Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 23: Shield Walls and Siege Engines

"Hold them! Hold them!" Cauthrien's shout lashed at the soldiers and mages at the palisade. The darkspawn impaled themselves on the ranks of pikes in their mindless bloodlust. Dead grinning faces were pushed forward by their fellows, their tainted blood oozing over the pike shafts.

"Another ogre! You mages! Freeze it!"

A hint of chill in the air, a crackle of cross-firing spells. The ogre stopped in its tracks. Some of the weaker darkspawn next to it crumpled to the ground, dead. Blue and green lights streaked to the ogre, prying its life away with tendrils of magic. The ogre took a faltering step, attempting to shake the spells. It took another, and then tottered over, crashing like a felled tree.

Loghain watched from the upper works, smiling grimly. His army had learned new ways of war to fight the darkspawn. He was learning new ways himself. Luckily for him, he had no noble knightly traditions to uphold. If a weapon worked, it was fine with him. Case in point: the curious machine the dwarven engineers were about to demonstrate for his edification.

From an observation post, a lookout bellowed. "They're forming for another attack! They're on the move!"

"We're ready now! Watch this, my lord!" the dwarf beside him cackled. "You're going to love it!"

Another mass of darkspawn broke out of the trees across the valley, rushing at the fortress in a wide dark wave.

"Archers, make ready!" Cauthrien commanded. From the terraced breastworks and upper palisades, from the high redans thrown out from the stones of Ostagar, the archers nocked their arrows and bent their bows. And waited.

On the parapet where Loghain stood, the dwarven engineers were grinning wider than any darkspawn.

"Now!" screamed Dworkin Glovak, and his brother yanked the trigger. This huge mechanism—they called it a trebuchet- thudded into movement, launching its heavy missile at the massed darkspawn. Loghain watched its trajectory, soaring out, and then down, down…

A thunderous explosion. Smoke and fire rushed up from a massive gap in the darkspawn ranks. It was as if the Maker had struck them with a hammer. The darkspawn on the leading edge of the wave escaped the worst and came on, into bow range.

"Loose!" shouted Cauthrien. Hundreds of arrows soared out, seeking their targets.

More darkspawn fell, and the mages raised a blizzard of ice and lightning, all along the line. One of the mages, a pale blonde girl named Gwyneth, looked a little crazed. It was astonishing that such a delicate creature could wreak such havoc. If Loghain had his way, not one of these mages would return to captivity in the Circle.

For some reason, he remembered that Wilder girl who had hung about the Highever tent. A hawk! He would ask Uldred if any of his mages could shape-shift into a bird. Such a scout would be invaluable, and if the Grand Cleric disapproved, she could put on a suit of mail and fight the bloody darkspawn herself.

The storm died down, giving the captains a chance to see what was left of the darkspawn. Unlike a human enemy that might retreat and live to fight another day, the darkspawn would keep on coming until you killed them, or they killed you.

"Loose!" Cauthrien shouted to the second rank of archers. This volley finished off most of the attackers. Few made it to the shield wall and the merciless barbed pikes. Most of the arrowheads were poisoned, since they had a better idea now about what slowed or killed the darkspawn, and what did not.

There was a little shed nestled safely behind the stones of the upper citadel where clever craftsmen—and women—brewed poisons day and night for the army. Wulffe and Urien were uncomfortable with the use of poisons in warfare: it was unchivalrous and simply not done. Loghain had shrugged off their discomfort, more easily since Cousland and eventually Bryland had accepted new ways. Cousland, especially, was young and pragmatic, and was willing to do whatever was necessary to beat back the darkspawn.

What worked against other men did not necessarily work well against darkspawn: a cavalry attack was pointless. Horses could not be made to charge darkspawn. Nor were the mindless, fearless darkspawn intimidated by horses, as human footsoldiers were.

On the other hand, darkspawn were so stupid and so utterly unable to improvise that Loghain had discovered that long pikes behind a solid shield wall were tremendously effective against them. A company of Maric's Shield and a company of Highever men had been armed and trained to move as one, and to execute maneuvers efficiently, while not breaking formation. With archers and mages protected behind them, the pike companies could hold ranks until the darkspawn dashed themselves to pieces. And a pike was not expensive or a difficult weapon to use, nor were there complex techniques requiring years of training. One did not even have to be exceptionally strong, as long the shields were held in the correct overlapping position. They could double their defensive power, with one rank kneeling and the second rank standing behind them. The old Tevinter legions had used similar tactics, and they had conquered all of Thedas.

It was safer for his soldiers, too. After all, the darkspawn spread disease, and their casualties sprang from the Blight disease as much as from battle. Better to keep the darkspawn at the end of a ten-foot pole.

The Glovak brothers and their team-surface dwarves all-had arrived in Ostagar, offered their services for a reasonable sum, and had done a great deal to make Ostagar more defensible. Loghain had already ordered ditches dug and abbatis constructed, stretching out like fangs toward the enemy. The dwarves had done more: repairing the ancient stonework; creating fire and acid bombs and pit traps that would decimate the darkspawn; throwing out redoubts and redans to break up a massed attack; inspecting the camp and the fortress for possible tunneling.

They had caught two attempts to burrow up under the camp, and another to break into the lower chambers of the Tower of Ishal again. The tunnels had been collapsed, and poison poured into the breaches, killing anything down there that moved. It had been quite a success.

"So, my lord?" asked the older, saner brother, Voldrik. "What do you think?"

"Effective enough against a mass attack by darkspawn. In more normal times it would be a usable siege weapon against a fortified enemy."

"Yeah," Dworkin said, "that's what we thought. You could blow a breach in a wall bigger than the Hall of Heroes with this thing. So, whadda you say? Can we build some more for you?"

Hard bargaining followed. The price the dwarves were asking for three of the monstrosities was astronomical. Then they showed him how neatly the machines could be disassembled and transported. Even when not fighting darkspawn, and with only stone as missiles, the engines were of great value. Loghain maintained his most impassive and unimpressed countenance, and eventually squeezed an agreement for five at the same price.

His gaze shifted toward the distant shadow of the trees. Movement had ceased out there. The darkspawn seemed to be done for the moment.

The men were cheering now, as time went by and the attack was not renewed. Loghain gave his officers grave nods, but did not cheer himself, even in his heart.

For all his successes, the darkspawn were growing no weaker. They would attack and die, but there were always more of them in a day or two. Was this what always happened during a Blight? Bronwyn clearly thought all these buildups were merely preliminary to the appearance of the Archdemon, who would manifest when the horde was large enough. At least the current attrition of the darkspawn ranks might delay that for some time.

But for how long? Could the army winter at Ostagar? That was the question that plagued Loghain, night after night. They should be able to, but could they?

Cauthrien ran up the steps, eyes shining.

"My lord! That was amazing!"

Dworkin winked at her. "More where that came from, Missy!"

She actually smiled back, rather than taking offense. "I hope so! The whole center was pulverized. Just pulverized!"

Loghain moved away, to speak to her privately. No sooner had he done so, than she said, "You look tired, my lord. It should be quiet here for days, after the darkspawn spending themselves like this. Perhaps you should—"

"Don't try to mother me, Cauthrien!" he said, more sharply than he meant to. He lowered his voice, and said, "I shall return to my quarters. I need to talk to Cousland anyway, and see if our King found his company more amusing than mine."

The commanders, along with a great number of their men, were now housed in the Tower of Ishal, and stone-hard and stone-cold they found it. It had taken the elven servitors quite a long time to clear out the darkspawn and human dead and scrub it out, and even now one sometimes found…traces. Most difficult to get rid of was the huge ogre carcass at the top, Bronwyn's trophy. That had been hacked into pieces, and the elves had gingerly thrown them through the windows to the ground far below, rather than try to carry them downstairs. He had seen the remains himself, and was impressed by anyone who took on such a monster alone.

A sudden tingling: a boost of vitality and well-being flowed through him. Loghain stopped and glared, catching the sight of the hem of that little mage Keili's robes, just fluttering around a corner. Interfering girl-

He stalked across the bridge, barely noticing his guards, deep in thought. With the end of the attack, the mountains and forests surrounding Ostagar had fallen into stillness again, a dreamy peace broken only by the hoarse shouts of soldiers and the chopping of wood.

Somehow Ferelden had to keep feeding this mob in the south. Ostagar and its environs was pretty thoroughly bare of game now. Either they were hunted out, by human or darkspawn, or the wiser and more wary had fled.

Once in his room, away from prying eyes, he could sag wearily into his chair, and drop his head into his hands. Yes, they were holding the darkspawn. Yes, the mages were performing splendidly. Yes, the dwarven engineers had done wonders. All of this would mean nothing, of course, if Orlais decided to march over the border. Stripped of its defenses and its defenders, northern Ferelden could be swallowed in a week. Perhaps it was only fear of the Blight that was holding the Orlesians back. Perhaps it was only the shadow of his own reputation.

Winter would be upon them in only a few months. Could the army winter here in the south? Perhaps the real question was: could the army winter here under constant attack, with its supply lines threatened? And what if the Archdemon, the Grey Wardens' great bogeyman, actually made an appearance? How big and how dangerous was an Archdemon, anyway? What were its capabilities against their fortifications? How did one fight an enemy that could fly? He had filched Cailan's Grey Warden books to find out, but to his disgust he discovered that Cailan had only brought the silly ones: fairytales with colored illustrations of Wardens and their loyal pet griffons.

He should talk to that madman Dworkin some more. Could a ballista be modified to shoot a bolt into the air? Could it hit a flying target? Was a ballista bolt too heavy to ascend far enough? Would it also need modification? Maybe if it were lighter, thinner, poisoned—no, it would fall to earth again, possibly on the very engineers who had launched it. But if it exploded in the air…

Boots scraped outside his door, and his guard challenged the newcomer. A young, breathless voice answered.

"I'm a courier arrived with letters from Denerim. This lot is for Teyrn Loghain."

Loghain raised his voice. "Bring them in."

His guard showed the courier in: a young lad smelling of horse sweat and cheap leather. He bowed shyly, and set the letter bag on the table, where Loghain was pointing.

"Any trouble on the road?"

"A bit, my lord. Darkspawn patrol ambushed us about five miles north. Killed one of the horses, but there were only four of them, so we were all right. Darkspawn attacked Lothering a few nights ago, but the militia and the Templars held them off. There's some letters in the bag about that, too."

Loghain grunted and waved him out, and then set about looking at what he had. His secretary emerged from his own little cubbyhole.

"My lord! Allow me!"

Impatiently, Loghain dumped the contents of the bag on the table, sorting through it. Some of the letters he threw at the secretary. There was one with the Queen's seal that he would look at himself. Another…he paused at the bear crest. He would read Howe's letter last, after all the rest. So Howe wanted to make terms, did he? Loghain sneered, and the secretary flicked an uneasy glance his way. Nothing with a griffon on it. His secretary looked through the papers before him.

"A letter from Bann Ceorlic, my lord. A letter from one Ser Bryant, a Templar of the Lothering Chantry." The secretary smirked, "A letter of a sort from a fellow named Tobery, calling himself Captain of the Lothering Militia…"

"What does Ceorlic want?"

"He's protesting the conduct of 'that Cousland girl,' as he calls her. His seneschal wrote him about her taking his horses and leaving a promissory note, and his lordship says this was not at all his intent in allowing the use of his manor. He demands immediate restitution, or her arrest for horse-thieving. He's also very angry to hear that a village militia was organized without his permission and contrary to his wishes. He wants to know what you're going to do about it, my lord."

Loghain scoffed, and poured himself a cup of cider. "Set it aside. I'll worry about Bann Ceorlic later. What's in the two letters from Lothering?"

"This letter from Ser Bryant details an attack two nights ago—from the time the letter was written. Around fifty darkspawn made an assault on the village. Luckily the village lookouts saw them coming in plenty of time and sounded the alarm. The militia got behind the town walls and did pretty good service with their bows. Not all of them: some of the militia ran on home at the first sight of the brutes, but enough stayed that they accounted for a good half of the enemy at long distance. The Templars reinforced them. Three villagers were killed, one of them a child. A party of darkspawn attacked the manor, too, and there was some fire damage, but luckily there's been a lot of rain lately… There's implicit plea for troops to bolster Lothering's defenses."

"No doubt," Loghain snorted.

"And he commends the conduct of the militia captain, Tobery Salt, who fought most bravely and effectively."

"Let's hear Captain Salt's report," Loghain said.

The secretary raised his brows, and read:

"Yer Lordship.

"I am Tobery Salt of Lothering and the Gurl Warden came throo awile bak and made mee Capten of the Lothering Milisha. Yer lordship wee have dun ar best but the Darkspoon ar too much for Man nor Beste and too nights bak they attaked us and ther war Peeple kilt ded by them Monsters and even if the litle Child was an Elf she was a Child of the Maker. If the Gurl Warden had not ordred us to bring our Wepons to the Muster and made a Milisha we wud all bee ded. So we ar thankful to her. We need mor Men heer in Lothering. Can yer Lordship send sum?

Respecfuly,

Yer sarvant,

Capten Tobery"

The secretary set down the dirty parchment and remarked, "A hand more accustomed to the sword than to the pen, apparently."

Loghain bridled a little at the condescension. "A good thing for Lothering, too!" He wondered briefly what his soft-handed secretary would have made of the brash young Loghain, who had so grudgingly learned his letters from his mother at the rough kitchen table of their farmhold. He had not been more than barely literate until he was in his twenties.

"I will take Captain Tobery's request under advisement. I may be able to spare a company. The villagers may find they don't like billeting troops, but we cannot lose Lothering."

No, they could not lose it. The Imperial Highway had to be kept open, and Lothering was that vital, closest link.

"I'll read these others myself. Do what you like with yourself until this evening."

"My lord." The secretary happily bowed himself out the door, and Loghain was left alone to deal with his two letters in peace, Anora's first. It was in cipher, of course, but it was their personal cipher that he knew well.

Dearest Father,

I would like to say that I am well, and that everything is quite under control. That would be a slight exaggeration. I am well, I suppose, as far as physical health is concerned, or I would be well, did I not have this constant sensation of being squeezed by events. At times I feel that I am Queen of the Palace in Denerim, and of nothing else.

As to Denerim itself, I shall write more below, but I first wanted you to know that I received a very curious missive from Arl Howe: a very soothing, flattering epistle indeed, assuring me of his heartfelt loyalty. I feel some alarm even at his name, for my people tell me there is word that he is hiring mercenaries at a great rate, though no one seems to know from whence his gold is coming.

He insists that he has written proof that the Couslands were in league with the Empress of Orlais to overthrow Cailan's rule. According to these documents, Bryce was to have had the crown; and to strengthen the ties between the two nations, Bronwyn was to have been married to the Imperial Prince Florestan. That, Arl Howe writes, would explain Bryce's curious reluctance to betroth her elsewhere, or even to allow her to go to Court, where she might have become personally attached in a manner that might hinder her parents' schemes.

Granted, it is odd that no arrangements were made for her, especially now that it would seem that gossip was in error, and that she is not disfigured or half-witted or otherwise unpresentable. However, I find the story very difficult to believe. Rumor also had it that she was in love inappropriately, and while I shudder at the implication that Cailan was the target of her misguided affections, it would be just as good an explanation as some sort of plot to transform a Fereldan shield maiden into an Orlesian princess!

Arl Howe, in an attempt to seem reasonable, states that he thinks it possible that Bronwyn was unaware of her family's plans for her: that they indulged her reluctance to bind herself to any than the object of her affections merely in order to keep her unattached, waiting for the right moment to send her to Orlais to cement the alliance.

While we are on the subject of Bronwyn Cousland, Bann Ceorlic sought audience with me to protest the conduct of the Grey Wardens at his manor in Lothering. His seneschal wrote to him of the requisitions and the organization of a village militia, and he is very indignant. Must Bronwyn Cousland be so high-handed? The last I heard of her, she was heading west to Orzammar by the northern land route. The dwarven king, I understand, is dead, and there is a dispute over the throne, so it is unlikely she will get any help from that quarter for some time.

Refugees from the north are in Denerim, and they say that Arl Howe is dealing very harshly with Highever in his attempt to put down unrest. The unrest has spilled over the borders into West Hill somewhat, and it has trickled down the Pilgrim's Path, nearly to the gates of Denerim. Something must be done, but I have not men to do it.

And there is unrest in Denerim as well. Bann Vaughan has locked down the alienage. Some elves stole the remains of the young girl Vaughan killed for her defiance, and he has forbidden the elves to leave their quarter as a punishment. Not all of them, however, for I have learned he is shipping parties of elves out of the city under cover of night. They may be going as laborers to Amaranthine, which implies an alliance between Vaughan and Howe. Such an alliance, it need not be said, makes me very uneasy. Did Arl Urien really mean to give his son such a free hand?

I will not even ask you if Cailan is behaving himself. I am already resigned to the truth…

Loghain read it to the end, and then decided to read it again before he attempted a reply. There was much to consider here, and most of it unpleasant.

After a long swallow of cider, he broke the seal of Howe's letter, as reluctantly as he would have put his hand in a sack of snakes.

Greetings, my lord Teyrn,

Despite rumor to the contrary, I remain your loyal colleague, and the faithful subject of King Cailan and Queen Anora. It was only when I received irrefutable proof of an Orlesian plot to overthrow Ferelden, and make us once again slaves of Orlais, that I struck a blow against the perpetrators…

Here is was: Anora had not quite presented it fairly, or, more probably, Howe had not sent her copies of the documents. They were only copies, so there was still the issue of forgery, either by Howe himself or by others, but if Howe believed them genuine, it was not surprising that he had taken violent action.

Howe himself did not believe that Bronwyn was party to any plot. Loghain was certain she was not. He considered himself a fairly good judge of character, and nothing in Bronwyn's demeanor or conduct suggested the faintest hint of duplicity. She had, in fact, spoken out strongly against Orlesian intervention, and had presented him with a reasonable alternative.

Bronwyn as an Orlesian Imperial Princess? The absurdity of the thought made him smile briefly. If some mask-wearing, pastry-eating poltroon tried to transform her into a twittering courtier, she would probably break his nose. Then he thought more on the matter, imagining Bryce and Eleanor suddenly commanding her onto a ship, and her tears and resistance. Would she have obeyed her parents? He frowned. Yes. If they had used all the power that her filial affection gave them, then, yes. She would have gone, and done what she mistakenly believed to be her duty. It was a disturbing line of thought.

What about Fergus Cousland, who was all ways that mattered the effective second in command, here in Ostagar? He was a useful and hard-working young man, and Loghain had no qualms about admitting in the privacy of his own thoughts that he wished Cailan were more like the young teyrn. Would Bryce have told Fergus about this scheme? The bluff, honest young face did not seem the mask of an intriguer, but perhaps it was merely a very good mask indeed.

Except that the man's wife and son had been killed, and if Cousland had known why Howe had attacked, and if Orlesian plotting was at the heart of it, would not the young man be wracked with guilt as well as grief? Cousland's anger was directed outward entirely, as far as Loghain could tell. He spoke of Howe as a treacherous, ambitious snake, whose own lust for the teyrnir of Highever had caused him to stab his old friend in the back.

It did not add up. Perhaps Bryce had kept his own counsel, or shared some of it with Eleanor. Perhaps she knew only that he was seeking to make a firmer peace with Orlais, in the footsteps of Maric. There was the long diplomatic visit, the gifts which the Couslands had not attempted to conceal…

If these were forgeries, they were very good ones. The letter from Bryce sounded like the man: elegant, polished, dignified, and direct. The confidential assessment of Cailan, while scathing, was all too accurate. It was not impossible to credit that a man could, in good faith, consider Cailan an inadequate leader in the best of times, and a disaster in the worst. What was written about Anora hurt more. Cousland granted Anora's abilities and intelligence, while deploring her base birth. He had not opposed the match at the time, since it was clearly King Maric's own choice, but he had come to believe that Maric was wrong. The marriage had not been blessed with children, and the succession was once again an open question.

Still, the question remained: why had Howe not presented this information to Loghain, or arrested Bryce on their journey south? He could have brought Bryce directly before the King, to face his justice. Fergus would already have been in their hands. Did Howe think that that Eleanor would have opened the port of Highever to Orlesians warships, and allowed her son and husband to have been executed? The only heir left would have been Bronwyn, whom the Orlesians would have been forced to set up as their puppet queen, since the little boy was just too young to make a credible viceroy. Maker help them. He could not imagine Bronwyn permitting any such thing.

Unless the King had killed her father and brother. Then it would be a blood feud, and she might very well accept the alliance with Orlesians in order to have revenge. Perhaps they would have brought in the Empress' cousin, that Imperial Prince, to marry her. That bastard Meghren had never attempted to conciliate Ferelden by marrying a native bride. Perhaps the Orlesians had learned from their past mistakes. An Orlesian prince, as consort to the Fereldan heiress-presumptive: now that was something that many of the nobles would accept, though it galled him to admit it, even to himself.

Where did Howe say he had come by these documents, anyway? A disaffected bard? That was not promising. The bard could just as likely be a provocateur, sent deliberately into Ferelden to foment suspicion and civil war. Loghain stirred uneasily, considering how very easy it would have been for Howe to make his case, had Bronwyn not been here and so obviously loyal.

An awkward situation. If the documents were fakes, Howe would have to be brought to justice, and even then, there would be those who would whisper at a cover-up. If the documents were genuine…

If the documents were genuine, then Bryce and Eleanor had paid for their treason with their lives, and the life of their innocent grandson. Howe had still not played the part of a loyal subject, for his troops were still in the north, consolidating his power, rather than in the King's service, supporting the war against the Blight. From a pragmatic standpoint, the Couslands were more valuable than the Howes. Fergus was here, with his men, and performing good service. Bronwyn was trying to raise armies for the kingdom…

Unless she wasn't. Loghain grimaced. She had gone west to Orzammar, but Orlais was in the same direction…

No. Probably the best thing, as long as Fergus and Bronwyn could be cleared, would be to leave it to a contest of arms before the Landsmeet. Fergus' odds against Howe were better than good. Fergus could kill Howe, and the King could mediate an armistice between the warring families. He did not think much of the possibility of persuading Fergus Cousland to marry Delilah Howe, the best option for peace. And persuading Thomas Howe to marry Bronwyn…no…the lad probably would be delighted to marry Bronwyn, but Bronwyn had already refused him, and Loghain did not see the need to sacrifice her. He had other, better, plans for Bronwyn Cousland…as long as she was not a traitor to Ferelden…

"Out of the way!"

"Make way for His Majesty!"

Shouts and shoving pushed milling soldiers aside, where they crowded at the north side of the fortress, the terminus of the Imperial Highway.

"Maker's Blood, that hurts!"

"You're going to be fine, Your Majesty," Wynne told him, her voice warm and soothing. "A little rest, and you'll never know you were wounded."

"I'll never forget an arrow that went all the way through my side!" Cailan shouted back.

Fergus led the way, his frown deepening. Loghain had thought the King might respond better to a younger man, since lately Cailan had lived to ignore or subvert Loghain's every order. The King was in nominal command of the northern defenses, but Fergus was supposed to keep him under control, and safe. He had failed. The King had rushed forward from cover, been wounded, and now they were taking him back to face Loghain's fury.

Not that it was a particularly bad wound. The arrow was not even poisoned. In the excitement of the moment, Cailan had stood up, exposing himself needlessly, and waved his greatsword on high, in a heroic, menacing gesture. He had promptly been shot, and the arrow had gone through the skin right under his arm, where there was a gap in his armor. A flesh wound, only, but it had hurt, and there had been blood, and the King, it appeared, really, really disliked pain.

The darkspawn had been dispatched, and a larger party they had been trailing had suddenly moved south, apparently to reinforce the big attack on the east side of the fortress, down in the valley. That had been defeated too, as Fergus learned as he shouldered his way to the Tower of Ishal, supporting the King on one side.

"Those dwarves threw a bloody big bomb at them from one of those machine things of theirs," a sergeant shouted back in answer to Fergus' questions. "Smashed them to bits. Knocked the stuffing out of them for a week or two, I'll warrant!"

Fergus nodded at the man, laughing, "I thought it was thunder, and under a clear sky and all!"

The King was scowling, and Fergus rearranged his face into the proper expression of concern for the King's pain and distress.

"I've had just about enough of Ostagar," Cailan complained bitterly. "If we had some Wardens here, this wouldn't have happened!"

Fergus bit back a retort to the implied criticism of his sister. The great door of the Tower of Ishal opened, and they made their way to the King's quarters, waving off the questions of the guards.

"His Majesty is perfectly all right. A minor wound."

"It could have gone all the way through my lung!" Cailan contradicted under his breath.

Fergus replied, just as quietly, "We don't want to alarm the men, Your Majesty."

"I know, I know! I just want to lie down a bit!"

The king was helped to bed, and hovering servants removed the armor and cut the bloody shirt away. A young knight of Highever, Ser Rona, pushed forward, her face anguished. Fergus gave the young woman a hard stare, and she blushed and looked away. It had come to his ears this morning that she was the King's latest bed warmer. Fergus was sorry for her family's shame when they heard of it, and he planned to tell Ser Rona so himself. Wynne cossetted the king with more poultices and healing spells.

"Ow! You don't have to rip the skin off!"

"This will ease the pain, Your Majesty…"

Fergus looked on, brows knit, and did not turn around to acknowledge the new presence in the room. The subtle shifting of the soldiers and the looks told him who it was. Ser Rona slipped away, face averted.

"It's not a serious wound," Fergus told Loghain quietly. "Arrow took him through a bit of the skin near the armpit. It surprised him, naturally."

"Naturally."

Wynne shooed them out, citing the King's need for rest, sparing a little more deference in her shooing for Loghain and Fergus.

Cailan shouted over her head. "We need to talk, Loghain! After dinner tonight!"

Fergus nodded toward his own quarters. The two men rounded the curving hall, and closed the door for privacy.

"What happened?" Loghain asked, without preamble.

"He was posing for a statue again," Fergus answered bluntly. "He stood straight up and waved his sword very impressively. That's when the genlock got him. It completely ruined the effect."

Loghain snorted in disgust and walked to the window, looking out over the camp. "Our King tires of army life, I think."

"He said it wouldn't have happened if the Wardens were here. Bronwyn doesn't deserve to be blamed because he has to make a spectacle of himself."

"Men say stupid things when they're hurt or frightened. Stupid, petty things. I grant that he's been moody and morose lately, but the King loves the Grey Wardens."

Fergus shook his head. "He feels abandoned by them. I suspect he'll have something unpleasant to say at dinner."

The servants were dismissed, the doors closed, and the King and his nobles were left to discuss how things stood. Cailan sat back against the carefully arranged cushions of his chair, his wound heavily bandaged.

"There's so much I need to be doing in Denerim," he pointed out. "I can't neglect all my other duties because we're at war. I think I should look in at the capital—see how things are going—see Anora. I'll return in a few weeks, as the weather permits."

Loghain listened to him in silence, feeling the words like a death knell. If Cailan left the army now, Loghain wondered if he would ever come back at all. Certainly, he would not share the privations of winter in the south with them. And who knew what he would get up to, there in Denerim?

And the King's words launched the inevitable cascade of complaints from the nobles, who had been gone so long from their own lands.

"I think the King has a point," Arl Urien agreed, seizing on the possibility of escape. "I don't like the things I'm hearing from Denerim. At my age, a man needs to take care of himself. I could ride back with the King, and send my son in my place. Maybe it's time Vaughan got a taste of campaigning!"

There was some sympathy for him, since Urien had not been particularly well of late. He was only a little older than Loghain, but had not lived the same kind of life, nor taken care of himself in the same way. He suffered badly from the joint-ache and a persistent cough that the Healers could not quite eradicate. And after all, perhaps his son should experience warfare at first hand against an armed foe, instead of bullying the elves of Denerim.

"We're holding the darkspawn, Loghain," Arl Wulffe said, considering the matter. "We're holding them. I know they keep coming back, but we've held them so far. We've got to do something about the north and all this Howe business. I've heard from my sons and from Alfstanna and Reginalda. Things are in a blasted bloody mess. I know you want to do something, Fergus!"

Fergus looked at Loghain, bleak despair in his eyes. "More than anything, I want to kill that bastard. But we can't simply leave, and let the darkspawn swarm up and have the country. We're holding the darkspawn successfully, but only holding them, and there always seem to be more."

"With Orlesian reinforcements," Cailan said airily, "We'd be free to deal with the unrest. All I have to do is say the word, and the Empress will send us their Wardens, and four legions of chevaliers besides."

Loghain glared at him. "And just how," he asked, his voice ominously soft, "just how do you propose to get them to leave, once they're invited over the border?"

"We're doing all right on our own, Your Majesty," Bryland said. The very mention of the Orlesians recalled the bitter memory of running for his life, terrified and hungry, after the disaster at White River. "We've got the dwarven engineers and all these mages now. That's made a tremendous difference. And Bronwyn's gone to Orzammar, I hear, to raise the dwarves…"

Cailan slammed down his wine cup. "I have heard from the Queen that the dwarven king is dead and the throne is in contention. Bronwyn will be cooling her heels in Orzammar for months!" He subsided into his carved chair, sulking. "I wanted her to go to the Dalish first…"

Very offended at more criticism of Bronwyn, Fergus gave his king an unfriendly stare. "Why do the Orlesian Grey Wardens, if they're so eager to help us, need the Empress' permission? Why don't they just come and leave the chevaliers behind? Bronwyn said she'd be glad of some veteran Wardens to fill her in on the lore. We could admit a few as advisers and such. Why the Wardens and the chevaliers?"

"Because that was the deal she offered!" Cailan shot back, furious at being challenged.

Urien supported the king. "It would mean some needed rest for the army, if we could leave the Orlesians to it, down here the South. Nothing here that anyone wants, anyhow…"

"Nothing but the southern half of the kingdom!" Bryland shouted at him. "Maybe it doesn't matter to you, but South Reach is only days from Ostagar, and I don't plan on being ousted by those bastards again!"

Loghain sat back, refusing to intervene. More were with him than with Cailan. It was Wulffe who interposed, his lined face grave and weary.

"I've got to speak plain, Your Majesty. Nobody wants thousands of Orlesian chevaliers prancing down the Imperial Highway, feeding off our crops like they used to, bold as you please! We're doing all right here, as Leonas says, and we'll do better when we get those reinforcements your sister is after, Fergus. I say we've got to do something about the trouble in the north. People are hurting. My boys write me that they've heard dark things out of Highever City. Fergus is too loyal to say how much he wants to go north and settle with Howe. It's got to be done, and sooner better than later. This kind of trouble makes us look weak, and not just to the Orlesians!"

Loghain studied young Cousland. He had been pleased by the lad's words opposing the package deal of chevaliers and Wardens. It tended to support his own belief that Fergus was not involved in any conspiracy with the Orlesians.

"What do you say, my lord of Highever?" he asked quietly.

Fergus sat back, and looked Loghain in the eye, to the furious annoyance of the king. "I agree with Wulffe that we can't let this go on with Howe. He's a traitor, not just to my family, to whom he swore loyalty as a vassal, but to all Ferelden. He hasn't supported the war against the darkspawn, and he's letting us take casualties while he builds up his power and gets rich from picking the corpses of the people he murdered, like the vulture he is. He's tormenting the people of my teyrnir. My own men are restless and angry. They want to go home and see to their families. Howe must be stopped." He sighed, frowning. "Does anyone think that he could be called to a session of the Landsmeet for a challenge? I would like to meet him face to face, and make him pay for what he's done."

"He'd never come unless he thought it was a sure thing," Bryland muttered.

Cailan was pleased. This was something that he could do, and it would give him a perfect excuse to spend some time for needed rest and recreation in Denerim. "I could call a Landsmeet. I know you can't possibly leave the Army, Loghain, so Anora could represent Gwaren for you. Yes, Fergus, I'll give you your opportunity to challenge Howe. You could come with me, Urien, and send Vaughan down for a taste of campaigning. Give him some experience, eh?" he laughed. "If Howe fails to show, then we'll have to move against him. Perhaps by then," he granted to Fergus, "Bronwyn might have succeeded in her mission, and more of the army will be available to deal with something other than darkspawn."

Loghain hated the idea of Cailan on the loose, but Anora would be waiting in Denerim, and presumably could rein him in. No, he could not leave the army. It was extremely unlikely that Howe would put his head in the lion's mouth of the Landsmeet, when Fergus was so much in favor at the moment. The question was: which of the Highever troops could they spare from the army? For it was certain that a considerable force would have to be mobilized to deal with Howe. Not the precious newly-trained pikemen, but two companies of foot and one of Highever knights, perhaps. Urien would want his personal guard, but that is all he would get, for Loghain would not allow him to decimate the army, especially since there was an implicit promise that Bann Vaughan would replace his father.

More talk, more debate. Cailan, having gained his own point of escaping the boredom and danger of the Wardenless army, was prepared to be generous.

"Very well. I shall leave in two days with Fergus and Urien. I'm sure we can raise more men as we go north, Loghain. I wouldn't want to strip the army bare, while you're sitting down here in the south besieged!"

There was an uneasy stir in the room at the word. No one liked to imagine how bad things might become if the darkspawn horde swelled its numbers even more.

"It is not yet a siege, Cailan," Loghain said, keeping his voice level. "In time, it might well become one. For now, there is no better place than Ostagar to hold the darkspawn at bay. If we pull back, the darkspawn will follow, and then where will we make our stand? Lothering? South Reach? Denerim?"

Note: The command for archers is "Loose!" rather than "Fire!" Ain't no gunpowder in a bow. Early firearms, however, did require the use of a match or lit fuse, hence the command.

I know the cut scene of the Battle of Ostagar seems to imply that the darkspawn have siege weapons, but nothing we see of them later would support that. Their only devices are crude traps and ballistae, and the latter were probably made by someone else. Their emissaries might be able to throw long-distance fireballs. Possibly with dwarven ghoul/thralls, they could have some decent weapons, but the darkspawn could barely learn how to load them, much less repair them, and siege weapons require constant maintenance.

Thanks to my splendid reviewers: mille libri, mutive, Lehni, demonicnargles, qwintessa, jen4306, Donroth, Shakespira, JackOfBladesX, Costin, Aoi24, almostinsane, Eva Galan, Sarah1281, Amhran Comhrac, Piceron, Rathian Warrior (no, Bronwyn didn't get her head on one of the giant statues), mieuwings, Derko5, Windchime68, PiotrMc, Gene Dark, WellspringCD, wisecracknmama, WraithRune, and Have Socks Will Travel.