren?" It sounded like Oriana.
A roof slanted down over the path. Bronwyn opened the door before her, and walked through. She recognized the distinctive profile of the man in the High Seat immediately. Rendon Howe was receiving his vassals, smug in his power. Bronwyn drew her sword, and shouted a challenge, but no one took any notice of her. The room swam away, and Bronwyn, after a moment of baffled rage, found herself going through another door. Queen Anora was suddenly illuminated, pacing back and forth in her bedchamber, a long furred robed trailing behind her.
"Your Majesty..." Bronwyn called. Anora paused, as if listening, and then resumed her restless pacing.
Bronwyn pushed the next door open and was in a sunlit garden. Two young people sat side by side on a marble bench, holding hands. Bronwyn did not recognize them at first, but then gasped and rushed to them.
"Mother! Father!"
They did not hear or see her. They had eyes only for each other, and were speaking with them, needing no words.
"Don't you see me? Can't you hear me?" Bronwyn pleaded. Her father pressed a kiss on her mother's hand, and she smiled on him with all the love in the world. Then they embraced and kissed passionately. Bronwyn felt herself blushing, and hurried away, conscious that she ought not to see her parents like this.
Another door. King Cailan was naked, in a wide camp bed, and not alone. Bronwyn did not recognize the woman, but she had the look and physique of a soldier. Rather scandalized, Bronwyn stalked away, slamming the next door open.
Her heart lifted. It was Teyrn Loghain, looking younger and happier than she had seen him at Ostagar. Then she saw that he was speaking to a tall woman with curling dark hair, dressed in an old-fashioned gown of flaming red silk. They were deep in conversation, though Bronwyn could not hear their words. Disappointed and embarrassed, Bronwyn turned away, and nearly walked into a young King Maric, who came bounding into the room. Loghain and the woman smiled at his entrance, and King Maric put a hand on each of their shoulders...
Another door. Bronwyn pushed it open and gasped. She was looking out to sea, over the cliffs of Conobar. A younger, beardless Fergus was checking the ropes for their climb today, and looked up, smiling. Relieved to tears that someone here would acknowledge her, she smiled back.
"Come on! I think there's a tern's nest down there. I want to take the eggs to Father as a joke. You know-a tern's eggs for a teyrn!"
"Your wit is dazzling."
"Well, it's not so bad, especially if we can get the eggs. What are you wearing all that armor for? Take it off, and come on..."
Bronwyn caught at his arm and whispered, "Never forsake me, and I will never forsake you."
Fergus grinned. "I will never forsake you as long as you live."
Light glinted off the peaceful sea, the wind was mild and fragrant, and there were the two of them, alone on the edge of the world...
"Bronwyn," said Anders, "it's time to wake up. I'm going to take off the bandages. All right?"
She was on her back, looking up. She squeezed her eyes shut and then blinked. Looking back at her was a circle of anxious faces. She blinked again, but they remained. Alistair and Tara might have been crying. Sten and Morrigan were very grave.
"Andraste's nightgown," Bronwyn's wondered aloud. "Was it something I said?"
Instantly, their worried faces transformed into templates of joy and relief. Anders said, "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Three."
"How many am I holding up, Boss?" Brosca asked, leaning over and grinning.
"Very funny. I don't believe that is an official Warden greeting."
A ripple of laughter.
"Move your eyes, Bronwyn," Anders ordered. "Follow the tip of my finger. Look up. Look down. How do your eyes feel?"
"Sore." Bronwyn got up slowly, her muscles objecting to having been unused so long. She forced herself to ask, "How bad do I look?"
"You look beautiful," Zevran said at once, in a tone of complete reassurance. "If there are scars, I cannot see them in this light."
"Your eyes are funny," Brosca told her. Alistair stepped on the dwarf girl's foot. "Ow!"
Leliana said softly, "You must be bursting. We can go up this tunnel. It is safe."
Bronwyn needed to relieve herself very badly, and she really needed to get away from all the general rejoicing that she was not blind and would not have to order someone to kill her. Letting Leliana lead the way, she left the renewed gossip behind. They went deep into a cul-de-sac, where the voices grew jumbled and indistinct.
After Bronwyn rearranged her clothes, Leliana pulled a small mirror from a pocket. "Here," she said. "You should look."
Bronwyn studied herself in the dim light, and sighed, willing herself to accept it. Zevran was not perfectly truthful, or perhaps had not looked closely enough. She could certainly see a thin white scar, marking her from above her right eye to just under the hinge of her jaw. Considering what had been done to her face, she knew that she was incredibly lucky to have been in the hands of a healer of Anders' skills. More disturbing were her eyes, which simply did not look like hers anymore.
Her father's grey-blue eyes were gone. The Broodmother's spit must have leached into the fragile membranes. Now they were a shocking green. Not a natural green either, but the color of the poison that had nearly blinded her.
"Thank you," she said to Leliana, giving her back the mirror. She leaned against the stones of the tunnel, taking a deep breath. She had been impetuous: she had been a fool, charging like an idiot against an enemy of which she knew nothing. The scar and her altered eyes would remind her not to be so impressed by her own reputation. "It could have been so much worse. I can live with this. I'm lucky to have a face, and the eyes are certainly distinctive."
Leliana laughed. "Yes. You must find some green velvet to match them! And emerald jewelry. It will be very striking." She took Bronwyn's arm. "And the scar is not bad at all. It may fade in time, and there are cosmetics in Orlais that would cover it entirely. I know that men like to show off their honorable scars, but it is different for women, yes?"
"Yes," Bronwyn agreed. "It certainly it." However shallow it might be of her, she hated the idea of losing her looks. Being pretty was part of what she was, and she did not want to let it go. The idea of men who had once sought her favor—even men for whom she cared nothing-now turning from her in disgust was a painful and disturbing one. It was different for men, certainly, no matter what people liked to pretend. "We'd better go back."
She came back to the others, blinking a bit, but full of grim purpose.
"Now,' she said, accepting her weapon harness from Zevran and buckling it quickly, "before we go a step farther I want to know everything anybody knows about golems and about this bloody Anvil of the Void. I need to know why Branka would think it's valuable enough to kill everyone in her House or give them to the darkspawn! Oghren!" she snarled. "Start talking!"
Oghren scratched his beard. "Well, Boss, what do you want to know? Everybody's heard of golems, but I've only seen a few. Nobody knows how to make them anymore, see. The Paragon Caridin invented them, which is why we went to his thaig first. Then he disappeared and they never found him. They sent the Legion of Steel after him—"
"—What," Bronwyn asked wearily, "it the Legion of Steel? Don't assume I know anything. Pretend I'm a child who knows nothing at all."
"The Legion of Steel was a regiment of golems. Like I say, they went to look for Caridin. They never returned. What few golems remain are locked up tight by the Shaperate. I know that in ancient times, we dwarves sold lots of golems to the Tevinter Empire, but they're too valuable now. Sometimes if things get bad enough, they're hauled out of storage, but only if the battle with the darkspawn is desperate enough to risk losing them."
"I didn't know about golems," Brosca declared. "I bet other people don't either."
Cullen agreed. "I've only barely heard of them. Back during the Rebellion, there was a mage in King Maric's service who had a golem. Some sort of huge fighting machine. Because the mage did so much to help the king, he was given his freedom and disappeared shortly after the war, along with that golem of his. Are they always made of stone?"
Oghren shook his head. "Stone sometimes, but they can be metal too. They're not really machines at all. More like stone or iron creatures, really, I guess you'd say. I've heard it has something to do with lyrium, and that golems aren't mechanical at all. I do know that they have these things called 'control rods' so people can make them follow orders."
Bronwyn nodded, thinking to herself. "Branka thought she could use this Anvil of the Void to produce golems again."
"An army of golems, " Morrigan considered, "would be of great assistance against the darkspawn."
Bronwyn shrugged. "Maybe. Branka is quite obviously insane now. It would be madness to trust her with any power whatsoever after what she's done. Besides, the dwarves tried the golem solution: this Legion of Steel Oghren speaks of. It did not work then, and there is no reason to think it would work now."
Consulting together, Bronwyn and Oghren drew the new places they had found on their maps, while the rest packed up the camp.
"You want to move on, then?" Alistair asked her quietly.
"Oh, I wouldn't miss this for anything. Maybe we'll find Branka's body, or Branka turned into a Broodmother. If we do, we'll use ranged weapons at first...and long-distance spells. We'll hack down the big tentacles one a time: it will take some time for the Broodmother to generate more, I would think. I suppose it's even possible we'll find Branka alive. I daresay she'd have enough to eat, since her House is no longer alive to consume their supplies."
They moved out without much more conversation. Oghren pointed to the marked walls, testament that Branka had continued to chip away rock samples.
"I can't believe Branka could have gone much farther on her own. Wherever she is, she will not be unprepared."
Bronwyn only grunted, deciding that she had had just about enough of the Paragon Branka for one lifetime.
After a long march, the caverns opened out once more. Zevran shouted back that he thought he had seen someone, when a barricade slammed down behind them.
A hard-faced dwarven woman emerged from behind a rock shelf.
Without preamble, she grated out harshly. "Let me be blunt with you. After all this time, my tolerance for social niceties is limited. I hope that doesn't bother you."
Oghren's face lit up. "Branka! Shave my back and call me an elf! I hardly recognized you!"
The woman's face did not betray a flicker of anything other than contempt.
"Oghren. It figures that you'd eventually find your way here. Hopefully you can find your way back more easily." She cocked her head, studying Bronwyn.
"And how shall I address you? Hired sword of the latest lordling to seek me out? Or just the only one who didn't mind Oghren's ale-breath?"
"Be respectful, woman!" Oghren protested. "You're talking to a Grey Warden!"
"Oh?" Branka was unmoved. "An important errand-girl, then. I suppose something has happened. Is Endrin dead? That seems likely. He was old and wheezy the last time I saw him."
Bronwyn narrowed her eyes. "Yes. The King is dead and the Assembly is deadlocked. The heir, Prince Bhelen. seeks your support to succeed to the throne."
"I always thought him a twisted little cretin," Branka shrugged, "but I really don't care if the Assembly puts a drunken monkey on the throne. I've put all such trivialities behind me. There is only one thing that matters: the Anvil of the Void. It was our protector, our great invention. the thing the ancients created that made our armies the envy of the world. The Anvil of the Void was the means by which the dwarven armies held off the first Archdemon. Now it is lost to the very darkspawn it was created to fight. It's here: so close I can taste it."
Bronwyn considered her words. "Close it may be. As you are not currently in possession of it, it is apparent that you have a problem."
Branka's nostrils flared. "Caridin created a gauntlet of traps to protect the Anvil. My people have given body and soul to find their way through. This is what's important. This is what has lasting meaning. Kings…politics…all that is transitory. I have sacrificed everything to find the Anvil."
"And that would include Hespith and your entire House, I take it?"
"I needed people to break through Caridin's traps. There is no way to do it but by trial and error. They were all mine, all pledged to my house. Enough questions! What you need to do is find your way through Caridin's maze. I command you to do this as your Paragon. There's only one way, Warden. Forward."
Bronwyn snorted in contempt. She had not gone this far already to run away like a little girl. "Come on," she said to her people. "Let us solve this Paragon's problems for her. It's what we do."
Bewildered, Oghren rumbled, "What has this place done to her? I remember the girl I married, who could talk for one minute and you could see her brilliance. Now—"
Alistair patted his shoulder. "Let's go."
Mobs of darkspawn crowded together in the narrow tunnels: mostly genlocks. They were poorly armed and quickly dispatched.
Anders wondered aloud, "I wonder if these were that dwarf's—"
"Don't!" cried Leliana. "It's too horrible!"
Morrigan shrugged, and drained the life from the last monster. "Horrible or not, we must face the truth. These are the brood of that wretched creature. Branka must periodically force them through the gauntlet of traps ahead, hoping to clear the way. As the traps are obviously not cleared, 'twould appear that the scheme is ineffective, and a useless waste."
Alistair turned on her, "Ineffective? Branka killed her people or turned them into monsters, and you object only because it was ineffective?"
Morrigan's voice sharpened, "I object to stupidity, in all its forms!"
There was no time for this. "Then I suggest we all use our wits," Bronwyn hissed, "and be very, very clever. Zevran, your eyesight is the best. You and Brosca take point, and look for anything that might be a trap. Let me know, and then we'll all think very carefully about what to do!"
These tunnels had obviously been mines once. Hot blue streaks of raw lyrium fluoresced in the half-light. Ribbons of the mineral twisted overhead in fantastic whorls and flourishes. Cullen hung behind and scraped bits into a leather pouch. Bronwyn considered taking some herself. The Chantry had a monopoly on the lyrium trade, and even a pouch like Cullen's would be worth a fortune. Perhaps later…
After a short walk through the twisting tunnel, the way straightened. Brosca called out, "Boss! There's a room up ahead."
A haze hung heavy in the air, pooling to the floor in the chamber they approached. The green color of the air made Bronwyn nauseous: made her remember the Broodmother. Anders flicked out a spell, testing the air. "Poison," he said briefly. "Not powerful, but enough to kill you if you linger too long."
"Could it have killed all of them?" Tara asked, pointing at the corpses scattered over the chamber floor, corpses of dwarves and of darkspawn. Some hulking figures stood rigidly at attention in the middle of the chamber.
"So," Bronwyn said, "those must be golems. Are they dead?"
"Hard to tell," Oghren said. "If nobody's operating their control rod, sometimes they stand just like that."
"Look at the bodies," said Anders. "Some might have died of the poison, but that thing over there had its skull crushed. Poison gas doesn't do that. From the condition of the body, that was fairly recent. Those golems aren't dead."
"Perhaps moving through the room sets off an alarm of some sort," Morrigan suggested. Anders nodded with admiration, and casually laid a hand on her back. She did not shake him off.
"Let me go first," Leliana offered. "I am quick, and light on my feet."
"Not alone." Zevran shook his head. "This gas-it must come from somewhere. Perhaps there is a container of some sort. Perhaps one can shut off the flow of the poison. If the golems attack, one of us can distract them."
Bronwyn considered. "No. We're all going. Mages: freeze anything that moves.. Alistair, Sten, Cullen, and Oghren-concentrate on the golems. You too, Scout. Leliana, Zevran, Brosca, and I will look for the source of the poison gas. Let's go."
She moved quickly, refusing to let the idea of poison frighten her. Once in the room, she could taste the substance in the air, feel it seeping into her lungs, constricting them. Her eyes began to water...
And the golems burst out of their slumber, shaking the stones under their feet, lashing out with their boulder arms. Bronwyn saw one stopped in its tracks by Morrigan's spells, and then focused on her own task.
The room was ingenious, interlaced with pipes carrying the poison, and with spouts that spewed it into the room. The closing valve was not hard to find. She closed it and shouted to the others. The valves were scattered through the room, and it took agility to dash past the battles and reach them. One or two people alone could not have survived.
So they left the room behind, quite pleased with themselves. The poison was dissipating, unreplenished by more. The guardian golems were in pieces.
"We know how to fight them now," Bronwyn said. "A good thing. Somehow I think we'll see more of them."
More traps. There were indeed more rooms with golem guards. Ice was the best weapon against them. Further on, they came upon a device that released enraged spirits to attack them. While it was time-consuming, it was easy enough to defeat it. From the lack of remains, it was clear that none of Branka's people had ever made it this far.
Around another corner the walls opened out into a vast cavern vaulted with lyrium veins, and lit with lava flowing in channels down the walls. To the back of the chamber, an immense block of shining metal gleamed, and Bronwyn realized what it must be. A double rank of golems stood guard, and at their head was another golem: one of immense size. Bronwyn walked softly into the the vast chamber, clinging to the walls, wondering if they could expect an attack.
And then the huge golem spoke, its inhuman voice rolling like thunder.
"Welcome, strangers. My name is Caridin. Once, long ago, I was Paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar. If you seek the Anvil, you must hear my story, or be doomed to relive it."
"Caridin?"Bronwyn looked at Oghren.
He stammered out, "Caridin? The real Caridin? As in Caridin's Cross? As in Anvil of the Void Caridin?"
"Impressive," Morrigan whispered to Anders. "Extraordinary, really."
The golem answered them. "I was once that Caridin, indeed. I made many things, but was famed for the Anvil of the Void above all. You see it before you. It allowed me to forge a man of stone or steel, more powerful than any before, but I told no one the cost." The golem rumbled, "No smith, however skilled, can create life. I had to take life from elsewhere."
All right, Bronwyn thought, now we're going to move past the realm of myth and legend, and find out the awful truth. And I suspect it will be truly awful.
Caridin said, "At first, we used only willing volunteers, but it was not enough. King Valtor had many enemies, and soon a river of blood flowed from this place."
"Volunteers?" croaked Cullen. "Who would volunteer to become...this...?"
Bronwyn saw it, too. "You had to use other dwarves." She felt sick, imagining it: a living soul trapped inside a shell of stone or steel…
Caridin did not deny it. "At last it became too much. I refused, and Valtor had me placed on the Anvil myself. It was not until I too felt the hammerstroke that I fully realized what I had done. I entombed myself here to find a way to destroy the anvil, but no golem can accomplish that. I cannot destroy the Anvil myself, but I beg you, stranger, to help me. Do not let the Anvil enslave more souls than it already has!"
"Do consider—" Morrigan began.
Bronwyn did not want to hear it. "No—I agree with Caridin. How would you like to be made a golem? Branka would never hesitate to throw away more lives, and Bhelen would never hesitate to make his political enemies his victims. Very well," she told Caridin. "I will help you destroy the Anvil, but you must lend me your support in choosing a King—"
Bearing down on them, eyes fever-bright, Branka burst out of the shadows, her harsh voice unnaturally loud.
"No! The Anvil is mine! You can't take it from me!"
Bronwyn turned sharply toward the maddened dwarf, loathing twisting in her belly. "Yours? In what way? Because you want it? Not good enough. It is I who won the way to the Anvil. In less than ten days from Orzammar, I might add, and with all my companions alive and whole. In two years, you could not do this. Instead, you have killed your people-or worse. You were not able to defeat the traps, which I believe you easily could have, had you gone yourself and used the wits that so impressed your fellow dwarves. Instead you hid behind your people, and, like a coward, sent them to their deaths. Then you whored the last of your women off to the darkspawn."
"Nothing is more important than the Anvil. When you reach for greatness, you have to make sacrifices! As many sacrifices as are needed!"
"Your sacrifices were wasted. Your people approached the gauntlet too few at a time to overcome the golems. The darkspawn are mindless, and could not think their way past the gas valves. Your people gave their lives for nothing."
Branka snorted something resembling a laugh. "Plain-spoken, aren't you? I thought you were looking for a Paragon to help you deliver Bhelen his throne, errand-girl! With the Anvil I can make you an army the like of which the world has never seen!'
Oghren muttered, "Branka, you crazy nug-tail!"
"We don't need golems to defeat the Blight." Branka threatened another rant, and Bronwyn cut her off ruthlessly. "Because you are a smith," she said with nicely-judge contempt, "you see only a smith's solution. Smithcraft will not save the dwarves. My father said to me, long ago, that in the end, flesh is stronger than steel. For every golem created, Orzammar loses a dwarf. Dwarves can create more of themselves: golems cannot."
There would be blood over this, Bronwyn knew, and shifted her weight, readying herself. There was one more thing she had to say…
"A Paragon indeed," she drawled out, in her most insufferably upper-class tones. "You are a perfect example of what happens when someone unqualified by training, aptitude or birth assumes military command. Because you invented some kind of fancy oven, the dwarves gave you a title that went to your head. You left behind your husband, who is an experienced and capable warrior…"
Oghren perked up noticeably at the praise, and puffed out his chest.
"-and instead took command yourself, I suppose to impress your girlfriend. I met her recently, and she's not so impressed with you now…"
She saw the shield coming at her face in plenty of time to sidestep it. What she had not expected were the golems. In the Deep Roads, Branka had somehow found a pair of control rods and had two golems to fight beside her.
But Caridin was there, and he was greater than them all. Strong as the foundations of the earth, invulnerable, relentless, he crushed everything in his way. Bronwyn left him to it, and concentrated on Branka. She was a smith, but she was also a strong swordswoman. Bronwyn parried a lunge with her dagger, hooking the guard around Branka's hand. There was a crunch as a knuckle snapped, and Branka grunted, surprised by the pain. A mutual battering: Bronwyn using her greater height and reach, and Branka relying on her low center of gravity and well-forged armor.
Oghren was lost in the berserker blood-rage, swinging his axe in huge arcs, stone cracking and crumbling from the golems with every blow. Bronwyn had wondered which side he would choose, in the end. Perhaps had not chosen to support Bronwyn, as much as he had chosen to defy Branka. It made no difference at the moment.
Zevran backed into her, and then grinned, twisting in mid-air to strike at Branka from the side. From the corner of her eye, Bronwyn could see the mages engage the golems, freezing them into immobility, smashing at them with hammer-blows of magic.
Another buffet from Branka's shield forced Bronwyn back, toward the melee. She whirled, dropped her weapons, and threw herself flat, knocking Branka's legs out from under her.
Branka howled, thrashed briefly on top of Bronwyn, and then rolled away, unbalanced. Her grasp on sword and shield was too tenacious for her to lose them, but they were useless when she was face-down on the stone. She was strong, too, very strong, and began to rise, trying to throw Bronwyn off. Bronwyn kneed her in the back, and grabbed her by the head, twisting with all her strength. Branka's neck should have snapped, but she was a dwarf, not human. Bronwyn snarled, and smashed the woman's head against the stones, again and again.
Brosca saw them wrestling on the stones, and screeched in triumph. Diving down, she drove her dagger into Branka's sword hand. Zevran ripped the shield away. Branka howled with rage and scrabbled with her shield hand at a hidden dagger. Bronwyn yanked her elbow straight back,breaking her arm. With her right hand, she snatched the dagger from its sheath and drove it into the unprotected back of Branka's neck, using all her weight, severing her enemy's spine. A brief, frenzied convulsion, and Branka groaned and lay still.
Branka's golems were down too, sprawled like so much rubble on the stone floor of the cavern. One of Caridin's golems was dead as well. Bronwyn hauled herself up, and strode toward the massive form of Caridin, wanting to have this over and done. Absently she wiped Branka's blood from her face. She glanced back. Oghren was looking down at the lifeless Branka, shaking his head. Bronwyn hoped he would not completely lose his mind and insanely seek revenge. Luckily, he seemed weary and listless in the wake of his berserker rage.
"Another life lost to my invention," Caridin mourned. "I wish the Anvil had been utterly forgotten."
"Yeah, you ain't kidding," muttered Oghren. "Crazy woman. I always knew the Anvil would kill her."
"I am very sorry it came to this," Bronwyn said. She walked forward to Caridin. "I will do as you asked me, and destroy the Anvil, but you must grant me the boon of your support in the Assembly's election of the next King."
A pause, as the golem considered. "Your boon is granted. I shall put hammer to steel one last time, and give you a crown for the king of your choice. No. Do not tell me his name. I do not wish to hear it, or know anything about him. I have lived too long past my time."
Slow as boulders in a river, Caridin and his remaining golems ascended the tongue of rock where the Anvil gleamed. They conferred, and then the sound of hammer on metal resounded.
Meanwhile Anders treated the injuries: Leliana's bad scrape, Cullen's broken nose, everyone's cuts and bruises. As soon as they were fit, Tara, Brosca, Zevran and Leliana began searching the bodies and the area for treasure. There was quite a bit of it.
"Let's have a rest and something to eat," Bronwyn ordered. "Also, I'd like everyone to gather some lyrium. Our party will have enough to supply us for years, and that will save us a great deal of gold. Be careful and don't get it on your skin."
Oghren lifted Branka in his arms and carried her over to a crack in the rocks. He laid her out gently and folded her hands over her breastplate. Bronwyn watched him from a distance, not wishing to intrude.
He slumped on a stone, and motioned her over. Bronwyn sat down beside him, waiting for him to talk. He ran a hand through his wild red hair and grunted, ""That pretty much beat the sod out of how I imagined it. Ready to head back and share the news? Those deshyrs have been trying to destroy the city for years. Haven't managed yet."
He was taking it better than she had any right to expect. Perhaps he had bidden Branka farewell long ago, in his deepest heart. "We'll go back a lot faster than we came," Bronwyn said, with a wry smile. "With any luck the darkspawn haven't filtered back to the tunnels we cleared. I won't mind some easier going."
"You and me both."
The crown Caridin presented to her was the gaudiest object Bronwyn had ever seen. The most elaborate goldsmithing imaginable, a rainbow of jewels set cunningly in channels: it was glorious and depressingly ugly all at once. No one but the greatest of craftsmen could have devised it. Morrigan opened her mouth to suggest a change of plans about the Anvil, but desisted at Bronwyn's level look.
Destroying the Anvil was rather fun. They all joined in and released a lot of anger and tension in the act. Many took a turn with the immense hammer, and the mages had tricks of their own. When the device was utterly ruined, Caridin spoke briefly to Bronwyn in farewell.
"You have my eternal thanks, stranger. Atrast nal tunsha: may you always find your way in the dark."
He moved to the edge of the cliff, tottered at the brink, and then the glowing river of lava below them swallowed him whole. Bronwyn and her party watched the solid figure break apart and tumble away in the current.
Bronwyn said, "So much for the last of the Paragons. Let's go."
"Can I carry the crown, Boss? Can I?" Brosca asked. "It would be neat to wear it! Can I? Just for a little while?"
They made their way back in less than half the time it had taken them to reach the Anvil. Past rotting darkspawn and dwarves, past shattered golems and broken swords they traveled. They retrieved treasure from their caches, and found booty they had hitherto missed.
Coming back through Bownammar, they met the Legion of the Dead. Kardol stared at Caridin's Crown, which was currently decorating Zevran's head.
"That's quite a chunk of gold."
"It is a crown of Paragon make for Orzammar's next king," Bronwyn said briefly, having practiced her speech about it. "The Anvil was not a myth, by the way, but it is gone now."
"And Branka?" the tattooed warrior asked.
"Yeah," Oghren growled. "We found her. She's dead. We've got to get back to the Assembly and settle things while there's still an Orzammar."
Kardol stared at them a little longer, and then nodded. "I'll come back to the city with you. If we really are to have a new King, he'll have orders for the Legion." He shouted back at his soldiers, "I'm going into Orzammar with the Wardens! Tharkel! You're in charge while I'm gone. I want four volunteers to travel with me!"
They were on the move again, and moving fast. Kardol's warriors were a taciturn lot. Only once did one of them speak to Bronwyn, coming to her side while they ate another tasteless meal of waybread and water.
"So you're going to make Bhelen King?" The woman warrior asked. She was young: Bronwyn guessed her to be about her own age, but it was hard to tell with dwarves...
"If I can. He's the best choice to face the Blight. Harrowmont would only do the minimum, and Orzammar needs more than that."
"It doesn't trouble you that he's a kinslayer?"
"He's the right choice to fight the Blight. That is all I ought to concern myself with. And I don't know that he is a kinslayer."
The dwarf woman smiled bitterly. "I do. Is it true that he has a son? Bhelen, I mean?"
Brosca overhead them and bounded over. "Does he ever! My sister Rica is the new prince's mother! He's the best-looking kid you ever saw!"
"The mother is a noble-hunter?" the warrior asked, with a faint hint of distaste. She slipped her helmet on again, completely covering her face.
"Hey!" Brosca protested. "As noble hunters go, my sister is the best! Bhelen doesn't have any reason to complain. She worked hard to get where she is!"
"I noticed that your sister was a woman of some education," Bronwyn said kindly. "Your family must have made great sacrifices-"
Oghren cackled to himself, and Brosca just look puzzled.
She explained the situation to the surfacers. "Nah, it was Behrat. He was head of the Carta before Jarvia. Leske and me cacked him, too. He looked on Rica like sort of an investment. He took her off the street and paid for her to learn to dance and sing and play the string-harp and give massages. With her looks, he figured she just had to get lucky, and then he was going to claim to be our brother and live in the Palace with us. Bastard."
"Massages?" Leliana asked. "Music and dance yes, but massages?"
"Massages are good," Zevran countered. "People really like them, especially rich, important people. I myself have such training, and I would be delighted to share it with you..."
Alistair and Cullen looked at each other. Alistair ventured, "You mean your sister was...I mean... I don't mean to be rude..."
Brosca was still puzzled. Oghren slapped her shoulder. "These surface folk don't know about noble hunters! They're too polite to call your sister a whore!"
"A noble hunter is a really high-class kind of whore!" Brosca protested. "The very best, especially if they give their patron a boy! It's not like being a street-walker, or working in Walleda's house. You know dusters aren't allowed to work at anything respectable. So it's be a beggar or a whore or Carta muscle like me. Rica got lucky, and so did I!"
They wrapped the amazing crown in a cloth before they entered Orzammar. They had washed and polished their armor after their last sleep, and marched in looking nearly respectable. Without delay they presented themselves at the Chamber of the Assembly, which was in complete chaos, as threats and insults echoed from the ancient walls.
Steward Bandelor gave Bronwyn a look of desperate hope, when she appeared at the door of the Chamber. He proclaimed, "The Grey Warden has returned!" and the pandemonium hushed somewhat, while Bronwyn strode to the center of the room. Oghren flanked her on one side, and Alistair, holding the hidden crown, on the other.
Bronwyn looked at the bickering nobles without fear and without respect. These were not her people, and there was no shared history between them to soften their failings. It really was a wonder that Orzammar had survived at all, with leaders like this. Harrowmont and Bhelen stood above the fray, but were certainly part of it.
"Well, Warden? Have you news for us?" demanded the Steward.
Bronwyn declared, "I bring a crown forged by Paragon Caridin on the Anvil of the Void." She flicked away the coarse linen. A gasp of wonder rose as Alistair lifted it up for their inspection.
Oghren took up the tale. He was even sober. "Caridin was trapped in the body of a golem. This Warden granted him the mercy he sought, and in exchange he forged a crown for Orzammar's next king, chosen by the Ancestors themselves!"
Bronwyn had not quite believed that such a claim would be credited for an instant by anyone with a full set of wits, but Oghren had known his own people best. Only Harrowmont expressed doubt. "I would like to believe Oghren's tale, but everyone knows that the Grey Warden is Bhelen's hireling."
The words were deeply offensive, but Bronwyn only gave the elderly man a burning look, and waited for the Steward to examine the crown himself. He said, deeply impressed, "Silence! This crown is of Paragon make and bears the seal of House Ortan. Tell us, Warden, who did Caridin choose?"
She smiled coldly, and made them wait, glancing over the room, watching the nobles eye each other, as they hoped to hear something to their advantage. From his place across the room, Bhelen stared at her with blazing expectation. She was not feeling particularly friendly to him at the moment, and so answered in a way calculated to make clear to him exactly how much he owed her.
"Caridin left the choice entirely to me."
An uproar. Harrowmont's supporters shook their staffs of office at her, and their leader shouted, "That is preposterous! Why would a Paragon leave the choice to a stranger who knows nothing of our ways?"
"Because I was there, and you were not, my lords! I delivered him from his penance, and his gratitude was mine!"
Bandelor called the Assembly to order. "We have argued in these chambers too long. The will of the Paragon is that the Grey Warden decide. Tell us, Warden, who shall be King?"
"I grant the crown to Bhelen, son of Endrin."
Bhelen stamped triumphantly, and roared, "At last! This farce is ended and I can take my place on my father's throne!" He sneered at Harrowmont, "Do you accept this?"
Harrowmont sank to one knee. "I cannot defy a Paragon. Take your throne, King Bhelen."
Bhelen stepped forward, victorious, and Bandelor set the crown on his head, saying, "Let the memories find you worthy, first among the lords of the Houses, the King of Orzammar."
Bhelen being Bhelen, Bronwyn was not surpised that his first act of office was to call for Harrowmont's execution. There were quite a few executions that day, and Bronwyn watched them impassively. Alistair was distressed by the idea that he had helped unleash a tyrant, but even he could not find fault with the honors and respect being heaped on the Wardens and their companions.
"I remember, I remember," he muttered to Bronwyn at the inevitable celebratory banquet. "Duncan always said we had to do whatever was necessary, but I'd rather be fighting darkspawn than playing politics!"
"I, for one, am glad of a decent meal," Bronwyn answered, digging into her dinner. She kept her eyes on her plate and her companions, preferring to look there rather than at Harrowmont's head, on display above the throne. "Bhelen's giving us everything we wanted. We have his word, his signature, and his enthusiastic cooperation. Sending his army out against the Blight is his way of uniting the dwarven people behind him. He recognizes the darkspawn threat, and it also fits in with his agenda. We may not trust him personally, but he will honor his word because it suits his own plans. He wants stronger ties with the surface, and aiding in the defense against the Blight is the best way to do it." She speared another piece of lamb, imported from the surface, incredibly tender and juicy, and tossed it to Scout. "And now Kardol has agreed to lead the Legion of the Dead to our aid. The King's all for it, too. That's more than the treaty even called for. We've done well. Better than I hoped."
"I suppose Cailan will be pleased," Alistair sighed. "Can we go? Really soon?"
The others were looking at her. Alistair had spoken for them all.
"I agree that we should leave as soon as possible," she said, "but I don't even know what time of day it is. Cullen, I want you and Leliana to go check that out as soon as this gala event winds down. The rest of us will go back to the hostel and start getting our gear together. I need some straps replaced on my armor. If anyone else needs gear repaired, see me."
They were happy enough to return to the hostel and its baths again, though Bronwyn felt that no place underground could ever truly feel like home. She was approached by the head servant as soon as she arrived, and given a letter.
"Grey Warden," said the dwarf respectfully. "One of your order arrived a few days ago and left this for you. As you were not expected anytime soon, he did not linger, and only asked that you read it as soon as possible."
"A letter?" Alistair gazed on it in awe. "From other Grey Wardens? Wow! Open it, Bronwyn!"
"Let's go to my room," she said, "It may contain Warden secrets." She snorted. "Warden secrets that we do not even know yet."
Alistair nearly carried her off in his eagerness. They closed the door on the little stone room, and Bronwyn broke the griffon seal. She read it aloud, but quietly.
Greetings, sister:
Word reached us some time ago, both of the disaster at Ostagar, and of your brave deeds there. More recently, we learned that you were on your way to Orzammar, to seek alliance with the dwarves, according to the ancient treaties.
Do not imagine that you are alone in your struggles. The Wardens of Orlais are also your brothers and sisters, and we stand ready to give you all the assistance in our power. To that end, I ask that you come to the border crossing at Gherlen's Pass. The guards on either side are always courteous to Grey Wardens, and allow us to move freely. Simply give a note to the guard on the Orlesian side, and word can be brought to Jader in less than a day. It would appear that both of you are young in the Wardens, and may not be aware of the full range of our responsibilities.
I Joined the Wardens with Duncan, and was proud to call him my friend.
Your brother,
Riordan
Senior Warden of Jader
Note: Thanks to all my readers and reviewers: Deviate's Fish, WellspingCD, Nithu, demonicnargles, Derko5, jen4306, Eva Galana, Shakespira, Gene Dark, Sarah1281, Aoi24, Lehni, JackOfBladesX, mutive, Amhran Comhrac, wisecracknmama, Costin, Have Socks Will Travel, khoas974, fergy13, Kempe, KCousland, almostinsane, Sunnydale-High-Class-0f-98, hdonald, Piceron, Talia Gea, mille libri, Windchime68, Teutonic Knight 92.
I'm so thrilled at the response and thoughtful remarks this story has generated. You give me such wonderful ideas and constant support.
Tara's story is adapted from "Fundvogel," collected by the Brothers Grimm.