Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 44: An Ancient, Gnarled Root
Zathrian was examining the bodies of the recently dead werewolves with an air of detachment. He glanced up casually and took in Bronwyn's appearance with no surprise whatsoever.
"Ah! There you are!" he said. "Do you have the heart?" He seemed quite at his ease. Bronwyn scowled at him.
"No," she said, gritting her teeth. "I do not."
Zevran smiled cynically. "He's here to see if we did as he wanted. Impatient, aren't you, old man?"
Zathrian glared at the assassin, and then deliberately ignored him. He turned to Bronwyn. "Did you acquire the heart, or not?"
Bronwyn stared him down. It was easy, towering over him as she did. "I have done my share of fighting today, but as it happens, the werewolves wished to parley. Their leader, the Lady of the Forest, has asked me to bring you to her. She says that you must break the curse before she summons Witherfang. She wants to talk."
The Keeper raised a brow, and scoffed. "The Lady of the Forest! You do understand that she actually is Witherfang, do you not?"
Bronwyn paused. It all fit together. Witherfang, the defender; the Lady, their counselor..."Yes. I thought as much."
Astrid nodded. Bronwyn imagined that she had reached this conclusion even faster than she had herself. Tara and Danith looked surprised. Danith opened her mouth, and then shut it again, in deference to Zathrian, who was speaking.
He said, "Then you must understand that the curse came first from her, and those afflicted it with mirror her dual nature, becoming savage beast as well as human."
"But now, things have changed," Bronwyn said. "For whether by magic or the slow experience of years, the werewolves have regained their minds."
Zathrian found that bitterly amusing.
"Absurd! They attacked my clan, and they are the same savages then that they have ever been. They deserve to be wiped out and not defended. Come. We will go to the creatures, and I will force this "Lady' back into Witherfang's form. It may then be slain and the heart taken.."
He was not understanding her. He was deliberately not understanding her, and worse, he was patronizing her.
Bronwyn did not move, and tried again, clinging to her temper. "They are speaking beings. They are not mindless beasts. They are people!"
"It matters not. They are the same brutes their ancestors were. They deserve to suffer. We are wasting time."
"These werewolves were not even alive when the curse began. Did you even trouble to curse the actual perpetrators, or would any random humans do? You cast this curse, not Witherfang. Do you still hate humans so much even after all this time?"
"You were not there! You did not see what they did! You are not Dalish! How could I let their crimes go unanswered? If you had seen your own blood perish before your eyes, would you not swear an eternity of revenge?"
Bronwyn exploded, her frustration boiling into rage, her temper shredded. "No! I would not! I would punish the guilty, and not the innocent! So you lost your family? Do you think that makes you special? Do not presume that you know anything about me! I have, in fact, seen my own blood perish before my eyes. I know who is to blame for that, and I do not randomly slaughter people to slake my grief!" She glared at him, her blood up, ready to strike him down if he said her nay. "We will go now, and speak to this Lady."
Danith burst out, "We should do as the Keeper commands! There are only a score of them left, Keeper! When we get inside the lair, it will be the simplest thing to slay them all, if we take them by surprise—"
Bronwyn whirled on her, blazing. "I gave my word! We will not strike the first blow!"
"Then you're a fool, shemlen!" Danith raised her bow, just enough that Zevran reached over and gripped her arm, hard. Astrid stepped up beside Bronwyn, her posture both easy and menacing. Scout growled, ready to charge and kill.
"Danith," Tara said quietly. "Shut up. Now."
Zathrian looked at them all, taking in the situation, his lip curling up slyly. Bronwyn could have killed him on the spot.
"I fail to see the point of the 'parley.' I did not come so far to listen to a pack of talking dogs." He shrugged, "But very well. I am curious to hear what the spirit has to say."
To do him credit, Zathrian entered the lair of the werewolves with no sign of fear. Bronwyn wondered if his courage was native to him, or it was sprung of his contempt for the werewolves and his confidence in his own magic. At any rate, he stalked up to them, heedless of the growls and snarls of hate, and stopped, examining the the manifestation that called herself the Lady of the Forest.
"Interesting," was his only comment.
The Lady spoke, her face at once sad and hopeful. "We wish to know if you are willing to forgo your retribution, and lift the curse. It would be for the benefit of your people as well as mine."
Zathrian shook his head. "My retribution is eternal, as is my pain. This is justice!"
Exasperated, Bronwyn asked, "How can it be justice to punish the innocent? These people did nothing to you!"
"They have stalked and murdered my clan. Their own deeds condemn them. Let them suffer; let them perish. Yes, that is justice."
The Lady regarded him with cool appraisal. "Are you sure it is only justice? Have you told the mortal how the curse was created?"
A pause. Bronwyn then said, "He said he summoned you out of the forest, and bound you to a wolf."
"That is more or less true. This is an old forest, mortal, and I am its spirit, its heart. I was not summoned from across the Fade, but pulled from the rocks, the trees and the very soil. I was then bound into the body of the wolf who became Witherfang: not possessing a host like a sylvan or one of the undead, but bound into a single being. But such a process could not have been accomplished without Zathrian's blood...a great deal of his blood. The curse and his life...are intertwined."
"A blood mage!" Tara cried.
That certainly explained a great deal, Bronwyn thought. Zathrian, for his part, did not deny it, but stood defiant before them.
Cool and sweet-voiced, the Lady continued. "Your people believe you have rediscovered the immortality of their ancestors, Zathrian, but that is not true. Your blood fuels both your life and the power of the curse. So long as the curse exists, so do you."
Zathrian burst out in denial. "No! That is not how it is!"
Bronwyn was furious. "Your revenge is clearly not satisfied by cursing humans for hundreds of years, Zathrian. Now you demand the lives of your own clan? How much revenge does one old man require?"
Ever practical, Zevran asked, "Does that mean if he's killed, the curse ends? Because I could—"
"No," said the Lady quickly. "The curse is bound to his life, but it is more complicated than that."
Zathrian sneered at them all. "Only I know how to end the curse, and that I will never do!"
"You see?" demanded the impatient Swiftrunner. "He will not help! We must kill him! We must kill them all!"
"You see?" Zathrian echoed mockingly. "For all their powers of speech they are only animals: only the same worthless dogs they have ever been...they and their whole evil race! Do what you came to do, Grey Warden! Slay these monsters!"
"Evit race?" Bronwyn shouted back, trying be heard over Scout's furious barking. "Do you mean them, or humans in general? A curious way to deal with an ally! I will not be your pawn. End the curse, Zathrian!"
"No!"
"I'll stand with you, Keeper!" Danith called out, nocking an arrow and aiming at Bronwyn. "Kill the—" She fell to ground, sound asleep. Tara glared at Zathrian.
"We stand with with our Commander," she hissed. "You cannot defeat us!"
Zathrian's staff was lifted in a storm of magic. "Then die with her! Die with them all! All of you will suffer as you deserve!"
Rock cracked as tree roots became animate, seeking out the Keeper's enemies. Screams and roars echoed off the walls. Bronwyn did not wait to see what the old man was summoning: she and Scout bounded at him, furious and irresistible. The door behind him was closed, and he was outnumbered. Briefly stunned, the werewolves slashed at walking trees with naked claws. Tara shouted curses back at the Keeper.
It was all confusion, but twenty-six against one in a closed room was a foregone conclusion. Bronwyn kept her eye on Zathrian, the key to it all. He slipped away, behind one of his summoned trees, and shot a fiery hex at her. It hit Scout instead. The dog yipped in pain, his burnt fur stinking.
That was the end. Bronwyn leaped after the spry old mage, screaming. He fell under a pile of Bronwyn, Astrid, and Zevran, while Tara fought back the straggling, seeking plant tendrils. With Zathrian immobilized, they drooped and went limp.
Bronwyn was in no mood to be charitable, even after Tara healed Scout's burns. She smoothed her hand over the burned patch on his back. "Worthless dogs, indeed!" she muttered under her breath, "My dog is worth more than you and your whole bloody clan together!"
Scout licked her hand, and gazed up at her lovingly. Bronwyn always said the nicest things. And they were true.
In short order, Zathrian was dragged before the Lady, bruised and hopeless. "No," he groaned, "I cannot fight you. Kill me, and end this!"
"You heard him, Lady!" Swiftrunner urged. "Kill him! Kill him now!"
"No. Swiftrunner, if there is not room for mercy in our hearts, how can we expect room for mercy in his?" She pleaded with the mage, "Lift the curse. Make an end of this violence."
Even with Astrid's sword pressed to his back, Zathrian shook his head. "No. I am too old for mercy. All I see are the faces of my children...my people. I cannot do it."
Bronwyn nearly swore. "Would you really let your clan die for your revenge? Spare them, if you cannot care for anyone else!"
Tara added her own voice. "Lanaya thinks you would do anything for them. Prove her right. She trusts you. All your people trust you..."
Zathrian sighed deeply, his eyes dull. "Perhaps... I have lived too long. This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root...it has consumed my soul. What of you?" he asked the Lady. "Your life is bound to the curse as is mine. When I perish, you will cease to exist. Do you not fear death?"
The Lady lifted her hand like one bestowing a blessing. "You are my maker, Zathrian. You gave me form and consciousness where none existed. I have known pain and love, hope and fear: all the joy that is life. Yet of all things, I desire nothing more than an end. I beg you, Maker, put an end to me... we beg you... Show mercy."
Humbled at last, Zathrian whispered, "You shame me, spirit. I am an old man, alive long past his time."
"Then you will do it?" Bronwyn asked wearily, "You will end the curse?"
Zathrian did not look at her, but at the Lady of the Forest, who was gazing on him with boundless compassion. The werewolves crowded close to her, whimpering and keening in anticipation of their inevitable loss.
"Yes." He nodded. "Yes. I think it is time. Let us put an end to all of this." He raised his staff and brought it down. There was no blast of magic. Instead, he toppled like a dead tree, and lay lifeless on the hard stone, his eyes open and unseeing.
A breeze stirred the air: a quiver of magic, and then a jolt of power. The Lady sighed and lifted her arms. The breeze became a whirlwind. In it, the smell of distant rain and growing things combined with the crackle of lightning. The womanly form dissipated into a swirl of leaves and the memory of sunlight.
"She is...gone..." mourned Swiftrunner. The werewolves raised a howl of grief.
The howls echoed through the chamber, and then grew higher, wilder; they became screams of agony. The curse was lifted, and its victims were regaining their human forms. Some shifted quickly and easily, some struggled and cried, resisting the change. There had been only about a score of them left, but their suffering filled the room. Bronwyn backed away.
'"Come," Zevran urged. "We can do nothing to help them through this. Let us give them a moment." He walked over to Danith, asleep on the stones, and dragged her away to a safe corner. Bronwyn scowled. She would have to deal with her, too, but first she wanted to sort out the werewolves.
They were all naked, of course. It was only to be expected. No infants or toddlers, but two very young and shocked boys and a teenaged girl were the youngest of the pack. There were more men than women amongst them. None were past the prime of life. Bronwyn suspected that one did not live long as a werewolf.
One dazed woman lay shaking on the stone floor, nearly convulsing. One man had slumped to his knees, staring at his hands in wonder. Another was grinning, rubbing his hands over his human form as over something long-lost and now found. He saw Bronwyn looking, and actually blushed, moving his hands to shield his crotch.
A red-haired woman babbled, "What shall I do? What shall I do? What shall I do?" until another woman grabbed her and put her arms around her, murmuring reassurance.
"I remember now," growled the tall man who stood where Swiftrunner had. He clutched at his head, face drawn in anguish. "I remember…my wife…my children…my name…We were traveling through the forest to Gwaren…" He paused. "They…died…"
Bronwyn looked closer. Certain signs of the curse remained. Each of the former werewolves still had curiously yellow eyes. Some were weeping, overcome with recovered memories. Some were bewildered.
"You must have had a name…" Bronwyn said. "A human name. I am Bronwyn Cousland."
"I am Dirk…" he stopped. "It doesn't matter. I am Dirk Wolf, now."
"Wolf!" murmured a woman. "Yes. I can still feel the wolf, deep inside me. I think I shall always feel it. I will be a Wolf, too."
"What will you do?" Bronwyn asked quietly.
"I…don't know…" the man shook his head. "I could try to go back to Oswin, but it has been a long time." He paused. "What is the year?"
"It is the thirtieth year of the Dragon Age."
"So long!" He shook his head. "No. There is nothing to return to. And some of my brothers and sisters were born werewolves. This is…something none of us really ever expected. I cannot desert them."
Tara pulled Bronwyn aside.
"How will they live?" she wondered anxiously. "They are naked and unarmed in the middle of a wilderness!"
"But they need not be either," Zevran answered, grinning as the thought came to him. "There is loot here: there are weapons, there is armor..."
Astrid steadied herself. It was a wrench, for a dwarf, but—"There is gold," she said. "There is the dragon's hoard. They could take it with them to the nearest human settlement and equip themselves well."
Bronwyn nodded. She looked around at her people. "Do you all agree? Do you agree to let these people have the loot from this place and not keep it for ourselves?"
"Yes." Tara was insistent. "They have nothing. It's been horrible for them."
"Of course," pointed out Zevran, "they may not know how to use weapons—"
"I do," declared another of the men, whom Bronwyn thought must once have been Gatekeeper. "I know how, and I can teach the others." He laid his hand on Dirk's shoulder. "I am…Kellin Wolf, for you are still my brother."
Bronwyn cast a grim look at the unconscious Danith.
"She is not going to like this," she muttered.
"She need not know about it," Zevran shrugged. "Zathrian gave his life for his clan and perished. The beautiful Lady of the Forest evaporated, and the werewolves transformed and fled."
Bronwyn considered. "We'll want to take Zathrian back with us, and give the elves the news. Tara, keep Danith asleep a little longer, while we make our plans."
Some of the werewolves—the ones who had previously been human—hurried to their sleeping quarters. Bronwyn followed, to see if they had anything of use.
There were rough cots there, to her astonishment, and even some ragged bedding.
Kellin explained. "I was part of a trade expedition. We were pretty well equipped. The cots were ours."
"I'll want one of them," Bronwyn said. "We can make a travois to carry Zathrian. His clan will want his body."
"I can do that," offered Zevran, and he set to work, hacking off the legs at the foot of the cot, so it could be dragged along behind them.
The wools and linens were snatched up quickly to create makeshift garments. There was some tugging and quarreling until Bronwyn raised her voice. The wolves shrank back in a fawning attitude, while Bronwyn tried to share the moth-eaten cloth out with some fairness.
Zevran pulled a little sewing kit from his belt pouch. "I have needle and thread. Scissors, too. Does anyone here know how to sew?"
"I do!" cried a woman. "I remember! It is so strange…a wolf is not naked like humans…"
"I'm cold," declared the teenaged girl. "Why am I so cold?" She stared at Scout, pointing. "Is he still cursed?"
"She doesn't understand," whispered the seamstress to Bronwyn. "She was always a werewolf. This will be very hard. My name is Lita."
"Greycoat," said the girl, shaking her head.
"Lita," the woman introduced herself to Bronwyn. To the girl, she said, "We are humans now. We must have human names. We shall think of a good one for you."
Astrid suggested, "Have them go through the place and bring everything here. Some of the boots I saw might still be usable."
It was a sound idea. Some of the former werewolves were able to pull themselves together and help. Others were still stunned and grieving at the death of members of the pack.
"I'll show you the dragon's treasure," Bronwyn said to Dirk. "There's quite a bit there. I think South Reach is your best bet. It's not more than two or three days on foot from here. You could buy wagons and oxen and go where you like. But you need to go soon, before the elves come back into the forest."
"I understand," said Dirk bitterly. "They will not let go of their grievance. We have shed their blood, and cursed or not, they will blame us. We cannot linger here. You are right."
Tara healed what hurts they had, and was very much an object of wonder to them. They watched Zevran's work with interest, and agreed that they, too, would make a travois to carry the bulkier objects. The best of the treasure was loaded into a single chest. Altogether, they had over fifty sovereigns in coin. There were some decent jewels that Zevran could roughly appraise for them. There were swords and daggers and axes and bows and arrows, some of very good quality. It would give them a very fair start, if they were prudent.
The armor and garb they found was a miscellany, and no one would be fully equipped. Some would have to wrap their feet in leather for the trek out of the Forest. Some would have boots, and some would have gloves. Others would have an old breastplate, or a rusty helmet. They would be a curious sight, out in the light of day.
Bronwyn found a tatty piece of old parchment and drew a crude map for them, showing them the quickest way to get to the Imperial Highway and north to South Reach. They might not be safe from bandits there, but they would be safer from the Dalish. Dirk, Kellin, and Lita were literate, and understood what a map was: most of the others could not read, and could not manage the concept of a little drawing representing a wide stretch of land.
"Once you get there," Bronwyn said, "Take the Imperial Highway north. Stay away from the south. I have summoned the Dalish elves to Ostagar where we are fighting the Blight."
"What then?" Kellin whispered anxiously to Dirk, who shook his head.
"We'll find other humans," he murmured, "and see what's out there for us."
Bronwyn had an idea. They had lost so much in the attack on Highever...
"If all else fails," she said, "you can present yourselves to my brother, Teyrn Cousland. He is in Amaranthine, the last I heard, but you could go to his town house in Denerim. I shall add a note."
Bronwyn appended a message to the map.
Permit the bearers of this message quarters at Highever House, and find work for them.
Lady Bronwyn Cousland
In their secret code, she wrote:
Fergus-
These unfortunates were under a curse, and have had a hard time. If you could find something for them, I believe they would serve you loyally.
I can practically see the look on your face, but do it anyway.
Love,
Bronwyn
"The Teyrn of Highever!" exclaimed Dirk, peering at the note. "You are one of those Couslands?" He, Dirk, and Lita exchanged impressed glances.
"Yes," Bronwyn said briskly. "I am Lady Bronwyn Cousland. Teyrn Fergus Cousland is my brother. It might eventually involve a journey all the way to Highever, but he's a good man and will deal fairly with you. I realize simply being human is a shock to some of you, and that it might take time to deal with that..."
"It will take time," Lita agreed. She glanced over to the man who was still examining his now-human body with dazed curiosity. "And some, perhaps, will never adjust. At least we are no longer in pain. For that, we thank you."
Kellin murmured, "And now we have a chance at a future. He said earnestly to Bronwyn, "That makes all the difference."
"Yes," Dirk boomed. "Come, my brothers and sisters! Let us give proper thanks to this lady, Bronwyn of the Grey Wardens! Let us thank her and her companions, who have delivered us from the ancient curse!"
It was eerie. Some of them spoke in words, some yipped, some howled. Some wanted to touch her, too, and sniff at her. Scout cocked his head and wagged his tail anxiously. Gently but firmly, Bronwyn extricated herself. She hoisted Zathrian's slight body over her shoulder. It would easier to get it up those endless stairs this way, and then load him onto the travois once they were on the forest path. Between them, Astrid and Zevran dragged the comatose Danith.
"Maker turn his gaze on you," she said, by way of farewell. "Stay safe. Wait until we leave in the morning. We shall head west. As soon as we are out of hearing, go north as quickly as you can."
Zevran built a fire in the entrance hall and Astrid set about preparing food. Tara took a deep breath, and waved her staff over Danith. Bronwyn stood beside her, not looking forward to this. She had been lax as a commander, she decided: running the Wardens like a band of good friends and companions. To some degree, this must change. She could not expect to be "good friends" with every Warden she recruited. However, it was not unreasonable to expect all of them to obey orders and do their duty.
Danith was too dazed to be angry when Tara revived her. She also had little memory of the events just before Tara knocked her out. Bronwyn stood over her, glaring.
"You turned on us, Danith," she said shortly. "Perhaps it was the evil influence of the old blood mage. If Tara had not put you to sleep, I would have killed you as a traitor. You are very lucky to be alive. I shall give you another, last chance. Know this," she added, her face fierce and determined. "If you ever draw bow on me again, you will not live to regret it. Do you understand me?"
A sullen silence.
"Do you understand me?"
"I...understand," Danith spat out. She looked around the chamber. They were all very angry with her: even the dog; even Tara and Zevran, who should have understood.
But they did not understand. For them, loyalty to the Warden-Commander trumped loyalty to their own blood. They were not of the Dalish. They would never understand. She must accept this, and move on. After a moment, she asked. "But what happened?" She saw Zathrian, lifeless on the travois. "He is dead! Who killed him?"
"No one. He gave his life to end the curse," Bronwyn told her. "It is over. The Lady of the Forest perished as well, since she was his creation. The werewolves regained human form and ran away. Zathrian assured us that the elves would also be cured by his sacrifice."
"But—"
"No 'buts,'" Bronwyn said sharply. "We will sleep here tonight, and return to the camp tomorrow. You will stay here, will not wander off, and will not take a turn at watch, since we cannot be sure you will not knife us in our sleep."
Danith looked away from Bronwyn, and to Tara and Zevran for confirmation. Tara gazed back coolly, and Zevran shrugged.
"It is as she says. Also the part about you being lucky to be alive."
"Enough, " said Bronwyn. "Now that we have cleared out the werewolves, spiders, walking dead, demons, and the dragon, this place should be reasonably safe. Tomorrow, when we return to the Dalish camp, we shall secure the promise of this clan to fight against the Blight, which they were already obligated to do by treaty. You, Danith, will return to us to Ostagar, to fulfill your oath as a Grey Warden."
Danith scowled at Bronwyn, but the Commander had already turned away.
"Tara, can you put a spell on the body to preserve it?"
"I can do that. And we can wrap him in this piece of linen I found in the lair..."
The trek back to the Dalish camp was long and hard. Bronwyn's shoulders ached with the effort of dragging the corpse-laden travois over the rough path. She was tempted to order Danith to do it, but the elf was more useful as a scout and hunter, and Bronwyn was unquestionably stronger. Mentally she cursed Dalish elves and their absurd burial customs. Had Zathrian been an Andrastean, he would have been immolated, and his ashes retrieved far more conveniently.
They stopped often, refilling their canteens in the bright, cool water of the river, snacking on jerky and dried fruit. Bronwyn lay back under an oak, and watch the play of light and shadow through the leaves of the green canopy overheard. At one stop, Danith darted in and out, and shot a brace of quail, stringing them together to hang over her shoulder, a feathered trophy. At another, she pointed out a strange tree to Zevran and Tara, and told them that it was ironbark. Bronwyn studied it. The bark was unusually dark and smooth, and the branches made a graceful urn-like shape. The leaves were large, and fell in dagged fronds. Bronwyn salvaged a leaf, and was fairly sure she would recognize the tree if she saw it again. Then they moved on.
Astrid and Zevran each took a turn pulling the travois, grimacing at Bronwyn in sympathy. Their prospective allies must be kept sweet, and thus this nonsense about bringing back the crazy old dead man.
Danith walked ahead and alone, her anger and outrage gradually fading. In their place blossomed uncertainty and remorse. Zathrian had cast the curse in the first place. He was a blood mage, which was something the Dalish had been taught to fear. She had heard that the mild-mannered Jowan had dabbled in blood magic, but she had dismissed that as nonsense. Jowan could not possibly be a blood mage. Blood mages were monsters: creatures who put themselves beyond the pale of all speaking peoples.
But Zathrian had been a blood mage. He had not denied it. He had felt that anything was justified in his pursuit of vengeance. Danith was no stranger to the concept of vengeance herself, but to pursue it to the point that it harmed his own people...
That was the sticking point. Danith could not bring herself to care what Zathrian had done to a pack of savage humans; but the moment the first elf had been attacked, Zathrian's duty was to lift the curse and protect his people. His children had been dead for hundreds of years. Even if the humans had not killed them, they would have been dead of old age anyway. Zathrian, in the end, had failed to be a good Keeper. He had failed his people. If Bronwyn and the others had not forced the issue, how many more Dalish would have died? Forcing him to end the curse had been the right course of action, but Danith had been blind to it: blinded by her instinctive loyalty to a Dalish Keeper. She had made a fool of herself, and had nearly been a dead fool in the bargain. It was a bitter thing to acknowledge. Keeper Marethari would be so disappointed in her if she knew what she had done...
At length, the landmarks grew more familiar, and the camp lookouts spotted them.
Word of their success had already reached the Dalish. The afternoon before, a hunter had returned to camp, his werewolf-inflicted injuries already healing. As twilight fell, the wife of another hunter had made her appearance, naked and stumbling. She told a wild and terrifying tale of having been transformed into a werewolf. The other werewolves had not been unkind to her, and had urged her to accept her new nature and resign herself to life among them. She had refused, hoping to die, and had wandered away from the pack. Quite suddenly, she had been seized with agonizing pains, and had regained her true form. Her husband welcomed her home with joy and relief. When they looked for Zathrian, in order to share the glad tidings, he was nowhere to be found.
Lanaya ordered everyone to stay in camp, and wait.
"It would seem that the Grey Warden has succeeded in her task," she said. "Perhaps she and our Keeper together!"
Thus, Bronwyn and her party were greeted with jubilation. That quickly soured to anger and mourning, when the linen-wrapped figure on the travois was revealed to be Zathrian.
The clan immediately turned accusing glares at Bronwyn and, to a lesser extent, at Astrid. Tara held up her hand, and stopped them with her words.
"Zathrian gave his life to end the curse. It was the only way."
After that, Bronwyn kept the story brief.
"It was his conclusion," Bronwyn told them, "that the curse could only be completely lifted with both his own death and that of the creature Witherfang. We cornered Witherfang, and then Zathrian arrived and performed the rite. The rest you know."
"And what of the werewolves?" a tall elf demanded.
"We slew many," Bronwyn said, mourning silently for the poor, hapless creatures. "A handful survived and fled east. Some of our party were wounded, and we were in no position to pursue them."
"I can pursue them," an elf woman said murderously. "Those foul beasts killed my husband!"
Bronwyn grimaced. She did not bother to tell these elves of the ancient temple or the dragon they had found there, nor of their battles with the walking dead or the phantoms. If Danith wished to gossip, that was her affair. At the moment, the clan was much more focused on the death of their Keeper.
"He died a hero," sighed one woman.
Lanaya grieved more than anyone at the loss of Zathrian, but was consoled by the outcome.
"It is done, truly: lifting the curse has restored our hunters." She said, "I felt it...when he departed. I think he was ready to go."
"I'm sure he was," Bronwyn agreed blandly.
Maybe at the end...Bronwyn thought...maybe at the very end he had been. He had been a cruel, vicious, wicked old blood mage, who had cursed all humans within his reach without regard for guilt or innocence, but these people had loved him, and it would be stupid to rant on about her contempt for such a person. She swallowed her disgust, and concentrated on respecting Lanaya's grief, while not agreeing with opinion on her old mentor at all.
Lanaya had more to say. "It will be hard to replace Zathrian. He was our Keeper for many centuries. But I am Keeper now, and I hereby swear that I will uphold our ancient treaty with the Grey Wardens. Give me two handfuls of days, and I shall gather the clan and send word to our kin. It has been a long time since the Dalish marched to war, but I trust that in the end we shall make a difference for you. We are coming, with great speed and purpose, and we shall strike at your foes. This, I swear."
There were murmurs of support, some willing, some grudging from the elves crowding around. Sarel shook his head.
"And so Zathrian is lost to us, after all these centuries! We must lay him to rest as is proper." More murmurs of assent. The black-haired hahren looked up sharply at Bronwyn. "And now Keeper Lanaya prepares to take us to war, to fight alongside the humans! I never thought to see such a day."
Bronwyn smiled pleasantly. "It is not the first time that humans and elves have fought as allies. The last Archdemon was slain by an elf: the great hero Garahel, a Grey Warden. We do honor to our ancestors to follow in their footsteps."
One young hunter spoke up. "I, for one, look forward to fighting these darkspawn creatures!"
Tara gave him a quick, encouraging smile. Sarel was not impressed.
"Do you? I hope you return to tell us all about it!" He looked at Bronwyn again, "As for you, Grey Warden, I expect I shall someday tell tales of you. You will excuse us as we honor our fallen Keeper. You," he said with a nod to Danith, Tara, and Zevran, "are welcome to witness this."
Zevran and Tara exchanged looks, and knew it was politic to go. Danith had not imagined doing anything else, of course. Gratefully, Bronwyn and Astrid returned to their own little camp nearby. Scout turned his back on the unfriends, and trotted after Bronwyn, not neglecting to lift a leg as he passed an aravel. While Astrid gathered wood and Bronwyn tended the horses, the dog sighed deeply, flopped down,and rolled comfortably in the dirt.
"Leaving at first light, aren't we?' Astrid asked briskly. There was stone at Ostagar: good, dwarven-laid stone. She would cherish it.
"As soon as the first ray is over the horizon," Bronwyn assured her. "I'll speak to the Keeper later today, after the burial, and we shall talk about the practical aspects, but yes, I cannot be gone too quickly from this place. I hope those poor people get to South Reach before the elves catch them."
"Perhaps Lanaya will keep them too busy preparing for their march south for them to indulge in private revenge."
"Perhaps. I shall speak to her about that, too. We have more than kept our part of the bargain. The Dalish can bloody well keep theirs."
When Tara and Zevran returned from the funeral, Bronwyn snatched up her towel, clean smallclothes and her dwindling sliver of lavender soap.
"I'm off to have a bath downstream."
"What a wonderful idea!" Tara exclaimed. "My hair smells like werewolf pee."
"A cold bath," Astrid muttered, longing for Orzammar and hot running water.
"I shall stand guard!" Zevran swept a gallant bow. "I shall watch over you all most zealously."
"Look all you like, Zevran," Bronwyn said wearily. "I really don't care."
Scout, to his chagrin, was forced to endure a scrubbing as well. He was philosophical about it, knowing he could always roll in the dust later. Playing in the water was good fun.
As soon as they finished their baths, the women stood guard over Zevran. Or at least Bronwyn and Astrid did, since Tara's version of standing guard seemed to consist only of peeking and giggling. Bronwyn's hair was the longest, and she struggled to untangle the snarls.
"I give up," she finally said. "I've got to talk to Lanaya anyway."
She gave them a nod and set off to find the Keeper, her wet hair soaking the back of her shirt. She passed Danith, who was chatting with the clan craftmaster. The ironbark they had found was apparently the topic of conversation. The man was promising to find the tree and send a ironbark bow to Ostagar for Warden Danith. How nice. Bronwyn passed without a word, and saw Lanaya near her aravel.
The conversation was brief and friendly. The Dalish had no need of maps, Bronwyn was told, for the location of ancient Ostagar was well known. It was large, unmistakable, and at the southern terminus of the Imperial Highway, after all. Lanaya said she hoped to be there soon, and added some words of gratitude.
"For a stranger—a human—to step in and save us from this dreadful curse! The Grey Wardens deserve their reputation. It is comforting, too, to know that the Dalish are represented among them."
"Thank you," said Bronwyn, thinking that Danith was an atrocious Warden and that she wished she had never been forced to recruit her. It was possible that a different Dalish elf might do better. It was important not to include a whole race in her dislike of one individual. That was where Zathrian had gone wrong, after all.
She added, "It is indeed important that you come as soon as possible. On that head, I must ask that you encourage your people to direct their energies toward preparing to march to Ostagar, and not delay your departure by tracking the last of the wretched werewolves. I'm sure that many feel wronged, but the werewolves were themselves victims of the curse and can do no more harm. It is much more important to defeat the real danger."
"Of course," Lanaya agreed. "I shall give orders to that effect. However, you understand that many lost loved ones. When feelings run so high..." She saw Bronwyn's face harden, and said, "I shall do my best. I promise you."
Well, there was no more to be said, but Lanaya surprised Bronwyn by presenting her with a pretty leatherbound volume.
"Uthenera, the book is called. It contains the songs of the elves," Lanaya explained. "It was among Zathrian's possessions for many years. It is an oddity, as elves do not generally write their music, but pass it from ear to ear. Do you know the symbols?"
Bronwyn opened the book, and was pleased to see the notes she had learned in childhood. She was no great musician, but she could read this and learn the tunes and words, at least. And Leliana would find it fascinating...
"Yes," she said, smiling. "I know how to read music. This is a delightful gift, Keeper, and I shall treasure it."
Danith arrived in time to have a quick bath herself. She waited until Astrid went back to their camp to build up the fire, and then took a deep breath.
"My actions bring me sorrow," she said clearly. She had been wrong, and must confess it.
Tara did not recognize the Dalish saying, but Zevran did. It was a traditional ritual apology.
"And so they should," he answered, rather blithely. "I would have regretted having to kill you, my halla."
Tara scowled, "That was an apology? You're just apologizing to Zevran and me? Because we're elves?" She shook her head. "I don't think I'll ever understand the Dalish."
Danith bit back the hot reply. Zevran smiled at her. "It was a practice apology! She will first apologize to us, and then, as she grows more expert, she will also apologize to our doughty dwarven princess and finally to our fearless leader."
Speaking to Bronwyn was something that Danith would prefer never to do ever again, but she managed to say, "I shall apologize to Astrid as soon as we join her at the campfire."
"That's good," Tara said seriously. "You really scared me, Danith. I couldn't believe you'd betray us! I forgive you, I suppose, but you have to understand that it's going to take some time for the shock you gave me to wear off."
The performance was repeated on their return. The dwarf gave Danith an impassive, searching look. Feeling more explanation was needed, Danith added, "Obeying a Keeper is second nature among the Dalish. It is what one does. It did not occur to me to go against him. However, I can now see that his actions were wrong, as were mine in supporting him."
Astrid considered this. "You are indeed lucky to be alive. I do understand the call of blood, but quite frankly, if the King of Orzammar commanded me to do one thing, I'm fairly sure I'd do the opposite to spite him. Of course, he's my brother, and I already know he's a swine. Besides, I am a Warden, and am not bound to obey anyone other than the Warden-Commander. Nor are you bound to the commands of the Dalish any longer. You are a Warden among Wardens. If it helps, perhaps you should henceforth regard this as your clan, and Bronwyn as your Keeper."
"She is not a mage." Danith frowned, taking the dwarf's words literally.
Astrid laughed. "Leadership is a magic of its own."
Bronwyn returned soon, carrying a thin book, her dog at her heels. Feeling the others' eyes on her, Danith stepped forward. Her carefully composed words seemed suddenly inadequate. Still, she must do this...
"Commander?"
A pause. Bronwyn looked at Danith, and cocked her head. The dog cocked his head at exactly the same angle. It would have been funny, had it not been so unnerving.
"Yes?" Bronwyn asked.
"I...apologize for my conduct. I was wrong to threaten you and my comrades. Zathrian erred in putting his vengeance before his clan. I erred in putting my loyalty to a Dalish Keeper ahead of my duty as a Warden. It will not happen again."
"Good." Not smiling, Bronwyn gave her a nod. "See that it doesn't. You have been difficult and insubordinate. We need to work together, not against one another. I am open to ideas and suggestions, but I will not have my authority questioned."
"I understand."
"I'm glad."
The uncomfortable moment ended with a stirring of the bushes at the edge of camp: a polite Dalish warning that someone was coming. The Wardens turned, and found a small group of young Dalish men and women approaching. The young hunter who was not afraid to face the darkspawn addressed Bronwyn.
"We wish to hear about the deeds of Warden Garahel."
A red-haired girl said, "The elves cannot have too many heroes."
Bronwyn smiled. "Nor can the people of Thedas. I am surprised you do not know of Garahel. I have a book about him back at Ostagar: I'm sorry now that I did not bring it with me. I remember quite a bit, however." She hoped she did, or at least enough to give them the short version. How could they not have heard of Garahel? Of course, Zathrian had been their loremaster...
"Come and sit with us!" Tara said eagerly, pleased to have visitors.
Danith was pleased, too: very pleased to put an end to that awkward apology. She suspected her foolish betrayal would not soon be forgotten. However, if Bronwyn was willing to be distracted at the moment, Danith could only be grateful.
The young elves sat cross-legged on the ground around the fire, and Bronwyn began her tale...
Bronwyn's Tale of the Grey Warden Garahel
Three cities, all in the Free Marches, claim the honor of being the birthplace of the Hero Garahel: Hasmal, Markham, and the great city of Starkhaven itself. Whichever city it was, Garahel was born and raised in an Alienage, the son of free but impoverished elves. This was in the Black Age, a time of war, for the Chantry had proclaimed an Exalted March against the Tevinter Empire.
From what he confided in his friends among the Wardens, Garahel was a wild youth who ran away from home and made his way as a mercenary in this army or that; for the endless cconflict was a golden opportunity for a gifted swordsman. As to why and how he became a Grey Warden, there is some dispute. Some say that he fell foul of vengeful nobles, but others say that one day the Grey Wardens flew overhead on their griffons, and the young Garahel's heart was captured by the magnificent creatures. He journeyed far and long, for nothing would do but that he should make a pilgrimage to Weisshaupt: to the very seat of the Wardens, and lay his sword at their feet.
He was welcomed kindly. Not only was Garahel among the greatest swordsmen of his day, but he had a most winning and amiable manner, and it is said that his face was "fair as a day in summer." All his life, he was pursued by both men and women, and there are many tales of his romantic adventures. At any rate, he Joined the Wardens and served them with such ability and devotion that he rose quickly through their ranks. At one time he was Warden-Commander of the post at Ansburg, at another, of Tantervale. Wherever the need was greatest, there Garahel went. His steed was the griffon Meranth, greatest and cleverest of his kind.
The Exalted March against the Tevinters came to an abrupt and frightened end when the Archdemon Andoral arose in Exalted 5:12. Exhausted by years of war, Thedas was unprepared for their onslaught.
Like an evil tide, darkspawn swept across the north and northwest. The country of Antiva was overrun and its entire ruling family slaughtered. Unhindered, the darkspawn then poured into the Free Marches and Rivain. Darkspawn attacked the Anderfels as well, and the capital city of Hossberg was beseiged. It was Garahel who gathered an army of Andermen and Wardens and broke the siege, saving the city. After great struggle and tremendous effort, it was Garahel who united the Wardens from all lands, and led the march east to Starkhaven. We can only imagine the difficulties he faced, or the indomitable charm and leadership he displayed, for there he succeeded in forging an alliance among the minor kings and teyrns of the Free Marches, something no one else has succeeded in doing before or since. This great army he led north, with the Grey Wardens flying before the host, riding their griffons.
It was at the city of Ayesleigh, on the shores of Rialto Bay, where Garahel's host met the darkspawn horde. For days and nights, heroes battled monsters. Garahel, on his beloved griffon Meranth, fought the Archdemon in the black and Blighted skies. Lightning crashed around them: the screams of the dying rose to the heavens. Garahel struck the blow that slew Andoral, but was himself slain; for Meranth was wounded mortally and crashed to earth with his rider. With Garahel's sacrifice, the tide of battle turned, and the darkspawn were trapped between the united army and the sea. It is written that so many darkspawn were slaughtered on that field that many thought they they were vanquished forever. They must have been sorely weakened, truly; for it has been four hundred years since Garahel's victory, and only now have the darkspawn recovered enough strength to challenge Thedas.
A song is still sung about that battle: The Ballad of Ayesleigh.
The wind that stirs
Their shallow graves
Carries their song
Across the sands.
Heed our words
Hear our cry
The Grey are sworn
In peace we lie.
Heed our words
Hear our cry
Our names recalled
We cannot die.
When darkness comes
And swallows light
Heed our words
And we shall rise.
The young elves seemed to like the story very much, and made Bronwyn repeat the song several times, fixing it their memory.
"What a pity the griffons died out," Tara sighed. "Everyone would want to be a Grey Warden if we still had griffons."
There was a general, wistful consensus around the fire that that was true. Understanding that the Wardens would be leaving very early in the morning, the visitors departed, with warm thanks and some kind gifts: jars of hallenansal sealed with wax, and bags of dried berries.
Bronwyn went to check on the horses, and found Danith standing behind her. It was tempting to snap at her and tell her not to do that, but she simply said, "Yes? You wanted something?"
"Commander...when we return to Ostagar, may I borrow the book... the one about Garahel?"
"If you promise to return it," Bronwyn said lightly. She hated people who kept borrowed books.
Her bedroll beckoned invitingly. She was exhausted, and no Grey Warden stamina could conceal it from her. She might even need a rejuvenation spell on the morrow. Scout lay down beside her, cleared tired himself.
Mentally, she was already far away from the Dalish, her thoughts racing south to Ostagar and what the situation there might be. She would have sensed it if the darkspawn had made any major moves, but all sorts of other things could have happened. What were her Wardens up to? Were they safe? Were they well? Had Vaughan made any attempt to harm Adaia? Was Alistair overwhelmed? And there was Loghain...
Loghain would be furious and grieved by his daughter's letter. Bronwyn longed to see him: longed to be in the presence of one capable of shouldering his own burdens. Loghain was before her in imagination: tall, fierce, imposing, his glittering eyes softening a little for her, his big hands gentle...
The pang of desire was sullied by dread. The Orlesians had attempted his daughter's life, and had succeeded in compromising it. They had attacked with secret malice, their agent penetrating into the Queen's private chambers. Such deeds called for vengeance, and Ferelden was manifestly unable to compass it. It was bitter to contemplate, but their country was in no position to threaten the Empire in any serious way. It never had been, and certainly now was not, with the darkpsawn boiling up from the south like pus from an ulcerated wound. There was nothing they could do but act in secret themselves, and foil Empress Celene's schemes.
What kind of people took advantage of a Blight to further their own interests? Brownyn felt a surge of loathing for the Orlesians. They spun their webs like fat, bloated spiders, smug in their superior power, convinced of their superiority...their right to rule the Ferelden barbarians. It was galling not to be able to slap the smirks from their faces.
Maker forbid that Anora should die! Cailan would be perfectly within his rights to remarry. What would they do, if Anora was gone, and he proclaimed the Empress of Orlais his choice? If they deposed the King, the country would fall apart. They already had one rebel to deal with. They could not cope with more.
What was happening to Fergus, anyway? How was he faring in his campaign against Howe? Bronwyn longed to be done with all this dashing about the countryside. Once in Ostagar, she would be in a position to know what was really going on...
Bronwyn wondered if Loghain would shout at her, when she mentioned Brother Genetivi and the Urn of the Sacred Ashes. Probably. He was very good at shouting. All things considered, she would rather be with him, even when he was shouting, than apart. They were stronger together. Together, she felt they could somehow win through this time of troubles.
Her eyes closed, and she lay half-asleep, while the borders of the Fade crept closer. She seemed to stand on a mountaintop, a chill wind cutting through her, the kingdoms of Thedas spread before her feet. The harsh scent of dragon and a distant bellow reminded her that her worst enemies were not human. Morrigan was standing by a roaring fire, smirking at her, and was suddenly a hawk, flying away. Bronwyn blinked, and saw Loghain standing by a window sheeted with rain. He looked so sad that she wanted to speak to him, but no sound emerged from her mouth. On her other side, Fergus was climbing an endless rope, his face grim with inexpressible determination...
She sank deeper into dreams, and her blanket on the forest floor became a splendid, narrow bed, where she lay still and unmoving, surrounded by a sea of torches. Stars glittered silver in the dark-blue dome of Heaven, and around her rose the music of a thousand voices, blending into a single compelling chorus of triumph and grief.
Thanks to my readers and especially to those who reviewed: Sarah1281, callalili, Cobar713, MsBarrows, demonicnargles, Kira Kyuu, RayneEthelwulf, cloud1004, ellechiM, Judy, SkaterGirl246, Menamebephil, euromellows, Costin, Josie Lange, Jenna53, Lehni, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Shakespira, karinfan123, NorthernWarden, The Moidart, mutive, JackOfBladesX, Enaid Aderyn, Tyanilth, almostinsane, Dan, and mille libri.
I decided to make Garahel a city elf because in DAA, Velanna goes on about how the Dalish elves have no stories. This is complete rubbish, especially since the Warden might still have in her inventory The Tale of Iloren (which wll be featured in the next chapter). However, the city elf in DAO also does not appear to know about Garahel until Duncan mentions him. Garahel should be Kind of a Big Deal Who Saved the World a Lot. Perhaps he still is in Hossburg and Starkhaven and points north. It's true that Garahel was never in Ferelden (as far as we know.)
Bronwyn has heard of him because she's highly educated and knows a lot of history. Also, she happened to "inherit" a biography of Garahel. It's possible that Garahel is not celebrated much because once he was gone, along with his charm and brilliant diplomacy and skill at arms, humans remembered mostly that he was very embarrassingly an elf. And perhaps he was not "elven" enough for the elves, since he was very much a unifier, who brought people together, and worked closely with humans (and probably with dwarves).