Victory at Ostagar
As I am back on a canon quest, I have used quite a bit of canon dialogue in the following chapter. Thank you, Bioware.
Chapter 42: On the Trail of the White Wolf
The Queen received some fairly earthshaking letters the day after Warden-Commander Bronwyn left. It was a pity, really, that she was not still here, for she would have found them very interesting.
From her father came the news that Bann Vaughan was dead, killed by the darkspawn in bizarre circumstances. The fool and his fellow fools had gone up into the hills for some sort of drinking bout, and been gruesomely slaughtered. The Wardens had found the bodies while scouting.
Anora rebuked herself for the pleasure the news gave her. Vaughan's involvement in the plots against her was not fully established, and whatever he had done, he was now horribly dead. He was the only child of Arl Urien, who would be grief-stricken at the loss. She must find out if the Arl knew, and send him her condolences. She presumed that Urien would absorb the Bannorn of South Docklands back into his own titles.. The tiniest smirk escaped her, picturing Habren Bryland's dismay at the overthrow of her wedding plans. Anora disliked Lady Habren, with a roiling intensity she was perfectly able to mask. Habren managed to be both insipid and vicious, and was the worst sort of useless noble parasite. Bronwyn had been guarded in her talk, but Anora had gathered she felt the same about the Arl of South Reach's eldest child.
Father also told her at length about something Bronwyn had only touched on: the slaying of a High Dragon in the Korcari Wilds. Bronwyn, with commendable modesty, had not told her that she had been acclaimed as Dragonslayer before the captains of the army. Very distinguished. No, this creature was not the Archdemon, but was in fact Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds, in her dragon form. Father himself knew the woman and had seen her transform. The battle had been fierce and protracted, and in terse but clear language he told her enough to grasp the violence of it. Now Flemeth's dragon remains were being put to good use by the armorers and tanners.
From Cailan she learned about the charms of the Dalish: most especially of the Dalish Keeper, by name Merrill. Cailan's descriptive powers were always most in evidence when describing other women, especially beautiful ones.. It was impossible to tell if the elf woman had succumbed to Cailan's considerable charms or not; but Cailan clearly thought it inevitable.
Anora pushed the letter aside. She had always put up with Cailan's philandering ways, thinking them meaningless in the context of their strong marriage—their strong friendship. Now that she knew that her marriage had become a sham—a sham that Cailan was busily trying to discard— this boasting was odious to her.
A little later, a courier from the north arrived, blurting out his message before he put the letter in her hands.
"Your Majesty! Arl Howe is dead, and Vigil's Keep has fallen to Teyrn Cousland!"
"And the Teyrn? He is unwounded?"
"Not a scratch, Your Majesty!"
Door opened and closed. Anora sensed the news spreading through the Palace like a contagion, and from the Palace to Denerim as a whole. She nodded a dismissal to the courier, and broke the Highever seal, reading Fergus' message very carefully. From the first, it was clear that this was not the revenge he had wanted: not at all how he had wanted events to play out. The Crows! They were dangerous, of course: very dangerous. They had been commissioned by Howe to murder the Couslands, but had failed. And now Rendon Howe was dead by the very tools he had wished to use against others. A bitter irony, certainly, since it had led to the death of his children. A shame about Delilah. A cruel end for an innocent young woman, but Eleanor Cousland's death had also been cruel. Cruel, too, were the deaths of Fergus' wife and child. It was a relentlessly cruel world, after all. She sympathized with Fergus' regret and sorrow over the fate of the young Howes. He was a good man. She glanced at her little music box, glad of the keepsake.
Still, Howe was gone and no longer a problem. Fergus was going after the remains of the rebels, and the north should be thoroughly pacified in short order. He had done well: very well indeed.
What was to be done with Amaranthine? She considered the matter. The arling was a prize: the richest by far of all Ferelden's arlings. If Bronwyn had not been a Grey Warden, it would have been likely that she would have been proposed for it, and thus a branch of the Couslands would rule there directly. There was the eldest son, Nathaniel, of course, sent away a few years ago for his education. Would Fergus accept him? Anora thought so, since he was so distressed by the murders of Thomas and Delilah Howe. Relations there were likely to be touchy for a generation or so, of course, and that would be tiresome.
Then she read the rest of the note, and sat down, thinking about it. It explained, in the ugliest of ways, the strange news Bronwyn had told her yesterday. The elves had been tricked into looking for "work," and had been instead sold to Tevinter slavers, and loaded just like cattle onto their ships. The entire Highever alienage? Howe must have made a fortune! No wonder he had been so intractably confident.
She must send a reliable man to the Alienage here for a tally of the lost. The elves would have to be informed, and she did not envy the one who carried the news. She would need to send in the Guard, in case of rioting. And there would be other consequences. People might scorn the elves, but many relied on their cheap labor, and this would be a blow to them.
Bann Esmerelle in the plot? What would they do about the city bannorn? Anora rolled her eyes, exasperated. It was inconceivable that Bann Esmerelle could remain in power after such a scandal. Not only that: for her complicity with Howe, she must certainly be executed.
A number of major fiefdoms were now empty, all within a few days. The Ferelden nobility was simply too thin on the ground, and those remaining were mostly a useless lot. An infusion of new blood would certainly be welcome. People might snipe at Father, rising from the earth to rule a teyrnir, but he had proven himself over and over. While the war was raging, vacant titles could be temporarily administered by stewards and seneschals and castellans; but when the Blight was over, there would be changes in Ferelden. Anora would see to it.
Esmerelle had closed the gates of Amaranthine to him, and was hiding behind them like a weasel in her lair.
Fergus Cousland studied the city. He could reduce it, certainly. He could smash the walls down and demolish the Keep. In so doing, he would destroy homes and businesses and helpless people who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And they probably didn't like Esmerelle, either.
Technically, Amaranthine was his city, anyway: the fiefdom of the vassal of one of his own vassals. He had not the least desire to spoil his own property. He rode up and down, outside, the walls, while his forces dug into position. Anxious eyes followed him from the battlements above.
He called for the white flag of parley, and rode forward.
A captain above the gate shouted down.
"My lord! Bann Esmerelle has been summoned, and will be here directly!"
"She'd better be!" Fergus shouted back without ceremony. "If she is not, then I'll speak to you and anyone else up there, just so you know what's coming if you do not open your gates!"
His temper rising, he raised his voice again.
"Rendon Howe is dead! Vigil's Keep has fallen! If that ancient fortress cannot keep me out, neither will your walls. Think hard, People of Amaranthine, before you defy your liege lord!
"And I do not come only on my own behalf! I am here at the Queen's command. A blow struck against me, is struck against the Crown of Ferelden. Loose your arrows against me, and you name yourselves traitors and renegades! What is it to be? Will you save yourselves, your wives and families from the fury of my army, or will you defy me, and be destroyed?"
A tense silence. Fergus scanned the wall for activity. Some messengers were hurrying along the catwalks at the top of the walls. One was rushing, crouched defensively, toward the captain at the gate. There was a muttered conference, and the captain uttered a loud, startled oath.
"What? Maker's Breath!"
More muttering. More men-at-arms were gathering by the captain. They sounded angry and…yes… frightened.
Fergus sat his horse, keeping himself steady and immovable. The focus had shifted away from him. Something was going on in the city, and the people were sorting it out themselves. The captain was coming back, head down. He looked defeated.
"Well?" Fergus demanded "Do you yield?"
"My lord," the captain said, in anguished misery. "We yield, and most humbly implore your mercy. Amaranthine is yours. Bann Esmerelle is gone. We believe it possible that she took ship on the dawn tide. She is gone, and her household servants and guards with her. Another ship, carrying some Tevinter associates of hers, has just left the docks as well."
Fergus digested this. Yes, he had feared this, but it was only thing for Esmerelle to do, really. Her days as a Fereldan noblewoman—in Ferelden, at least—were done.
In a cold, level voice, he said, "Then open your gates. Open your gates at once. I am sending a detail to the docks and commanding them to impound every ship there. No one leaves until I have examined their cargo. For gold and power, Bann Esmerelle and Rendon Howe have loosed Tevinter slavers amongst you, and no man, woman, or child is safe!"
That got a reaction, and none too soon. The great gates swung open, and the city guard lined up on either side, bowing in submission. Townspeople crowded close behind them. There were some scattered cheers for "the Good Teyrn!"
Fergus and his knights clattered through, and down the long stone steps leading to the market. He trotted past the empty stalls—for the merchants had prudently hid their goods and their persons—and then beyond to the towers and the other long stairs that led up to the docks.
Not two miles away, she could see a ship standing out, sails billowing. Tevinter. There was no way on earth to stop them now.
After some delay, they were able to find, not the harbormaster, but one of his assistants. He at least could find the shipping manifests, and he and some other loungers could tell them what had happened.
Pointing to the departing vessel, the assistant gabbled, "That's Master Caladrius' ship. Very important man, Master Caladrius. He and the Arl were like this," the man gestured, two fingers together.
"Tevinter ships have been coming and going for months, my lord," another man put in, trying to ingratiate himself with the new regime. "Very busy, like."
"Is that true?" Fergus demanded.
"True, my lord. Tevinters have been in and out of here for months, my lord," the assistant gabbled, very intimidated by the big man and his big friends. "The wagons pulled up, and the cargo was loaded, quick as quick. We was paid not to talk about it."
Fergus eyed the man is disgust. "The "cargo" was elves, wasn't it? The Tevinters were slavers, and you helped them abduct free Fereldans!"
"Well, what was we to do, my lord?" the assistant squawked. "The Arl said we had to, and the Bann said we had to, and Captain Chase would just as soon kill a man as look at him, and if we gave trouble, they might turn us over to Master Caladrius! And we'd end up like—well, you come over here and see, my lord…"
The men led them to the end of the Long Pier. From a distance, Fergus recognized what it must be.
A young boy, no more than eleven or twelve was stretched out there. His delicate elven face was pearly pale under the dirt and dried tears. Blood still pooled at his wrists and ankles from ritual cuts.
The assistant muttered. "Master Caladrius learned you was coming, my lord. He needed a wind."
Frustration, horror, fury: all swelled in his heart until he thought it would burst.
"Did he get them all?"
"All? Well…no, my lord. Wasn't room for all them. No time to get another ship, either. There's some cargo left in the West Warehouse…"
Not much, really. What "cargo" were left behind were the sick and old, and to Fergus' distress, the very small children—even an infant, torn from her more valuable mother's arms. Without anyone to nurse the child, she would starve.
Fergus turned to one of his men. "Find that child a wet nurse."
The man grimaced. He did not mean to be cruel, but facts were facts. "It'll be hard, my lord, finding a woman who'll nurse an elfling."
"Then buy a she-goat and a nursing-tit! The elves can keep the goat, anyway. I think I'm good for the coin."
The elves were not particularly grateful for their rescue. They were too traumatized and terrified for that. They shrank back in their cages, away from Fergus and the other men in armor, expecting new horrors. There were unhealed cuts on many of them, as well.
"Are you from Denerim?" Fergus asked. The elves stared at him in blank incomprehension. He repeated, "Are you from the Denerim Alienage? Or from Highever?"
A scrawny old elf licked his lips, and croaked. "Denerim, my lord. Denerim."
"I'll have you returned there in one of the wagons," Fergus said. "Seyton, arrange it."
"Yes, my lord."
An haggard old woman wailed, "But what about Maia? What about Maia and Kirri? We can't leave without them!"
Fergus gave a few more orders and stalked back out into the sunlight, away from that hopeless misery. He'd remember to check about the goat, anyway. The Tevinter ship was a fading dot in the distance now. They were getting away: they were getting away clean with their victims, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Esmerelle had got away clean, too. Slipped away at dawn, leaving her city to its fate.
Fergus wandered through the bann's mansion, kicking at the litter of papers and trash: the remains after the woman had packed everything she wanted for her own use. Nothing of value was left here. Unlike Vigil's Keep, where the treasury of the Howes was left for Fergus, Esmerelle had planned her escape and executed it neatly. Drag marks in the dust showed where a heavy chest had been removed from a store room. Her chosen favorites had removed their own belongings, too. From what the remaining servants could tell, the traitors had dressed plainly and fled in the quiet before dawn.
Seyton bent over to retrieve a forgotten silk scarf. "We can but hope, my lord, that the captain of the ship she escaped in is as lacking in honor and decency as the lady, and throws her and her lackeys over the side before robbing her!"
Fergus liked the idea. All sorts of hazards could doom Esmerelle: treachery, as Seyton suggested; storms, pirates, qunari, or another Tevinter slave ship. He snorted. He had heard that Tevinters had not the least compunction about enslaving humans when they had the chance. Beings without magic were nothing and nobody in the Tevinter Empire. If not a slave, then a servant or a peasant, certainly. With a great deal of pleasure, Fergus imagined Esmerelle there, chained beside the elves she had betrayed.
However, real life was never so just. She would very likely make the journey successfully, and live long and happily off the gold earned from the slave trade. In the Free Marches, no one would care, as long as she was rich enough.
"Enough of that bitch!" he snarled stalking toward her study. The city was in confusion: several major officials, including the chief constable of the city guard, had left with the Bann. He would have to move quickly, create a working city government, and return this place to a semblance of normality. He had no idea how many of Rendon Howe's loyalists had remained in the arling. The forces the king had granted Fergus here had been enough to deal with the worst of the rebels, but was not enough to manage the arling on a permanent basis.
He was rooting out people like the Paytons and the Temmerleys. They had colluded with Howe in the attack on Highever, and their lands were forfeit, as were many of their lives. While he would not visit vengeance on the children, he would not give them a way to fight against him in the future. They would be sent to the Chantry, or they could be sent to relatives abroad, but they would hold no land from him ever again. Many fiefdoms and estates would be vacant and idle.
He needed more men: reliable men. It would be best to find capable people with no ties to Amaranthine, who would look only to him for patronage.
Even if Nathaniel came home and the Landsmeet confirmed him as arl, Fergus decided that he wanted to put his own man-or woman, for that matter—in as city bann. Amaranthine's bann had great power, with control over the splendid harbor and its lucrative trade. A faithful city bann could counterbalance a hostile arl to a great degree.
Howe's remaining militia he would round up and send down to Ostagar, where they could do good service, and not cause trouble in their homeland. His own troops were still looking for the Crow assassins: all ships wanting to leave the harbor would be carefully scrutinized.
Esmerelle's study looked like it had been swept up in a whirlwind. On the writing table, sealing wax puddled thickly, while spilled ink pooled like old blood. Papers littered the floor. More had been burned in the fireplace. A few of those, edges crisped black, were crumpled on the hearth.
"See what you can salvage there," he ordered. "and have someone fetch my camp desk."
Her private chamber adjoined. Fergus glanced in. It looked even worse than the study. A great deal of the furniture had been taken—though not the great bed, which would have required a dozen men and a great commotion to shift. The linens were gone, of course, but Fergus was not feeling particularly fussy. The featherbed there looked thick and comfortable. He shrugged, and returned to the study, rummaging through the writing desk.
Esmerelle had taken the seal of the City of Amaranthine, the tawdry cow. He would have a new one devised: one as different as possible from the old. Yes, a new seal…a new coat of arms…a new day for Amaranthine.
Still, it was fortunate that Rendon Howe had been wearing his seal ring when he was killed. Fergus wore it now, along with the seal of Highever stolen from his father by his murderer.
"I'll leave a small garrison here for now," he decided, "and we must move on to Highever." Sitting down at Esmerelle's writing table, he wrote a letter to the Queen to that effect.
Danith had been given directions to the hunting grounds Zathrian's clans used at this time of year. It was good thing, or Bronwyn would have wandered in the Brecilian forest for some time. Instead, they were there in two days.
A trio of Dalish elves stepped out of the trees, bows at the ready. "Andaran atish'an, cousin," said the leader, a slender blonde elven woman in hunting leathers. " I am Mithra, of the clan of Zathrian. You are of the clan of Marethari, are you not?" Her face hardened at the sight of Bronwyn. "And how is that you travel with a shemlen? " She paused, and her eyes swept Astrid with aloof disdain, "and a durgen'len?"
Bronwyn took a breath, but kept silent after all. The question was clearly addressed to Danith. To interrupt would no doubt be as offensive to these elves as it would be in a similar situation among humans.
Danith answered calmly. "I am a Grey Warden, Danith Mahariel of Clan Marethari. This is Bronwyn, Commander of the Wardens. With us are Wardens Tara and Astrid, and this is our companion, Zevran Aranai. Our commander wishes to speak to your Keeper."
Bronwyn gave her a nod. "Greetings, Mithra. May we be taken to Keeper Zathrian?"
The two elves behind Mithra grimaced in distaste. One spat on the ground. Mithra stared at Bronwyn, and then at Scout. After a moment, she shrugged.
"Ma nuvenin," she said. "But remember, shemlen, that our arrows will find you if you prove treacherous."
Bronwyn had no idea what "ma nuvenin" meant, but it seemed to imply acquiescence. She signed to her comrades to dismount, and swung down from Posy. Leading their horses, they followed the Dalish guards to a clearing.
"Tie your beasts here," Mithra said sharply. "We do not want their filth soiling our camp. And you must clean up after your dog."
Scout stiffened with outrage. He was a mabari, not some sort of careless wild beast who relieved himself anywhere and everywhere. These people lived outside. Why would they care? Bronwyn looked at him, and he forebore to growl. These elves were un-friends, but his Bronwyn wished to try to talk to them. Scout sniffed the air, and then licked her hand and looked up her anxiously.
This place is bad. It smells bad. It is sick and wrong.
His Bronwyn was clever, and understood. She rubbed his ears, whispering. "We'll be very careful, Scout."
This camp was much like that of Danith's clan, on the surface; yet there were fewer elves in evidence. Some tiny elven children peered out from behind trees, whispering and pointing at Scout, eyes wondering and fearful. The landships stood silent, and down in a paddock, the halla bleated mournfully. Closed faces peered her way, as they approached the Keeper. Bronwyn had heard that this elf was old; but while entirely bald, which was unusual for an elf, the face was unlined, and the straight and slender form radiated energy and power.
"Keeper, our cousin says that she is a Grey Warden," declared Mithra. With a gesture at Bronwyn, she added, "She said that this shemlen is their leader. I thought it best to bring them to you at once."
"You have done well. You may return to your duties." The Keeper studied Bronwyn a moment and said, "I am Zathrian, the keeper of this clan, its guide, and preserver of our ancient lore."
"Greetinga to you, Zathrian," Bronwyn replied with a nod. "I am Bronwyn, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden." Briefly she introduced her companions. Zathrian was warm only with Danith, but to Tara and Zevran he was at least civil.
"Your errand is no surprise to me. I have already sensed the growing corruption in the south. I would have already taken my clan further north," he told her, "but events intervened. You are here, I am sure, because the treaties we signed ages ago. Unfortunately…"
And then he began to explain why his clan would not be able to fulfill their obligations. There was sickness in the clan. The majority of the hunters and trackers were suffering from the effect of a curse.
"A curse?" Bronwyn asked. "What kind of curse?"
Tara wanted to know as well. It would unthinkably rude to imply that she could do more than the venerable Keeper of a Dalish clan, but she had a feeling Zathrian was not being very forthcoming. She knew—from knowing Danith—that the Dalish were clannish and close-mouthed about their own business.
Zathrian said, "Come with me."
Within the circle of landships, they were shown a score or so elves on cots, obviously very ill. A curse, Zathrian repeated. An ancient curse in the forest, now directed against his clan. More were falling ill every day. Many had already died.
"The clan came here one month ago, as is our custom this time of year. We did not expect the werewolves to ambush us."
"Werewolves?" Bronwyn bit back her wonder and disbelief. Werewolves were supposed to be extinct: a danger long past, due in part to the heroism of her own ancestors.
"Indeed. Even with all our magic their curse lies heavy on us. If this continues, we may be forced to slay more of our own people. Do not think I discount the danger of the danger of the darkspawn. The Blight is an evil which must be stopped. However, in our current situation, we have no aid to give you."
"You have hit on no way to help your people?" Bronwyn asked.
"The affliction is a curse in the blood, which must end either in an agonizing death or in a transformation to a monstrous creature. There is a way..." he paused, his large elven eyes assessing Bronwyn, "but it would be no trivial task."
Bronwyn sighed inwardly, remembering King Bhelen and the Anvil of the Void. There was no way she was committing herself to such an effort here. She kept her face perfectly blank. "I see."
"Within the Brecilian Forest is a great wolf named Witherfang. It was within him that the curse originated. If he were killed and his heart brought to me, perhaps I might have the power to lift the curse."
"You know of this creature?"
A curious expression crossed the old elf's face. "I have...seen him. Days ago I sent hunters after Witherfang. None have returned. I dare not risk any more of my own people."
"How did this curse begin?" Tara asked, trying to think of anything she had read about lycanthropy.
Zathrian granted her a patronizing smile. "That is a long story, and one which matters little now. Perhaps Sarel or Lanaya, my First, could tell you, if you are at leisure. I fear I have not the time for old tales."
Bronwyn felt her scalp prickle.
He's hiding something.
She cleared her throat. "Where is this Witherfang to be found, do you suppose?"
He raised his gaze to the skies above, thinking. "On an island in the river south of here there is a small island. Wolf tracks and spoor have been found there. The creatures lair nearby. If they are anywhere, that is the place more likely. The old hunter's trail will take you there. Mithra can show you."
Bronwyn glanced briefly at her people, who were listening with interest. Danith looked ready to go on the hunt immediately. Tara was lost in thought. Bronwyn was hoping she could come up with some other sort of magical cure. Zevran and Astrid were impassive. Bronwyn thought it likely that they suspected, as she did, that there was more going on here than Zathrian intimated.
"You said," she ventured, "that 'perhaps' the curse could be lifted. You are not sure?"
Zathrian shook his head. "There are no guarantees, but that is the only way imaginable."
Bronwyn stood studying him a moment, thinking it over.
It was tempting, very tempting, simply to turn her back on this man and head straight for Ostagar. There was some mystery here, and these people wanted something substantial from her without fully explaining what it was or why. Could she justify going off on a hunt for a magical white wolf and a band of creatures that were supposed to be extinct? She had business in Ostagar and a letter for Loghain from the Queen.
She said to Zathrian, "If you will excuse me, I must speak with my companions." She gestured to them, and withdrew into the privacy of a stand of oaks.
"This is certainly not what I expected. These people have troubles of their own, and with the losses from the curse, will probably not be able to assist us in any significant way."
"You are thinking of leaving them like this!" Danith said angrily. "You are eager to help others, but not the Dalish!"
"That's unfair, Danith!" Tara protested. "That man is not telling us the whole story."
"That is certainly true," Bronwyn agreed grimly. "I did think of leaving, Danith, but I have a duty to raise all the forces I can against the Blight. Had the Keeper not given me clear directions to where I can find Witherfang, I would leave, for we do not have the time to blunder through the forest, looking for cursed monsters. We will camp tonight, and first thing in the morning, we will see what we can discover, but I cannot promise to spend an unlimited amount of time helping these people."
She stalked back to Zathrian, and said, "We shall make camp and at daybreak set out to search for this Witherfang. We shall leave our horses, if that does not inconvenience you."
"As you wish," Zathrian shrugged. "And now, I have much to do. My first, Lanaya, can assist you as you deem necessary." He moved away, cat-footed, his feet hardly making a sound.
Lanaya was a very pretty young woman: blonde, with dainty features. Not surprisingly, she revered the Keeper, telling them she had was his apprentice, and had spent the past few years studying under him.
"If it is not too impolite," she said, hesitantly, "I have a question..."
"Yes?" Bronwyn asked, trying very hard to control her impatience.
"Do your people ever regret what they did to ours?"
Bronwyn paused. Did Lanaya mean humans in general? Did humans regret that the Tevinter Imperium had destroyed Arlathan, the ancient seat of the elves? Did humans regret the fall of the Dales to the Chantry's Exalted March? Did they regret that elves were now a race of servants? They were now hewers of wood and drawers of water—or vagrants living in the woods, as most people regarded the Dalish. Taken all in all, humans had done a great deal to the elves—all of it fairly horrible. Before Bronwyn had become a Warden and set off on her travels, she had never thought about it at all. It was something that she learned in lessons about people long ago about whom she knew nothing. She had not even thought it very relevant, when compared with the importance of learning recent Orlesian history. Elves were there, and they were servants, and that was the way the world was. Bronwyn felt no more responsible for their fate than she did for the betrayal of Andraste. However, such an answer would probably not be the most tactful at the moment.
"Some do," she said quietly. "Not all humans are the same."
Danith snorted. Tara nudged her.
Lanaya only looked sad.
"It is difficult for our people to accept that so many humans feel no guilt or sorrow. A poet once wrote of them, before the fall of the Dales: 'Like Dragons they fly, glory upon wings. Like dragons they savage, fearsome pretty things.'"
Bronwyn was rather taken aback at the idea of being compared to a dragon. "That sounds like a description of the old Tevinter magisters, who were indeed fearsome. Most humans are just people trying to make a living and get along, and are neither glorious or savage, nor even very pretty."
Lanaya sighed and managed a smile. "Forgive me," she said. "You must have questions of your own."
"Your Keeper is a very interesting man. Could you tell me more about him?"
This subject Lanaya liked very much: and waxed lyrical about Zathrian's venerable wisdown and his utter devotion to the Dalish. "He is a compassionate man: a man who has suffered and lost much."
"Really?" Bronwyn queried mildly, "What has he lost? Do tell me," she persuaded. "I do not wish to hurt or offend him unnecessarily."
"Well," Lanaya began, "he lost his family—a very long time ago. I don't know the full story, but I understand the circumstances were horrific."
"Were they attacked by werewolves?" Zevran asked. Bronwyn shared a glance with him.
"No—oh, no..." Lanaya shook her head. "I am sure they were not. The werewolves are a very recent trouble to us."
"Thank you, Lanaya," Bronwyn said. "We shall make camp nearby and set out at first light tomorrow. I have already informed the Keeper that we shall leave our horses here."
"Yes...your horses." Lanaya looked beyond to the clearing where they were tied. "I have not seen many horses. They are not as beautiful as halla, but they too are gifts of the Creators. May I look at them?"
"Be careful of them," Danith said. "They are useful beasts, but quick-tempered and violent." She threw Bronwyn a look of thinly veiled cynism, clearly implying "Much like their human masters."
"My horse is gentle," Tara suggested. "it's the smaller one with the white mark on her face and the white stockings."
Astrid had been silent up to now, listening very carefully. She felt uncomfortable and out of place here, but she still could spot someone lying, even by omission. This Keeper fellow was indeed hiding things. Was there something shameful about this curse? Some detail he did not want them to know? Perhaps it wasn't simply Dalish secrecy.
Zevran too was silent, eyes flicking around the camp, remembering clearly why his brief sojourn among the Dalish had been such a failure. The clannishness, the utter lack of privacy, the conformity—the lack of wine, easy women, and good fish chowder: all of them were reasons to flee this place as he would the lair of darkspawn. It puzzled him that Danith, who had now seen other ways of living—ways that Zevran much preferred—clung to her traditions so fiercely.
They set up their tents on the outskirts of the Dalish camp. Scout stayed close to Bronwyn. These beings were unused to dogs, and Scout sensed they were curious and frightened, and the adults hostile. With a show of indifference, he trotted at Bronwyn's heels, and then sprawled near their fire, watching Zevran prepare supper, snapping up the tidbits that the elf threw him.
Later, as it grew dark, a young girl came by to invite them sit with them and listen to the hahren's stories.
Bronwyn was not sure she was included in the invitation, but the elf girl seemed to think so. She and Astrid shrugged at each other, and followed their elvish companions. Keeper Marethari's camp seemed cosmopolitan and friendly in comparison, but surely there was nothing amiss in hearing stories.
Except that this clan really was very rude and antagonistic. Astrid they ignored, just as if she did not exist at all. Bronwyn knew that she was offended, but the dwarf woman was too shrewd and too self-assured to show her opinion of her present company. She sat behind the rest, by Scout, and stroked the dog's shining coat. Scout was a fine creature, and not too proud to make friends with her.
Bronwyn would have preferred to be ignored, too. Alas, since she towered over everyone in the camp, all eyes were upon her, and she was a target for Dalish grievances. Hard looks were thrown her way, and hard words as well. She tried to be reasonable and pleasant, but it was clearly not working. And then Sarel began his story, and that did not help at all, either.
Sarel's Tale
In shemlen lands, you will hear tales of the woman Andraste. They name her prophet, and bride of their Maker. But we knew her as a war leader, one who, like us, had been a slave and dreamed of liberation. We joined her rebellion against the Imperium, and our heroes died beside her, unmourned, in Tevinter bonfires. She was betrayed by her own husband, but not by Thane Shartan, the leader of the elves. He, too, perished, hoping for a better world.
We stayed with our so-called allies until the war ended. Our reward: A land in southern Orlais called the Dales. So we began the Long Walk to our new home.
Halamshiral, "the end of the journey," was our capital, built out of the reach of the humans. We could once again forget the incessant passage of time. Our people began the slow process of recovering the culture and traditions we had lost to slavery.
But it was not to last. Orlais grew: the shemlen multiplied and spread to the south. The Chantry first sent missionaries into the Dales, and then, when those were thrown out, templars. We were driven from Halamshiral, scattered. Some took refuge in shemlen cities, living in squalor, tolerated only a little better than vermin.
We took a different path. We took to the wilderness, never stopping long enough to draw the notice of our shemlen neighbors. In our self-imposed exile, we keep what remains of elven knowledge and culture alive.
Tara spoke carefully. "I have read that the elves were not without fault when the troubles started that led to the Exalted March."
Sarel raised an elegant brow.
He replied, "Oh, I am certain we played a part in our downfall. We believed that the shemlen would not revoke their prophet's gift so lightly. We were wrong. They took our lands, forcing us to abandon our gods and live as beggars in shemlen cities. I have heard that Halamshiral still stands, and in it there is an Alienage. I wonder if the irony amuses the shemlen, or if they have forgotten that they did not build the city they rule themselves."
Danith quoted, her voice low and fervent, "We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last elvhen. Never again shall we submit."
There was a rumble of assent. Everyone stared accusingly at Bronwyn again. She was not pleased to be challenged about her actions of seven hundred years before. Zathrian was smiling faintly, eyes half-closed. Bronwyn considered bringing up a major grievance that helped launch the Exalted March against them. It was, of course, the elves' isolationist refusal to particpate in the war against the Second Blight; a refusal that climaxed in the elves watching from a distance as the entire city of Montsimmard was destroyed. It was useless, of course. and would only exacerbate the elves' hostility to her.
Trying to be diplomatic, she said only, "The Grey Wardens have the greatest respect for their Dalish allies, and for their Dalish brothers and sisters."
There was little else to say, unless she was to point out that she had not been there and had not driven any elves from their land. However, how could she deny that she, as a human noble, had benefited from the destruction of the elven homeland? Very likely elves had once ruled in what was now Highever. Saying anything would probably only provoke a quarrel. She must keep to her mission. Becoming angry and combative would not gather allies against the Blight.
Zevran, however, had quite a bit to say in her support. "If I may, I would like to point out that our Commander was not born until the Dragon Age, and that her ancestors are Ferelden, and so did not take part in the Exalted March in Orlais."
"She doesn't even like the Orlesians!" Tara muttered angrily. "She's never been anything but kind to me, and she saved me from the Templars. She saved Danith's life, too! Did you tell them about that, Danith?"
"My life, as well," Zevran pointed out. "I certainly have not forgotten it."
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, broken by Lanaya. She said softly, "Of course, we hope you do not take this story personally. We certainly would not wish to be inhospitable to a Grey Warden, who endures so much for the good of all, And of whom, I understand, our Keeper has requested a difficult and dangerous service."
The mutterings subsided—grudgingly—and Bronwyn bade them goodnight, feeling she had put up with quite enough criticism for the actions of the Orlesians and the Chantry for one night.
Astrid joined her, flashing a grimace. "Dalish hospitality, indeed," she murmured. "All things considered, I would rather be at the Warden Compound!"
Bronwyn smiled briefly. "As would I, my friend."
They moved out at daybreak without much conversation. Thinking hard while she helped feed and water the horses, Bronwyn decided that she would have to have it out with Danith eventually, but this was not the time or place. They had a wolf to hunt. They left the horses behind, hoping that nothing unfortunate would befall them, and traveled on foot.
Past the camp, the forest closed in: dense, humid, emerald green. In places, Bronwyn had to use her sword to clear the way.
It was old, that forest: watchful and not easily comprehended. Danith took the lead, her footfalls soundless on the thick soft floor of decayed vegetation. Generations of trees had strewn their leaves and dead branches here, and all of it had melded into the foundations of the earth itself.
Astrid grimaced at the feel of it under her boots. It was not honest stone. It was yielding and cloying. It smelled like something alive: like the soft corruption one sometimes found in the Deep Roads. It was not tainted, certainly, but it was alien to her nature. It reminded her unpleasantly of the time she had stepped on a nug in the dark,
"A strange place," she whispered to Bronwyn.
The human did not disagree. "I have never been in such an odd forest," she whispered. "I do not recognize some of the trees. You can tell by the size of them that they are extremely old. The lumbermen of Gwaren and South Reach must not come here. That black silkleaf, for example," she pointed out a thick-trunked tree with rough bark and glossy dark leaves, "is very valuable. A bed made from it would cost a hundred sovereigns in Denerim. Only a wealthy noble could afford such furniture."
Astrid eyed the tree with more respect. All wood, it seemed was not the same.
Faintly in the distance there was a deep groaning, like the creaking of frozen branches in winter. Danith paused, poised in mid-step, her head swiveling at the sound. The others fell silent.
"What is that?" Bronwyn asked softly.
"Hush!" Danith hissed. "It is something we do not wish to meet. Do not stray from the path!"
She moved on, hand brushing back an overhanging vine, peering into the green tunnel before them.
"It's very pretty," Tara murmured to Zevran. "Isn't it? I like the green light coming through the leaves. It's like the colored glass in the windows at the Circle Tower."
"Be cautious," Danith told them, leading the way. "Here there are trees…that are unfriendly…"
"Unfriendly?" Astrid asked. "How can trees be unfriendly?"
"Unfriendly trees?" Tara echoed. "That doesn't sound good."
"Sylvans," Danith murmured, looking about carefully. "Sometimes they…awaken." In a low voice she described them. "Oval leaves, narrow shape, Sometimes…" she confided. "Their trunks are double."
"Double?" asked Bronwyn. "I'm not sure I understand you."
"Like…legs."
"These trees…walk?" Bronwyn managed.
"So it has been told."
"Walking trees?" Tara said. "This entire forest thing is much more peculiar than I expected. What's that?"
Danith picked up the rank scent, and had barely time to turn her head, when the bear burst out of the woods, raging. Scout bayed a defiance, and rushed to meet it, teeth bared. Bronwyn's sword was already out. Tara uttered a short, sharp cry, before raising her new staff to freeze the beast. Zevran dove past her, running up behind.
The bear was too furious to be stopped so easily. It hurtled toward Danith, slowed but not halted. The elf loosed an arrow and then another: quick, straight flashes through the green light.
Astrid throught it was rather like a bronto, but with more hair. She struck her shield with the flat of her blade, and shouted. The bear was briefly distracted from the archer, and roared with pain as gashes opened in its flank and black. Rearing up, it towered over them. Scou.t darted in, startling it, while arrow struck and sword blade cut.
It had claws! Astrid discovered, and yellowed fangs, which gnashed at her face. Flecks of red foams burst from the bear's throat with every roar. Crackles of energy spurted from Tara's staff. Burnt fur smoked, turning the air thick and grey.
One of Danith's arrows found its throat, and Bronwyn's sword pierced its heart. It thrashed violently, pulling Zevran off his feet, and then rolled over, trembled, and was still.
"Is that a bear?" Astrid asked. "I have seen pictures of them. A black bear?"
"Yes," Danith said, extending her hand over the dead mass of fur and flesh. "A black he-bear." She murmured a quick blessing in elvish. "I have made peace with its spirit. It fought bravely against great odds."
Astrid was still curious. "Do people eat them? Dwarves eat brontos, and these are also large and fierce."
"Yes," Danith answered shortly. "They are nourishing. It would be courteous to tell the clan of this, that the children eat well. It is not hot today. Perhaps we can bring some of the meat back with us later. I can quickly dress it and wrap it in a part of the hide. If I place it up in a tree branch, it should be all right for some hours."
Bronwyn and Zevran helped her, to move the work along faster. After all, they might want some themselves that night. Astrid watched in interest and Tara in mild horror. They finished, and resumed their tracking.
The sun was overhead, when they stopped briefly to rest. The air was mild and still, heavy with moisture. Bronwyn felt a little drowsy, and resented having to get up and continue. There was no help for it, though.
Danith moved ahead, scouting, studying the ground, bending to look and smell. After awhile she made a soft sound of disgust.
"The creatures are very close. They passed this way before noon."
It was not long before they met them. They were not darkspawn, but they were very frightening indeed. Three of them rushed out into a glassy spot on their little island. Instead of instantly attacking, they stopped, and one raised a...claw. It was exactly like a man gesturing to be allowed to speak.
Werewolves were thought to be extinct, and that was what her tutor Aldous had assured Bronwyn, when as a little girl she had been distressed by tales of the Lycanthrope Plague during the Black Age. Haelia Cousland had raised a warband that had faced and slaughtered the creatures, driving the survivors into the Hafter River to drown. What the old tales did not make clear was how big werewolves were. Nor was Bronwyn prepared for how horribly man-like they seemed, as they slouched along on two legs.
And then the beast in the lead spoke. No story had ever warned her of talking werewolves. Even Scout was startled. The voice was deep and distorted, but it certainly spoke in words and the words expressed sentient thought.
"The watchwolves spoke truly, my brothers and sisters," it growled. "The Dalish, a human, and a dwarf, come to seek revenge.. come to put us in our place..." The creature's fellows answered him with growls and snarls.
After a thunderstruck moment, Bronwyn said carefully, "I had not expect to speak with you." She gripped her sword more tightly. "It was my understanding that werewolves were mindless beasts..."
A coughing bark. "We are beasts!" Yellow eyes glared into hers. "But we are neither simple nor mindless. We have names! I am Swiftrunner. I lead my cursed brothers and sisters! Go back to the Dalish, and tell them they have failed! Tell them that we will gladly watch them suffer as we have suffer. It is time for them to pay for what they have done!"
Things were obviously far more complicated than Zathrian had told her. Indeed, he had told her nothing important. These were thinking creatures, and they clearly thought themselves wronged.
"What have the Dalish done to anger you? Tell me more of this matter," she said, trying to look interested, and not intimidated. "We are not a hirelings of the Dalish," Bronwyn explained. "but Grey Wardens. We came here to enlist the aid of the Dalish against the Blight, and they said they were too weakened by your attacks to fulfill their obligations. I am here to talk and to see if some agreement can be reached. Can there not be a truce between you until the darkspawn are defeated?"
Her words pleased only Tara, Zevran, and Astrid. Danith was infuriated, and the werewolves unconvinced.
Swiftrunner snarled at her. "We care nothing for your Blight! We kill the darkspawn when we find them. Our quarrel is with the Dalish. They cursed us, and thought to escape revenge. A Dalish hunter stands at your side. Do not think to trick us!"
Bronwyn lifted her left hand in a peaceful gesture. "I am not seeking to trick you, but to understand. Tell me of this curse you suffer."
A chorus of growls. "You know nothing, do you!" Swiftrunner barked. "Nothing of the curse, and nothing of those you serve. We are done talking. Run to the Dalish, and tell them they are doomed!" The werewolf crouched, turning his back. "Come, brothers and sisters! Leave them to the forest. It will deal with intruders as it always has!"
"Wait!" Bronwyn shouted. "I don't understand!"
Angry silence. "There is much more here than meets the eye," Astrid said. "These creatures are cursed and they blame the Dalish. Did the Dalish cast the curse on them first?"
Tara looked uneasy. "Zathrian didn't tell us that the Dalish cast the curse first..."
"No," Zevran smirked. "He did not. He was, remember, very evasive about its origin. Perhaps they cursed an enemy and got more than they bargained for."
"Why would my people do that?" Danith demanded hotly.
"We don't know, do we?" Astrid answered. "Could these werewolves have been a rival clan? Perhaps they were quarrelling over territory. All speaking peoples do that."
"I cannot believe that any elf would curse another in such a way," Danith protested. "Perhaps these creatures were wolves to begin with. Whatever happened, they must have deserved it!"
"Well, we won't know," Bronwyn said coldly, "until we find out a great deal more. Perhaps I can persuade them to tell me all about it. Zathrian might have told me that the creatures can speak and reason! Scout, track them!"
They followed at cautious speed, through bracken, up hill and down. They found more traces: trampled undergrowth and droppings.
"The air is different up ahead," Danith whispered, narrowing her eyes. "We are close." She sniffed the air. "Something is foul here. Something strange." Scout growled softly.
Tara muttered, "Something stranger than walking trees?"
Bronwyn pushed another branch aside, and stepped into a wide clearing. A huge expanse of ruins loomed ahead.
"Look at that!" Tara marveled.
They were quite impressive. An circular central structure rose up in a dome. Wings stretched out on other side, symmetrical and ornate. Even choked by the forest, it was a magnificent structure.
"Are those ruins Tevinter?" Astrid asked quietly. "I had not read they penetrated this far east."
"Not Tevinter," Bronwyn said under her breath. "There are Tevinter ruins all over the north. I've visited half a dozen in Highever and Amaranthine. We've all seen Ostagar. This is nothing like that."
Tara was wide-eyed with wonder and excitement. "Could they be elvish? Could this be something from the days of the elves before...everything happened?"
"It's very impressive," Zevran granted judiciously. "Quite...beautiful." He asked Danith, "Have you been here before?"
"Never," Danith replied, studying the ruins with some unease. "No one comes this deep into the forest."
Bronwyn stopped and said, "That's...not entirely true."
The werewolf Swiftrunner rose up from the undergrowth and stood tall, silhouetted against the ruins. His muzzle was thrust forward in a snarl. Around him, other mighty forms emerged. The werewolves were out in force.
Swiftrunner roared, "Still you come! You are stronger than we could have imagined. The Dalish chose well. But you do not belong here, outsider. Leave this place!"
Bronwyn said, "You suffer from a curse. The Dalish are suffering from a curse. The same curse. You want the same thing, surely? To end this curse? Let me see if I can resolve this dispute, and find a way to help all of you!"
"You are sent by the treacherous Dalish to kill Witherfang! I will not stand by and allow that to happen!"
"Is Witherfang your leader?"
"You know nothing, and I am not about to enlighten you. This is our place! Here Witherfang protects us. Here we learn our names! We will defend Witherfang and this place with our lives!"
With shocking speed, the werewolves dropped to all fours, and charged.
Thanks to my reviewers: demonicnargles, mutive, SkaterGirl246 Dante Alighieri1308, Juliafied, Sarah1281, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, MsBarrows, Aoi24, Josie Lange, cloud1004, JackOfBladesX, Enaid Aderyn, Zute, Psyche Sinclair, karinfan123, Remenants, Jenna53, Shakespira, Eva Galana, almostinsance, Jyggilag, Kira Kyuu, Judy, euromellows, The Moidart, derko5, Valmothg, mille libri, Casey, Tyanilth, and Have Socks. Will Travel.
Fergus before Amaranthine is much like Henry V before Harfleur. Act III, scene 3.
Sick as a dog in Baltimore. Not a great chapter, but all I can manage with food poisoning. I hate traveling for work.