Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 34: Asha'bellanar
For months, Vigil's Keep had been on alert, like a beast about to spring. Gold had flowed in and then out, and the forces of the Arl of Amaranthine had never been so numerous, or so superbly equipped.
"Message for the Arl!" shouted the horseman. The gate guard recognized him, and let him through, but the guard at the inner courtyard demanded the password as well.
"Avvar!" the horseman snapped. "Don't delay me! His lordship will flay you if you keep this news from him." He jumped down, right leg flicking over the horse's neck, and hurried through the throne room.
"Where is he?" he asked the seneschal, not even pausing to shed his wet cloak.
"His study. Follow me."
Eyes followed the courier. Soldiers nudged one another, wondering if they would finally get the order to do something other than wait. Rendon Howe's troops were prey to dozens of rumors: that the King would march on them and put everyone in Vigil's Keep to the sword; that the Arl would march on Denerim and defend the King and Queen from the Cousland conspiracy; that Teyrn Loghain was coming to join them, or to mediate the differences between the Crown and the Arl; that the so-called "darkspawn" were really Orlesians in disguise; that the darkspawn were real, but were controlled by the mages at the Circle; that Fergus Cousland would send Crow assassins against the Arl and his family.
Howe was widely respected, but not loved, so there were other rumors: that the Couslands had been innocent of treason, and the attack on them had been an attempt to seize by force what the Arl had not been able to win by marriage; that the Arl had hoped to keep secret his own part in the attack, and blame it on rogue mercenaries; that the Teyrna of Highever was a prisoner in the deepest dungeons, and visited regularly by the Arl; that the Arl had sent for his eldest child, Lord Nathaniel, and was planning to marry him to the old Teyrn's daughter to make peace; that the old Teyrn's daughter was now the famous Girl Warden, fighting to save Ferelden from the darkspawn; that the Girl Warden was a dangerous siren who had seduced Teyrn Loghain, or King Cailan, or the new Dwarven King, or the Knight-Commander of the Templars—or all of them at various times.
Up the stairs and down a hall were the Arl's private quarters. It was not very far from the Throne Room, in fact. The courier had served Arl Howe for many years, and knew that the late Arlessa's rooms were in a distant tower, so as to be as far from the Arl as possible. The Arl's daughter had taken over those rooms after her mother died. The Arl approved of that, wanting her protected from danger and from rough-tongued soldiers. The heir, Lord Thomas, had a fine bedchamber near his father, but preferred to sleep in the knights' quarters: drinking, most of the time, it was said.
The seneschal announced him, and the courier was shown in. There was the Arl, at work at his desk, looking over some maps with his faithful right-hand, Captain Chase.
"Ah, Catesby," Rendon Howe turned cold grey eyes on the messenger. "What news from Denerim?"
A little later, a pair of guardsmen were called to the Arl's study. The seneschal was grim and non-committal, and instructed the men to take the dead body of the courier to the common midden for disposal.
"Andraste's tits," grunted one. "Remind me never to give the Old Man news he don't like!"
Useless fools. Rendon Howe stormed down to the armory, cursing quietly and thoroughly. I am surrounded by fools.
Catesby had not seen Marjolaine in Denerim. No one answered the door. It was believed that she had gone a long journey. Wherever she had gone, it was not north to report to her employer. Where the bloody Maker was the woman? Howe had not heard from her since her last message, advising him to wait for Fergus Cousland's arrest. That, apparently, was not happening any time soon. Instead, the King was on his way south to rejoin the army, and Fergus Cousland had been given leave to seek revenge. Catesby had left the advancing troops only half a day behind.
Everything was bloody falling apart. The Crows had failed to kill either Bronwyn or Fergus. Filthy foreign cheats. And now, news had come to Denerim that the bloody Girl Warden had arrived at Ostagar at the head of an army of four thousand dwarves. If that were not bad enough, she had made contact with the Dalish, who were sending a company of archers. Bloody Bronwyn Cousland. She had given him the slip at Highever, and was as great a danger to him as her brother. The girl who had thought herself too good for Thomas was now very close in Loghain's councils, and the whispered rumor was that they were lovers.
Bryce had fed him some codswallop about her being in love, as an excuse to refuse the Howe alliance. Well, she must have got over being in love quick smart, if she was bartering herself to Loghain. At that, she was showing more sense than he had anticipated. He should have remembered how talented Couslands were at ingratiating themselves with those in power. He had occasionally wondered if Bryce would try for a marriage alliance there, but had dismissed it, knowing how disinclined Loghain was to match himself to a highborn, high-maintenance bride. Bronwyn's tomboy antics must have amused Loghain, or recalled happier days to him. The girl did resemble Queen Rowan slightly, though the relationship was very distant.
And that greedy fool Vaughan had been sent to Ostagar in his father's place, thus putting an end to Howe's profitable trade in elves. Urien was too cautious an old fox to take part in such a scheme, and it was too late to deal with him, anyway.
It had been, he admitted, too good to last, but had filled the coffers of Vigil's Keep with more gold than he had seen in all the years he had ruled Amaranthine. That gold might be his only salvation now: with it he had fortified the Vigil, strengthening the walls and hiring soldiers. No ordinary force could take this fortress, and if he held out long enough, Fergus and his troops would break on the granite of the curtain walls. The darkspawn continued to be a menace in the south. If Howe could hold out long enough, he might manage to kill Fergus and wring a settlement. Now that Bronwyn was a Grey Warden, she could not inherit. Fergus' brat was dead. Once Fergus was out of the way, Thomas or Nathaniel still had a good chance of keeping Highever…
He met with the rest of his captains, and gave his orders quickly, tersely. A message to Esmerelle in Amaranthine; more messages to the Packtons and Tyrells. They were well-stocked as to victuals. He had been taking his duties from freeholders in kind instead of in coin since the profitable trade with the Tevinters had begun.
To one of his men-at-arms, he said, "Find Lady Delilah. Escort her to her rooms, and lock her in. No one goes in, and she does not come out. Understood?"
"Yes, my lord!"
"And you—" Howe said to another soldier. "Send my son to me."
"May I speak to you in private?" Bronwyn asked Loghain softly, as dinner ended.
He smirked, half-amused. Apparently there had been some sort of foolish gossip about the two of them. Soldiers were easily bored.
"If you dare."
A dutiful smile, not concealing her vexation. Bronwyn no longer blushed so readily, but she was still quite young and still easily unsettled by his notice. It was a poignant pleasure, to realize that she was stirred by him. She must have heard the gossip, too. Naturally, a young lady felt rather differently about that sort of gossip that a man in his position. A smile rose to his lips, irresistible.
Her fine hound was lounging on the floor between them. Loghain tossed the dog a tidbit from his plate, which Scout snapped up almost without moving his head. A lazy tailwag expressed his thanks.
She was playing with her food now, Grey Warden appetite or not, and was clearly anxious to have her say, He rose, acknowledged the salutes, and led the way to his office, her dog trotting along behind them. Waving her in, he shut the door, with a brief, hard look at the guard. He wanted no eavesdroppers, whatever Bronwyn had to tell him. The dog found a corner and sprawled there, completely at ease.
Bronwyn took the chair he pointed her to, and was actually blushing again. He had missed that, but forbore to smile, which would make her even more uncomfortable. At some point, he must speak to her. Not now, of course, but someday, when the worst was behind them.
She began without preamble. "I've had some extraordinary news. I had planned to leave tomorrow, but perhaps I can put off my departure a day or so. My people have given me word of a dragon near to hand. And not just a dragon: a High Dragon."
Loghain frowned at her. "My scouts have given me no word of such a creature." She looked unsurprised. "This dragon has wit enough to remain invisible, until it is sufficiently provoked. You know—" she paused, and looked at him with those piercing green eyes. He was growing used to the strange color. It was odd, but rather beautiful.
She began again. "Morrigan is a shape-shifter, taught by Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds herself. Flemeth is also, obviously, a shape-shifter. Morrigan tells me that her most powerful form is that of a High Dragon."
He stared at her, trying to see what lay behind her eyes. "And why would Morrigan tell such a story about her mother?"
"Because Flemeth is not her mother at all. When I was riding to Denerim, Morrigan and her mage friends took advantage of my absence to penetrate the Tower of Magi and abscond with a book that was once Flemeth's. In it, the witch reveals the secret of her long life."
He waited.
Bronwyn grimaced with distaste. She had been reluctant to strike at one who had saved her brother, but what Flemeth had planned for Morrigan—and for an infinite series of innocent girls—was unspeakable. It was reason enough to put an end to her.
"Every few decades, Flemeth abducts a girl child with the gift of magic. She raises and teaches the girl, training her magic to its fullest capacity. When that is done, she takes possession of the girl's body for herself, condemning her 'child's' soul to oblivion. So she has done since the Towers Age. Morrigan was to develop her magic with the challenges of our expedition. At some point, Flemeth planned to take the body for herself, and thus enjoy whatever rewards and benefits accrued to Morrigan for her loyalty to our company and to Ferelden."
It was an extraordinary story, indeed, but Loghain thought Flemeth capable of anything.
"I take it that Morrigan does not wish to be possessed?"
She smiled slightly. "It would seem not. I had wondered what was wrong with her for the past week. She has quietly boiled with fear and anger since she comprehended certain passages in Flemeth's grimoire. She approached me, asking for my protection. That Flemeth will almost certainly, if attacked, transform into a High Dragon would give us the opportunity to test our tactics and weapons against a formidable opponent. Morrigan asks only that she not be present, as she fears that once dead, Flemeth would attempt to possess her on the spot. She believes that distance would be her best defense in this situation. However, I would bring all the rest of my Wardens and other companions to the fight. We might also try a ballista or two, if they can be positioned stealthily. The darkspawn, from your account, have been quiescent for several days, especially to the west. This might be our best opportunity."
"Flemeth is a powerful mage. Have you considered asking the assistance of the Templars in camp?"
"I considered, but rejected the idea. Morrigan tells me that Templars have not had much success against Flemeth in the past." The stories, in fact, were horrifying. It was hideous, what Morrigan had been forced to watch, when living with that abomination. "Alistair and Cullen, of course, have had Templar training, and possess all the usual abilities. We can see if they are useful when supported by other tactics."
Loghain considered the proposal. It was tempting: very tempting. Flemeth's malicious predictions had pursued and haunted him for years.
"If you keep him near you, he will betray you: each time worse than the last."
So she had declared to Maric. A vicious lie, of course. He had never betrayed Maric. Yes, he and Rowan had been lovers, but only when Maric had cast Rowan aside for that treacherous elf Katriel in the most egregious, humiliating way. Rowan had needed the support and validation of Loghain's love.
As to dealing with Cailan—well, he refused to feel bound by the ridiculous prophecy or by his ties to Maric. The son was not the father, and if Cailan planned to betray Ferelden—as he so obviously did—then Loghain felt all obligation to the son was at an end.
Flemeth. There would be a real satisfaction in putting an end to that sinister creature. She would pour no more poison into men's ears: spread no more lies. And if what Bronwyn told him was true-murder no more young girls.
"Very well. We move out at dawn. We shall take my engineers and two of their portable ballistae. A company of archers, too. Perhaps some of Maric's Shield/ Do you need more mages?"
"I think that would be an excellent idea. I wish I knew more about the tactics of the Nevarran dragon-hunters. I don't know much more than that they hunted the creatures nearly to extinction. What weapons they used...how large their hunting parties were...this is all a mystery."
Loghain grunted. He knew nothing about it either, and had never seen a book that dealt with it. It was one of those things that belonged to the distant past, right up until it didn't. "Better for a bit of overkill than to be unprepared. We'll have a surprise for Flemeth. By the way..." he paused, "I'd like to have one of your Wardens with me, so the darkspawn don't ruin the effect. Perhaps that new mage of yours—the dark-haired one..."
"All right," Bronwyn agreed, thinking it a very reasonable precaution, and very glad he had not asked for Tara, who was a superior battlemage, or for Anders, their healer. "I'll let him know that he'll be with you."
"—and I'd like a map to Flemeth's lair, if that is possible."
Melian Tabris was guarded by one of the Grey Wardens both going and coming to her labors in the bomb workshop.
So Vaughan's man told him. It was annoying, but not surprising. Bronwyn Cousland had made a pet of the elf. Noblewomen sometimes did such things. His own mother had filled her apartments at the city estate with her pets: lapdogs, cats, nugs from Orzammar—and elves, too. Vaughan had learned early not to risk Mamma's wrath by harming one of them. Ladies were fond of small, pretty creatures, and liked to have them about. If one of Mamma's pets displeased her, she always saw to the punishments—or disposal—herself.
Father thought highly of Bronwyn, and was disappointed that she had been removed from the marriage market by her conscription into the Grey Wardens. Vaughan agreed that it was an outrageous abuse of the Right of Conscription. Bronwyn was making the best of it, being dutiful like all the Couslands, and she was quite charming and of unimpeachable lineage. Before the darkspawn had ruined her face, she had been quite beautiful, as well. He had not seen her in years, but she had been exceptionally appealing even as a very young girl. A shame, what had happened. Ladies should not be put in a position in which they were forced to take up arms. It was…unfeminine.
Still, she was a willful creature, and would have been a handful as a wife. His intended, Habren Bryland, was much more to his taste: delicate, refined, ladylike, soft-handed, fond of pretty things, and with a keen fashion sense. When Father had written of the arrangement between him and Arl Leonas, Vaughan had dutifully made his courtesies to the young lady. To his surprise and pleasure, he found that they had much in common. He was quite looking forward to their wedding…
But he had unfinished business with that elf whore. Just because the bitch had ingratiated herself with Bronwyn, the little tart imagined herself beyond justice. Bronwyn, however, had serious business to attend to, and would be gone in a day or so. It was doubtful that she would burden herself with a useless pet. When she was gone, it should not be hard to lure the elf beyond the camp, and then let the darkspawn take the blame when her body was found…
The Wardens and their friends gathered just before they turned in for the night. Bronwyn told them their mission for the following day: to hunt down and slay The Witch of the Wilds, who when roused to fury took the form of a High Dragon. It was daunting, to say the least, but they would have support, in the form of ballistae with poisoned and explosive bolts, a company of archers, and a dozen more mages.
Zevran grinned at Carver Hawke. "You will find, my young friend, that we lead lives of high adventure! A dragon! Now that is something that even I have never fought."
Sten frowned. "We are undertaking this as a training mission? That is a valid use of time and resources. I have never faced a dragon either. It will be interesting to see which tactics prove effective."
Cullen was suspicious of Morrigan's grimoire, but very eager for the adventure: possibly the most eager of all the Wardens. Simply the fact that she was an apostate mage made her a suitable target. That she had no doubt killed dozens—possibly hundreds—of Templars, confirmed that it was their duty. When he heard the secret of her long life, he was implacable.
"She's been murdering innocent young girls for hundreds of years!" he burst out passionately, ignoring the fact that under ordinary circumstances he would never have described Morrigan as an "innocent young girl." He stalked back and forth, full of tall indignation. "Kidnapping little children! Possessing them like a demon—driving their souls from their bodies. That is murder! To think that she's been doing this for ages. I thought that the Hero Cormac killed her!"
"'Tis a myth," Morrigan said with a shrug. "Flemeth told me that she never had dealings with Cormac at all."
Danith's curiosity was aroused. "This Flemeth…she is the same one we know as "Asha'bellanar?"
Morrigan bowed her head in assent. "The Woman of Many Years. You are indeed correct."
"I don't know the story at all," Brosca interrupted. "Tell us about it!"
Smirking, Morrigan gestured at Leliana. "Surely our bard has heard something of Flemeth, The Witch of the Wilds?"
Leliana said, "The story of Flemeth is very famous. This is what I was taught:"
Leliana's story of the Legend of Flemeth:
Ages ago, legend says Bann Conobar took to wife a beautiful young woman who harbored a secret talent for magic: Flemeth of Highever. And for a time they lived happily, until the arrival of a young poet, Osen, who captured the lady's heart with his verse.
They turned to the Chasind tribes for help and hid from Conobar's wrath in the Wilds, until word came to them that Conobar lay dying: His last wish was to see Flemeth's face one final time.
The lovers returned, but it was a trap. Conobar killed Osen, and imprisoned Flemeth in the highest tower of the castle. In grief and rage, Flemeth worked a spell to summon a spirit into this world to wreak vengeance upon her husband. Vengeance, she received, but not as she planned. The spirit took possession of her, turning Flemeth into an abomination. A twisted, maddened creature, she slaughtered Conobar and all his men, and fled back into the Wilds.
For a hundred years, Flemeth plotted, stealing men from the Chasind to sire monstrous daughters: horrific things that could kill a man with fear. These Korcari witches led an army of Chasind from the Wilds to strike at the Alamarri tribes. They were defeated by the hero Cormac, and all the witches burned, so they say, but even now the Wilders whisper that Flemeth lives on in the marsh, and she and her daughters steal those men who come too near.
Adaia listened with wide eyes, for this was a story she had never heard. The mages listened more critically, looking for the facts amid the fancy. Carver Hawke was impressed that they would be going up against such a creature. He was a bit impressed with himself for being in such dauntless company.
Morrigan listened with increasing impatience. "Yes, yes, yes. "Tis all very well, and that is the story, but Flemeth tells a different tale!"
Morrigan's version of the Legend of Flemeth.
As the tale is sung by the bards, there was a time when Flemeth was young and beautiful. A fair lass in a land of barbarian men, the desire of any who saw her. And that much, Flemeth says, is true. She was indeed beautiful and desirable, and many men wished her favor.
However, Flemeth told me that it was the bard Osen who was her husband, and Lord Conobar the one who admired from afar. At length, he offered Osen a rich reward, if he would relinquish Flemeth to him. I see that you are shocked at the idea, but the life of a bard—most especially the life of a bard in those savage days—was poor and hard. Osen and Flemeth agreed to Conobar's offer.
But Conobar bargained with coin he did not possess. Instead, he ordered his men to slay Osen and take Flemeth to his castle. He showed himself to be a man without honor, and Flemeth despised him in her heart. Spirits gathered about her, sensing her hidden power, and spoke to her, and gave her the means to revenge herself upon Conobar.
So she slew him and escaped, fleeing south into the Wilds, where she has lived to this day. She denies that she and her 'daughters' ever rallied an 'army' to attack the Alamarri tribes. There was such a incursion, but she says she played no part in it. As to the 'Hero' Cormac, Flemeth says that he instigated a bloody civil war amongst the chiefs of the land, claiming to be ridding it of evil. She was attached to his story much later. As I said, Flemeth herself insists that she never fought any warrior named Cormac at all.
But none can deny her power. Some call her the Witch of the Wilds. The Chasind know her as The Woman of Many Years. So too, as we have heard, is she known to the Dalish. Yes, Asha'bellanar is the name.
I, too, have heard the tale of Flemeth's 'daughters,' and the Chasind tell of how she waged war against them, slew them, and ate their hearts. There is a grain of truth in all old stories, and now I know that there is truth in that one. No doubt Flemeth wishes to 'eat my heart' as she has all the rest of her daughters through the ages. I do not intend to permit it.
"Of course," Astrid said afterwards, "there's no particular reason to think Flemeth's version is more accurate than the other."
Morrigan said coolly, "I know of no reason for her to lie."
"That's just it," Astrid pressed on. "You wouldn't. On the other hand, what reason has she to tell the truth? We already know she never hesitated to keep the truth from you. I think we should be very careful about anything this being says. You say she looks human. Is she? I hadn't heard that humans live for hundreds of years."
"She is a very powerful mage—"
"She must be a maleficar!" Cullen declared. Jowan slunk back into a corner.
"No!" Morrigan denied it, but seemed a little shaken. "She despises Blood Magic. She considers it the resort of weak mages. She forbade me ever to attempt it."
Anders thought about it, "But if she were, and she wanted to keep you under her domination, that is exactly what she would say…"
This seemed to disturb Morrigan even more. "I do not think she is. I have never her seen her use blood to power even the greatest of her spells. What you say—" she nodded to Astrid "—may be truer than you know. It is possible that she is no longer human. Her story tells of a demon within her, but she has never taken the form of an abomination."
Cullen was fascinated, despite himself. "And abominations cannot be hidden," he said. "They have a very distinct appearance. And for both her soul and a demon to jump from body to body sounds very…unusual, to say the least. We must be vigilant that she does not attempt to possess one of our mages!"
Bronwyn nodded slowly. "They will be warned to be on their guard. Loghain is letting us bring several of the Circle mages along. Any recommendations?"
A list was put together, and Bronwyn detailed Anders to talk to Uldred and Torrin as soon as their own council ended.
"Bronwyn…" Tara asked hesitantly. "In the story, Flemeth is from Highever. You're from there. Is she just in a story, or is she in real history?"
Bronwyn had been thinking that over as well. The story had implications that made her a little uncomfortable. Highever Castle was very old: one of the oldest in Ferelden. Flemeth had been the chatelaine—however unwillingly—of the very castle that had been Bronwyn's home from the day of her birth. It was disturbing to imagine Flemeth presiding in the same hall where Bronwyn's father and mother had held sway.
Nonetheless, she saw no reason not to share with them what her tutor had taught her.
With a self-conscious laugh, she said, "You might say that the Cousland family owes its rise to Flemeth. Back in the Towers Age, before there was a Ferelden, Highever was ruled by the Elstan family. They were cousins of the Howes. In our chronicles, it is indeed written that the last of the Elstans, Bann Conobar, was murdered by his wife Flemeth. That would have happened just after the end of the Third Blight, around Towers 3:30. After his death, a cousin, Sarim Cousland, claimed Highever, and the Couslands have ruled there ever since. In the Black Age, Haelia Cousland rallied the North against the Lycanthrope Plague, and she was acclaimed as Teyrna. That was a hundred years before the crowing of King Calenhad and the unification of Ferelden in Exalted 5:42. Thus, if this Flemeth is the same Flemeth in our chronicles, she has to be at least six hundred years old. I would say that even if she began life as a human, she can't be considered human anymore."
Oghren began to chuckle. "Human or not, you're still related to her. I guess it's sod-all true that you can't pick your relatives!"
Morrigan snickered, glad to see someone else the center of such unwelcome attention.
Bronwyn said, a bit hotly, "If we are related at all, it is only by marriage. Six hundred years ago."
"Can't pick your in-laws either," Oghren agreed genially. "Stone knows that's true!"
Anders turned to Morrigan. "That's nice. No, it's really nice. You and Bronwyn are some sort of foster-cousins-by-marriage. It's a small world, after all." Morrigan scowled at him, not at the idea of being related to Bronwyn, but at his tone.
"There is one other thing," Bronwyn announced. "Teyrn Loghain wants a Warden in his party to keep watch for darkspawn. Jowan, that's you."
"Me?" Jowan asked, his voice rising to a squeak. "With Teyrn Loghain?"
Light laughter. Bronwyn smiled patiently. "Yes, you. It's a very reasonable request. When we separate, you will stick close to him, and let him know if you sense darkspawn. Once we are engaged, you can still use long distance spells on Flemeth."
"I wouldn't mind sticking close to Teyrn Loghain," Tara said teasingly. "He's so very imposing. I suppose he doesn't like elves."
Leliana sighed, "I suppose he would not like my accent, either. He is indeed a very impressive man. In his silverite armor, he looks like the noblest of chevaliers, but probably he would not like to hear that."
Bronwyn struggled in vain against a grin. "I am quite sure he would not. He asked specifically for a mage, and you must not feel snubbed, Tara. I think he wanted to avoid appearing in the least like Bann Vaughan, with his horrible behavior toward elf women. Besides, Jowan is most junior, and is thus the proper candidate. Don't look like that Jowan, and don't quail before him. He hates that sort of thing!"
Adaia whispered to Danith. The Dalish elf frowned, and then after more prodding, reluctantly spoke. "Would this dragon be vulnerable to bombs and poisons?"
Bronwyn considered this, and when she turned to reply, she saw a beaming Adaia, practically jumping up and down beside the impassive Danith.
"I should think," Bronwyn said slowly, 'that such things might be very useful indeed."
The following morning, they moved out at first light, barely taking the time for a hasty breakfast. Along with the Wardens' party, a band of Circle mages, and a company of skilled archers, Loghain brought Cauthrien and some two dozen picked men from Maric's Shield. Trundling with surprising ease over the marshy terrain were a pair of light two-wheeled carts that could be handled a one man—or dwarf each. These were laden with an assortment of supplies and a cylinder filled with ballista bolts.
Morrigan remained at their quarters in the Tower of Ishal, sitting with queenly dignity by the window. When the party marched out, she made herself join the excited Adaia in waving at their companions. They were acting to a certain extent to protect her, and she owed them that much courtesy. Anders glanced up, looking for her. She did not find it hard to grant him a smile.
She had agreed to escort Adaia to and from her work at the bomb workshop, and knew to keep a sharp lookout for Bann Vaughan and his lackeys. She pretended to be indifferent to whatever story the elf-girl had told Bronwyn, but she had heard the shreds of gossip and was unsurprised. That creature, Bann Vaughan, had leered at her as well. Leered with more restraint than he used with the elves, but it was still offensive. He was offensive.
What should she do with herself today? Without Bronwyn 's presence…without Anders' near her, or the support of the rest of the company…Morrigan confessed to herself that she felt rather at loose ends. Teyrn Loghain had gone with the expedition, too, and he at least could exert some control over the mob of stupid, brutal men. There were a half-dozen Templars in the camp, which was never a good thing. Luckily with the large number of mages present, it was unlikely that she would attract their attention. She would take Adaia to her workshop, return swiftly to the Wardens' quarters, and spend the day in pleasant privacy: washing her hair, reading, brushing her gown, mending a tiny tear in one of her stockings.
Arl Bryland was in charge of the camp, and Morrigan had been introduced to him, along with the rest of Bronwyn's companions. He had been quite polite and friendly, but he was clearly only interested in Bronwyn, who was his near relation. Probably in an emergency it might be possible to appeal to him, but Morrigan would prefer than there was no such emergency.
It was tempting, so terribly tempting to shift into a hawk and follow the Wardens back to Mother's—no, to Flemeth's hut. She would like to see them deal with her with her own eyes. She was concerned, too, lest Flemeth do damage to those who had befriended her. Morrigan had given Anders strict instructions to remain in the back of the party, providing support as a healer. Let the others risk their foolish necks battling Flemeth. Nothing must happen to Anders. There was nothing she could do to protect Brownyn and Tara, however, and she would not insult them with vain pleas to let others face the danger.
Bronwyn had little need of the map she and Morrigan had devised together. She had been this way twice, and even with the change of season it seemed perfectly familiar. No doubt Teyrn Loghain felt more secure with his copy, so it was hardly a wasted effort. It was a relief that Loghain had fallen in with her own plans so readily. She faced today's adventure with some anxiety, despite her pretence of cheerful calm. The additional equipment she carried only reassured her a little.
A gloomy day it was: the sun shown red briefly at daybreak below an increasing cover of dark grey cloud. The wind had stilled, after a stiff breeze earlier. Now it was ominously silent. Bronwyn concentrated and found only the faintest hint of darkspawn: probably a mere remnant of some prior incursion. They marched on, making as little noise as possible. Everyone had been ordered to avoid any but the most necessary speech.
Just before the last low ridge that led to Flemeth's lair, the party divided. Three of the mages would join the Wardens: Niall, Ilon, and Gwyneth. They were nervous, but pleased to be chosen. The rest of the Circle Mages would stay with Loghain. Jowan fidgeted before Wynne's angry glare. Uldred smirked at him, and Torrin and most of the rest simply look disapproving. Gwyneth, at least, gave him a smile. He managed a small smile in return.
Loghain laid a hand on Bronwyn's forearm, and murmured, "Luck in battle."
She smiled radiantly, cheered by the words. "You too, my lord."
Wardens, soldiers, mages, and archers all smirked and nodded to each other. Bronwyn caught the glance Zevran shared with Tara, and narrowed her eyes. Their expressions instantly changed to masks of perfect innocence. Jowan threw her a last look of appeal, and she mouthed, "Good luck!" at him, in what she hoped was her most encouraging way. He did not seem comforted, and slunk after Loghain and Cauthrien as if going to his execution.
The Wardens moved on directly, no longer attempting to be silent. Loghain took his party along the back of the ridge, using the tree cover, ordering some of the men to carry the carts over the awkward terrain. They curved stealthily around the high ground, avoiding the treacherous marshes, moving to the west of the abandoned tower shown on the map. At one point, Loghain motioned his party to stop, and clambered cautiously up the ridge, lying flat to get a look at the killing ground.
When he had been here, more than half a lifetime ago, he and Maric had been cold and starving: too disoriented to take proper note of their surroundings. However, he did recall the witch's hut vaguely, and remembered now that stone wall to one side. That was the ruined tower. Flemeth's dwelling was of wood, and leaned crazily against the stone. There was no one in sight. He hoped that at this early hour the witch was inside and not roaming about in animal form, discovering their plans. He slipped back down the ridge, stooping, and led his people on.
His eyes met Jowan's briefly. The mage flinched and looked away. They would have to have a talk. It seemed unlikely that Jowan had told Bronwyn of his prior dealings with Loghain. She simply was not that good at concealing her feelings. She would no doubt disapprove, if she knew that he had sent Jowan as his agent to Redcliffe. Word had reached him that young Connor was a mage, and that the Arlessa was looking for an apostate mage to teach the boy how to conceal his magic. His most trusted men had been on the lookout for an apostate who could be of use to Loghain. They had rescued Jowan from the hands of the Templars who had captured him after his escape from the Tower.
The mage had been terrified of him, but grateful—even eager—for the opportunity to serve his country. The poison he had given Jowan was not supposed to kill Eamon, but to keep him quiet and out of the political arena. However, such things happened. Either Jowan had given him too strong a dose, or the poison was more powerful than its reputation. Or Eamon was weaker than Loghain had judged him. All of these things were possible. However, after learning of Eamon's participation in Cailan's plot against Anora, Loghain felt no regret at all at his part in the man's death, other than the harm the debacle had caused the innocent people of the castle and the village.
Others, of course, might feel very differently. He considered the need for Jowan to have a fatal accident during the current expedition. Too risky, unless a very good opportunity came his way. Bronwyn would be incensed if he attacked any of her Wardens, just as he would be at an attack against his own men. Perfectly natural.
Jowan walked a little faster, and muttered, just loud enough for Loghain to hear, "Please, my lord. Don't ever tell her."
Loghain glared at the mage, but that was a mere cover for his thoughts. So the mage had no more desire for Bronwyn to know of the poisoning than Loghain did. Very convenient.
He muttered back, "You were supposed to seek me out for your reward."
"I don't need a reward, my lord. I'm a Grey Warden now. Bronwyn has given me a second chance. I don't want her to regret it."
"Very well," Loghain shrugged, secretly very pleased. "Suit yourself. I shall keep your secret as long as you keep mine."
"Thank you, my lord," Jowan whispered. "Thank you!" Loghain waved at him impatiently, frowning him into silence.
They were nearly in position now, and there was no more time or opportunity to talk. Loghain could hear Bronwyn's clear voice, pitched to carry in the open air, and a lower, harsher female voice answering her. Flemeth. Cauthrien's eyes were on him, eager for his orders. He raised his hand, gesturing to the dwarves. It was time.
"So lovely Morrigan has found someone to dance to her tune," Flemeth drawled. The contemptuous amusement in her voice irritated Bronwyn, and she was not alone. Around her, her companions tensed. She could feel the hostility radiating from Anders, behind her, glaring at the old woman.
"We did not come here to talk, Flemeth," Bronwyn said clearly, hoping that Loghain could hear her. Beside her, Scout growled, teeth bared.
"Really?" The Witch of the Wilds cocked her head, studying her. "And what are you here for? A book, perhaps?"
Anders narrowed his eyes. Of course Flemeth would know about that. Morrigan had told him that if he took nothing else, he must find and bring Flemeth's true grimoire back with him. Tara and Jowan had been informed as well. What they wanted to avoid, aside from being killed by this powerful mage, was for the book to fall into the Circle's Hands.
"We are here to stop you, creature!" Cullen shouted.
"A Templar!" Flemeth was even more amused. "I have known so many of your kind, over the years. Not for long, granted, but they were invariably too weak to survive…" Her eyes, dancing with mock reproach, turned once more to Bronwyn, "I did not think you the sort to turn on one who had once served you well."
"Well, it seems that great age has not made you wise," Bronwyn said. It sounded deplorably pert, even to her own ears, but she wanted to get this over with.
Flemeth shrugged. "Very well. If nothing else will satisfy you…" She turned her back to them and began walking away, up to the high ground near her hut, as if they were of no further interest to her. Some of the Circle Mages murmured, confused. Bronwyn had a moment of sickening doubt, wondering if Morrigan was wrong; if she had brought Loghain and all his men here, simply to watch her cut down a defenseless old woman.
"Well," Brosca demanded eagerly, "is she going to do that thing she does, or….Stone save us!"
The air exploded outward, like a body blow. Some of the smaller party members, like Tara and Danith, were knocked back a few steps. The sudden vast bulk before them was startling, huge, unthinkable. Bronwyn caught her breath in a quick gasp, and shouted, "Bombs!"
The High Dragon screamed defiance with a bellow that shook the earth. To the rear of the hut, Loghain's voice was heard, raised in command, and then was a sudden hard slam, and then another, as two ballistae sent explosive bolts at the dragon on the hill. One soared over the dragon's haunch and drove into the marsh beyond with a crackle and a hiss. The other connected, and chunk of armored scale was blown from the creature's vast back. It threw its head back and shrieked. Uldred's ice spell connected briefly, freezing its hindquarters. A volley of poisoned arrows cast a dim shadow. Some struck and bounced off the creature's armor, some lodged harmlessly in cracks between the scales. Some struck the wings, and were deflected by the leathery skin. One struck the dragon near the eye, and it flinched, shaking its horned head back and forth. A huge foreclaw rose up and batted at, finally pulling it loose.
Sten had a mighty throwing arm. He lobbed a shock bomb at the Dragon's feet, casting blue-white sparks in a fearsome crackle. Bronwyn cast another, which fell a little short. Still, sparks flew up and struck the Dragon's nose, startling it backwards. Five more bombs followed. Carver Hawke's bomb struck the Dragon at the top of her head, spilling acid into her left eye. Flemeth shrieked again, and with a tremendous downstroke, attempted to take to the air.
Cauthrien shouted, "Loose!"
Another volley was launched. Loghain had briefed the archers to aim high. Under no circumstances were they to risk hitting one of the ground troops.
Dworkin cackled, and fired his ballista a few seconds ahead of Voldrik. The first bolt struck the more flesh of the belly, blowing a bloody hole in it the size of a shield. Voldrik's bolt would have missed entirely, had not Flemeth flapped her right wing in an attempt to gain her balance. A flash and a bang, and the wing joint shattered. The Dragon ceased to be a flying creature in that moment.
Another soul-wrenching shriek. Another half-dozen bombs struck on or near the Dragon. It shook off the trickles of ice and acid, and faced its attackers, opening huge jaws. It breathed in, sucking the air from the lungs of everyone facing it, and then—
"Move!" Bronwyn screamed. "Get out of the way!"
A firestorm erupted from the dragon. Searing yellow flames licked and pummeled them, Fire so hot that for the first second it was painless. Alistair and Astrid threw themselves behind their shields, letting the Dragon spend her wrath on them.
Bronwyn lay gasping, face-down on the marshy ground, grateful beyond words for her dragonbone armor. Scout huddled by her, whining from the pain of a scorched ear. Bronwyn pushed herself up on her elbows, and looked around. Others had not fared so well. Leliana was keening with pain, her voice wild and unbeautiful. Tara had fallen, and rolled down the hill, without a sound. The young Hawke boy was not moving either. Zevran's wide, wide eyes were surrounded by soot, as he scrambled on hands and knees.
Brosca's face was red with a glancing burn. She stood up and said something that Bronwyn did not quite understand, other than it must be extremely filthy, for Oghren burst out with a laugh that resembled a groan.
There was a deep, deep growl, and Bronwyn instantly focused on the Dragon before her. It had lowered its head, and was readying itself for another blast.
"Now!" Bronwyn screamed. "Follow me!"
Alistair understood her. She ran to one side, and he to the other, their teams behind them, while Sten taunted the beast in the center, distracting it from the puny figures charging it.
Lying on her belly on the ground. Tara raised her staff, briefly stunning the Dragon. It coughed, choking on its own fiery breath. More spells followed: paralysis spells, weakening hexes, Torrin's very powerful imprisonment spell, more ice spells. Anders could only give a glance to the battle raging on the hillside, as he healed Leliana's arm and Danith's broken leg. Niall moved forward in his stead, casting and casting as the warriors before him faced death.
Jowan was ashamed to be relieved that he was so far from the fight. The best spell he could cast at this distance drained life from the Dragon. It was not much, but he could target it precisely enough not to endanger his friends. It would suck that much of the creature's life force every time he cast it. And it felt…wonderful. Some of the other mages saw what he was doing, and tried it as well.
The Dragon managed another blast of flame, but the attackers had moved to the sides and Sten rolled out of the way…mostly. Niall cast another healing spell.
The archers and ballistae could do no more without hitting allies. Loghain roared, "Charge!" and Maric's Shield burst into a run behind him. The Dragon screamed in surprise and alarm.
Bronwyn was aware of almost none of this. A sword and a dagger, she found, were almost laughable weapons against a High Dragon. It was so hard to stay clear of claws and the lashing tail that she could hardly get in a stab. Hacking at the scales was all but useless. What would work? The mages were helping a great deal, slowing it down, not giving it time or peace to take a deep, lethal breath.
"Cullen!" she shouted. "Give me a boost!"
The dear fellow understood her immediately. He dropped Yusaris to the ground, and cupped his hands for her boot. A mad scramble and a jolt, and Bronwyn was on Flemeth's back, trying to dig in with her dagger to a crack in the scales. The creature lurched, and Bronwyn's chin hit the rugged back. Teeth met on the inside of her cheek and she tasted blood. Behind her, Brosca was yelling, "Me! Me! Do me, too!" A few seconds later, a rattling thud announced her arrival.
Ice formed, cold and slippery, under Bronwyn's gauntlets. The dragon was trying to draw a deep breath again. Bronwyn got her feet under her and stabbed down hard where the scales curved at the base of the long neck. Trying to fight two-handed was insane. She frantically sheathed her dagger, and gripped her longsword's hilt with both hands, using all her weight to force her blade into the creature's spine. How much armor protected it?
She looked up, and found herself face to face with the Dragon. Its head was snaked back on the long, long neck, glaring at her with hatred and malice. The dripping jaws opened…
An acid bomb exploded in them, and Brosca shrieked. "Got you, bitch!"
The dragon bellowed its anguish to the skies. Bronwyn tugged her useless longword out of the creature's back, and clambered forward, clinging to the spikes that sprouted from the neck. Luckily, they were not dangerously sharp, and she began inching her way to the creature's head. She was good at climbing, and this was like climbing...a little. Like climbing a wall that moved. The Dragon thrashed and twisted, trying to shake her off. Behind her Brosca laughed and whooped, crawling up behind her. Flemeth's head ducked down, biting at the warriors on the ground.
It was madness: it was chaos. The Dragon's tail knocked warriors aside like toys. Brief gouts of flame blossomed from the gigantic jaws. One of his men screamed as he was stepped on. A few other dragged him aside. Foot-long fangs snapped where Cauthrien had been only a moment before. Loghain bashed at the massive head with his shield. Nothing else seemed to make any impression on it. Bronwyn's hound had found him and was baying at the Dragon. taunting it. Loghain was pleased to have the dog by his side, and hoped nothing would happen to the animal that Bronwyn would never, ever forgive. Where was she, anyway?
Flemeth was hurt and weakened, but still very, very dangerous. Loghain had no idea how the Nevarrans had done this for a living. They must have been absolutely desperate. All things considered, I'd really, really rather be a farmer than a dragon-hunter.
The head slammed down again in a frenzy, like a horse trying to shake a burr from under a saddle. Loghain caught an outline of something that ought not to be on the dragon's neck and nearly froze in his tracks. Bronwyn!
Was the girl completely insane?
He flinched aside from a strange stink. Alistair was there, pouring something vile from a flask over his blade. Seeing Loghain looking, the boy yelled, "You want some? It's great!"
It couldn't hurt. Quickly he offered the flat of his blade and the boy splashed out the rest of it, and hurled the empty flask far out into the marsh. The head was low enough again for his blade. Loghain jabbed up and caught it under the jaw. The sword briefly caught against the bone, and for a harrowing moment, Loghain was lifted off his feet.
He fell to earth with a crash of silverite, and rolled out of the way of the pressing mill of angry, almost ineffectual warriors.
No, not entirely ineffectual. The Dragon was distracted by them. The bearded dwarf was hewing at a massive foreleg with his axe. He was doing damage. An axe was certainly a better weapon against a dragon than a sword.
Others had seen what the girl was doing and had followed her lead. That blond elf was on the dragon's back, digging his blade into the hide just under the hip, where it was thinner. It seemed to slow the Dragon. Another little figure was weighing down the dragon's neck, stabbing at it again and again. Loghain could not tell whether it was a dwarf or an elf.
He felt a sudden rush of renewed strength and well-being. It was that mage of his, no doubt. He hoped she was doing likewise for everyone else.
Flemeth howled and lurched again. Above him, Bronwyn was clinging to one of the massive horns.
She was almost there. She was so very close. The Dragon shook her head from side to side. Bronwyn's belly roiled with nausea. She swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat. The horn was almost as long as she was tall. She lodged herself between it and the massive head, and crawled closer. The head dipped down. At the sudden jolt, Bronwyn felt like she had left her stomach behind. Frantic as the beast was, she could feel that it was weaker now. Below her in the melee, she saw people she knew. Loghain, utterly fearless, and Ser Cauthrien, swinging her immense sword. Scout was there: alive and barking. Young Carver was on his feet again. Bronwyn felt a fleeting relief that she had not killed him with this first mission.
The space between the scales was wider over the back of the head. The creature relied on the huge horns to protect it there. Bronwyn slid forward, groping for the joint. She put the tip of her sword against it, braced her legs, and pushed. And pushed…
A high-pitched shriek, surpassing anything that gone before, rose up. Warriors clutched at their ears in agony. The mages shuddered back, fumbling at silencing spells. It lasted, it seemed, forever, and then was cut off abruptly. The dragon's head fell like stone, slamming hard into the earth. The body tottered and collapsed to the side, as everyone screamed and pushed and rolled and thrashed to get out of its way.
Bronwyn fell with it, half-stunned by the concussion, clutching at her sword in a death grip. People were yelling and cheering, laughing and hugging. She decided she should get up from the dragon's head and say a few words of thanks.
She rose slowly...and then vomited a little on Flemeth's head. Everyone was still cheering. Even dignified sorts like Astrid and Cauthrien were cheering. Alistair and Cullen were slapping each other on the back. Loghain was not cheering, but he was smiling at her. Not smiling, exactly...more like grinning. She must be dizzy from the shock. She wiped her mouth and gave a little wave, smiling weakly. Maybe no one would notice the vomit.
"Boss!" Brosca slid off the dragon's shoulder and ran to her. "Boss! You are the biggest, baddest badass of all time!"
Thanks to all my readers and reviewers: Sarah1281, callalili, Zute, Josie Lange, Lord of Murder, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, almostinsane, KiraKyuuketsuki, Nithu, Shakespira, Jenna53, demonicnargles, Aoi24, Eva Galana, mutive, mille libri, The Moidart, anon, Lydia-kitten, JackOfBladesX, chocolatebrownie12, kwintessa, Judy, Amhran Comhrac, Angurvddel, Lehni, euromellows, Cobar713, Blinded in a bolthole, Enaid Aderyn, xJanelex, taunil ancalimon, Breaniver, Have Socks Will Travel, derko5, black-red-blue, and Rexiselic.
Sorry for the delay in posting. My mother's birthday and Mother's day. Gardening, too. I'm totally distracted by the beauty of my crabapple trees, which are blooming in a rich dark pink. It led me into a mental digression about the flora and fauna of Ferelden, and what they actually have in the way of fruits and vegetables. I am such a nerd.