Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 47: King's Mountain
The hawk flew, creeling, through the window embrasure and pecked at Bronwyn.
"Morrigan?"
A quick, disturbing transformation. Morrigan was raging, yellow eyes afire.
"The King of Fools is under attack. And now my personal fool has stayed behind to defend him!"
Bronwyn had heard Morrigan on the subject of Cailan often enough to translate this instantaneously. "Where?"
"To the southeast, not five leagues. The darkspawn have come out of the hills in yet another place. It is a large force—over three hundred. Some of the genlocks appear unusually powerful. We must go!"
"Right!" Bronwyn pushed her notes aside, and slung on her weapons as the two women ran down the twisting staircases.
"You!" she shouted at a guard on duty. "Go to the training ground and alert the Wardens. We'll meet them across the bridge. I'm off to report to the Teyrn. Tell them we're moving out—and fast!"
Morrigan was all but wringing her hands. Ghostly feathers manifested and vanished as she tried to control her flight reflex. Bronwyn said, "Go on! Find Teyrn Loghain and give her your report. Tell him the Wardens are going to support the King. We'll be across the bridge as soon as possible, to hear what the plan is."
She was briefly buffeted by the forming wings. Morrigan was off, arrowing south across Ostagar Gorge, her high-pitched cries fading into the distance. Bronwyn trotted behind, not wanting to exhaust herself in a sprint before it was absolutely necessary.
Soldiers waved at her as she jogged across the long stone bridge.
"—Good day to you, Girl Warden!"
Bronwyn waved back, smile fixed in place, keeping her pace steady to avoid raising unnecessary alarm. She needed to send someone down to the Dalish camp, and find her people there.
Andraste's nightgown! There was the Revered Mother, looking as if she wanted to talk to her. Bronwyn sketched a hasty bow, and jogged on, trying to look much too busy to talk at the moment.
"Bronwyn!"
It was Cousin Leonas, and she slowed a little, and veered over to him. She kept her voice to a low, urgent whisper.
"I've got to get to Loghain! A scout reported that the King's party is under attack."
He did not try to stop her, but fell into step, instantly concerned. His officers looked at each other, and followed them, a flying wedge that everything else on the bridge stepped aside for.
"There were over a hundred Dalish with him! How many of the enemy?"
"Maybe three hundred."
"Maker's Breath!"
There was just the ramp now before they were on the other side and into the upper parade ground. The southern camp was a hive of activity. Loghain must already be acting on Morrigan's report. Soldiers were running up to join their fellows. Shouts and orders echoed off the ancient stones.
Thank the Maker! There were her elves, hurrying up from the valley. Zevran's grin was gleeful and bloodthirsty. Tara looked ready for anything. Little Adaia was running to her workshop, probably to bring them some supplies. Good thinking. Some of that improved deathroot poison was just the thing…
"Loghain!" Bryland called out. "We must go to the King's aid!"
Loghain, already surrounded by his officers, was in a curiously heightened state of calm: it was the controlled, powerful calm before the storm of battle.
"We shall, of course, but we shall do so sensibly. Cauthrien, take the first company of Maric's Shield, and move out along the Hill Trail…"
He had formed a plan, and was already putting it into action. Bronwyn felt intense relief that there was someone here who was never at a loss. As he laid our his strategy, more and more eager warriors were joining them. A shout, and Bronwyn glanced over to see Alistair coming toward them at a run, with the rest of the Wardens.
"Where is Morrigan?" Bronwyn asked Loghain quietly.
"Gone," he shrugged. "She gave her report, glared at me with burning impatience, and then flew away. Enough of her. She has played her part. It is more important that you remember that you cannot take all your Wardens with you today."
She did. It was an unpleasant choice. If disaster befell them in the hills, who could be trusted to carry on the mission? Theoretically, she should choose her Second, Alistair, but she knew he would never forgive her if she forbade him to go to his brother. And if the Wardens were to need a leader…
Pulling her people aside, she said, "We're going to the King's aid, but not all of us. Two of us must stay here. The Wardens were almost annihilated at the battle in Bloomingtide. We cannot risk that again." An anxious, unhappy pause. "Astrid, I want you to remain here with Leliana. I know, I know. But we're it, We have to keep someone in reserve. No other Warden in all of Thedas has come to stand with us. If things go wrong, someone has to do serious recruiting! Maker guide you."
"No!" Leliana cried. "Bronwyn! Wait!"
But Bronwyn was already turning away, not liking the look of grim understanding on Astrid's face any better than the one of pained disappointment on Leliana's.
In fact, Astrid had grasped the very great compliment her Commander had just paid her. It was she, rather than Alistair, that Bronwyn trusted to rebuild the Wardens and slay the Archdemon if today's battle went wrong. Reflexively, she began making plans, including a mental list of warriors she had seen who would be likely recruits. And of course, they would still have a mage: Jowan, up north in Denerim…
She glanced after her comrades, heading off to join the departing troops. Alistair gave her a wry, sympathetic grin, which she answered with a wave and smile.
"I can't believe it," Leliana mourned. "How could she leave me behind? Us behind?"
"She trusts us, Leliana," Astrid said, laying a hand on the bard's arm. "She trusts us to know what to do. She trusts us to know her mind, and not fail her."
"And we won't, but—what is she doing?"
Adaia was running from her workshop, belts laden with bombs and poison flasks criss-crossing her thin chest.
"What is he doing?" Cailan wondered, shading his eyes with his hand. Anders-turned-raven was only a dot now, dropping down behind a distant ridge. A hideous clamor rose up, drifting on the wind.
"Providing a diversion, Your Majesty," Carver called back.
"Oh. Well done."
Blood called to blood. Blood burned in them relentlessly, drawing them on with every heartbeat. The darkspawn spewed from the hole in the earth, howling. Even the bright yellow torture of daylight was no hindrance to their thundering advance. The strong trampled the weak: the genlocks in front smashed obstacles in their path with their shields. Stones were splintered and ground to powder under hundreds of iron-shod boots.
The Hurlock Vanguard who led them suddenly halted, causing chaos behind him. Shrieks of rage and agony rose above the crash of iron and broken bones. Off to their right, not a hundred feet away, was one of the Tainted Ones; the enemies of their blood. He did not challenge them with drawn sword, or shout defiance. This Warden… waved.
"Cooo-eee!" Anders called cheerfully. "Over here, you scabrous pustules on the arse of Thedas! Fight me! You know you want to!"
The Hurlock bellowed unintelligibly, and lifted a crude, massive sword in command. Instantly, the flailing mob had purpose once more. Diverted from their original objective, they shrieked and gobbled, charging at the lone figure in their path. Their rush built up momentum: the genlocks bellowed and thrust forward with their iron shields, scraping the earth flat.
Anders raised his staff, and summoned the lightning.
Seconds later, the remaining darkspawn crashed to a halt. In a flash of black wings, the Warden was gone. Shocked, drained, and weakened, baffled darkspawn pounded after him, piling into the blind valley. The charge slowed to useless, milling fury, as genlock tore at hurlock, trying to find a way out of the cul de sac. At the back of the horde, a few of the darkspawn peeled away, heading toward the blood beacon farther on: the one they had first felt.
"I'm here!" High above them on a rocky ledge, Anders jeered at them. "Yeah! Over here!"
A flurry of arrows responded. Some of the darkspawn archers had a little longer range than Anders had predicted.
"Shit!" he snarled, pressing himself flat into the rocks, scraping his knuckles bloody. More arrows clattered around him. One ricocheted, and the arrowhead slashed a long ragged tear in his robes. "Not good!"
A few of the genlocks climbed up their fellows like ladders, scrabbling on the sheer stone face. More and more piled on them, lured irresistibly by the shared Taint.
But still more turned back down the wider valley, feeling the call of others of the hated kind. Once those were in motion, others mindlessly followed, excited by the chase.
Anders edged under an outcropping, and gathered himself for another blast of energy. Anything he could do to chip away at the darkspawn could mean life or death for King Cailan and those with him.
White-hot bolts of energy crackled from his fingers, shaking the ground. A crazy pyramid of darkspawn overbalanced and toppled back into the seething mass of monsters. Anders grinned wolfishly, and hoped no one had brought an ogre to the party.
The elves had withdrawn in good order, and climbed the steep slope with their usual agility. Humans and dwarves found it considerably harder going. The King's personal guard hovered anxiously, wanting their charge up on the heights and out of the greatest danger.
"Your Majesty! Take my hand, ser!" cried Ser Elric Maraigne.
"Thanks, Elric." Cailan laughed gamely and struggled up, bracing his left foot on an exposed root. "Plate armor is not exactly the proper apparel for rock climbing!"—
"Too true, alas, Cailan," agreed Ser Landry. He wiped his face, his eyes burning from the salty sweat. "But we'll be glad of it if the creatures climb up after us!"
Above them, an elf cried out, "Mythal preserve us! I see them! They are coming!"
More calmly, Thanovir declared, "Fewer than we thought. The mage's distraction worked well."
Merrill was by no means the only mage in the Dalish forces. There were four others among them today, all of them younger even than Merrill, and they met with their Keeper, speaking softly among themselves, discussing what would work best against the horde racing toward them. Their range was no better than the archers: for many spells, not nearly as good. There were some wide-area spells, however, that would wreak havoc. They were not much used among the Dalish, but today was the day for them. The mages spread out, up and down the line, to give as much support as possible to the hunters. Merrill stood at Cailan's side.
The Hawke brothers, more lightly armored than Cailan's knights, were already on the summit and taking positions by the ranks of Dalish archers. Carver was cursing himself for not bringing his bow. A curious sensation scratched at his senses.
He shaded his eyes. "Elves have better eyes than I do. Do you see them, Adam?"
"I see a lot of dust. Look here, Carver," he lowered his voice. "You told me that the Wardens can sense darkspawn."
Carver whispered back, "We can. We do. I feel them in the distance. A lot of darkspawn, but it's kind of vague."
"Well, then, does that mean that the darkspawn can sense you?"
The boy gaped, unsure how to answer.
Adam pressed him, "—because if they do, maybe it's not a good idea for the Wardens to bunch up around the King."
"We can't go off and leave him!"
"Of course not. I'm just saying that maybe you and Danith shouldn't stand right next to him and attract unwanted attention his way."
Danith drew closer, hearing her name. "What are you saying about me?"
Carver leaned down to speak in her ear. "Darkspawn are attracted to us. Maybe we shouldn't stay really close to the King. It might make them target him."
Danith cared little for the shemlen king personally, but Merrill had great hopes of him. "Very well. I shall make my stand further down, with Maynriel's hunters. You may come with me, Carver. It may be that there is a bow you will be permitted to use."
"Thanks!" The boy followed her, and then turned to see his brother going the other way. "Adam?"
Hawke shrugged. "Well, I'm not a Warden. I'll stand with the King."
Their little band of dwarves was still near the base of the hill, setting up what traps and tripwires time would permit.
"Come on, durgen'len!" Maynriel shouted. "The darkspawn are closing in!"
Longer-legged hurlocks were in front of the pack. It was a mindless mob without organization or leadership. They saw the dwarves at the base of the hill and howled with bloodlust. Instantly the dwarves dropped what they were doing, and began a clumsy uphill scramble.
"Help them!" Merrill called out in her clear voice. "You there! And you! Pull them to safety!"
Very surprised dwarves found themselves seized in strong, slender hands and hauled up the hill, with little regard for dwarven dignity.
Carver grinned at the sight, and then grew grim as the darkspawn grew closer. He could throw rocks, he supposed...
"Here!"
Danith shoved a worn but serviceable longbow into Carver's hands. "Do you know how to use this?"
He had hunted from boyhood; and while not a legendary Dalish archer, he had done his part to feed his family. "I can get by."
"See that you do," she said primly. She tossed him a quiver of heavy, steel-tipped arrows, and busied herself with her own weapon.
"Ready!" shouted Maynriel. In startling unison, arrows were nocked, bows were bent, and a hundred elves took aim at the creatures rushing their way. More were in range; more were bursting from the hidden valley and rushing toward their makeshift fortress. Cailan and his knights watched the coming attack with excitement and frustration, every one of them wishing he had brought a bow.
"Steady…Wait for them!"
The darkspawn pounded on, their ugly faces now distinct. The trickle of of the creatures had become a storm.
"Loose!"
A black cloud of arrows blotted out the blue of the sky. The air hummed and vibrated. The volley slammed into the darkspawn. A good quarter of them dropped in their tracks. Some fell, thrashing and scrabbling. Others, feathered like strange, evil birds, ran on, insensible to pain. Standing at the end of the bluff, Merrill screamed a war cry.
"May the Dread Wolf take you!"
Fire exploded from her upraised staff, and rained down on the darkspawn. Screams erupted from the staggered monsters, enveloped in flame. Up and down the line, elemental forces were unleashed on the ancient enemy: fire and ice; lightning and earthquake.
The dwarves peered from behind stony cover, mightily impressed. The King and his knights looked at the spectacle in astonishment; some like Cailan, with an admixture of delight and wonder; some others with horror and dread.
A few of the attackers reached the base of the cliff and set off the waiting traps. Lyrium bombs exploded in clouds of poisonous shrapnel, taking darkspawn down within a twenty-foot radius.
But more darkspawn were coming, drawn on by their murderous nature. A pair of unnaturally big genlocks rushed toward the hill, pushing heavy shields before them. At a distance, they simply looked like massive pieces of iron, scraping along the landscape like animated armor. Elven mages tried cold and paralysis spells on them in vain. The creatures barely broke stride.
"What are those things?" Carver shrieked at Danith, grabbing for another arrow. She shrugged, wide-eyed and busy. Another firestorm burst from Merrill's staff. Darkspawn spun and flailed. Some dropped, squawking; but the big ones with heavy iron shields kept coming, shrugging off Dalish arrows like falling leaves.
Merrill called out a freezing enchantment in her high, sweet voice. The big genlocks paused, slowing as if caught in tar. What turned others of their kind into blocks of ice was a temporary inconvenience, but at least it gave the archers better targets. They took aim, and shot at the faces under the wide-brimmed helmets. At exposed throats, too: a lucky shot changed one genlock's roar to a thick, slobbery whine. Still, they came on, and slammed into the base of the hill like farmboys hoping to shake ripe apples from a tree.
Rocks tumbled down on the attackers, dislodged by the force of the genlocks. Pebbles bounced off helmets; dust whitened the hideous faces. A frantic, frenzied mass of Taint swarm at the base of hill now: clucking, roaring, cackling.
More of the powerful, shield-carrying genlocks were coming. More darkspawn bowmen, too. They were hanging back, taking position. Arrows began whizzing up at the hill's defenders. A bold dwarf broke cover to throw a lyrium grenade down the hill, and was promptly shot: a quick, high shriek, followed by sobbing. His friends hauled him back, tugging at the arrow. The grenade rolled part of the way, was trampled on, and exploded. Bit of darkspawn flew sloppily into the air. One of the big genlocks sagged behind his shield and slowly toppled under the stamping feet.
"Bring down the archers!" Maynriel shouted.
Carver spotted one—an ugly little skulking thing—and loosed an arrow at it. He missed it, and hit the Hurlock behind it just under the breastplate. Not the hit he had wanted, but not bad at all. The creature roared and yanked out the arrow in a thick spurt of blood. The blood kept spurting, and the bewildered creature sank to its knees and died. Carver grinned.
There's one down. Well done, Carver Hawke!
He nocked another arrow, and tried again for the bandy-legged genlock bowman.
The horde parted, a river divided; and up jogged a big Hurlock wearing a heavy horned helmet. It was the biggest hurlock most of them had ever. Cailan and his knights, however, had seen something just like this at the outset of the Bloomingtide battle. The Hurlock Vanguard bellowed unintelligibly, his sword pointed at the hill. With an answering roar, the darkspawn renewed their assault, smaller genlocks charging over the bodies of their dead, using the big shielded genlocks like stepping stones to leap at the hill and start scrambling up the slope.
Archers shot straight down into the the attackers. Dwarves lobbed grenades from cover. More darkspawn came on, crawling heedlessly over their dead.
"Well, my friends," Cailan said wryly, "it seems our swords will be needed sooner, rather than later."
The darkspawn swarmed up like ants to a honey pot. Some fell, transfixed by arrows or ripped apart by grenades, but more and more were coming. They burst over the edge of the hill, shrieking, and threw themselves at the defenders. Some of the Dalish dropped their bows, drew swords and daggers, and threw themselves into the melee.
Wild hand-to-hand fights spread over the top of the hill. The king's knights closed in around him, back-to back, a ring of bright steel. Cailan's eyes brightened with the thrill of battle. He swung his heavy greatsword in a shining arc, cutting a genlock in two. Merrill froze an attacker, and Cailan's blade shattered it into bloody shards. The king whooped with joy.
Carver unslung his sword as well, fighting off darkspawn that tried to attack the archers from behind. It was all confusion. He tried to stay alert, and not accidentally behead an ally. It was going to be tricky…
The darkspawn had encircled the hill now. A triumphant roar arose, signalling their discovery of an easier path to the summit on the north side. The Vanguard bellowed a command, and another wave rushed uphill.
Keen hawk eyes saw the crumpled figure on the high ledge. Below it surged a swarm of darkspawn baying for Grey Warden blood, their fingers clawing into rocky crevices. Unnoticed by the monsters, Morrigan alighted on the far end of the ridge and transformed.
Anders was moving only a little. He must have healed himself over and over, but his strength was nearly gone. Her lips a straight line of exasperation, Morrigan cast a fireball into the mob of darkspawn at the base of the rockface, and followed it with a firestorm. Darkspawn squawked and ran from the blind valley, fanning the flames with every stride. Some noticed Morrigan now, and a few arrows came her way. She knocked them aside contemptuously, targeting the darkspawn that were too stupid and stubborn to stop trying to attack Anders.
Anders was hers. Anyone who tried to take him from her would regret it. These creatures before her would learn that lesson, and would pay with their lives for her inconvenience.
The survivors were already running away. Caught up in the call of Taint from the far hill, they joined the attack and forgot all about the lone Warden on the little ledge.
"Fool!" Morrigan snarled. The man was almost more trouble than he was worth. She called up her hawk form, and in a moment was at his side, working the limited healing magic she knew. As soon as he was well enough, they would fly back to Ostagar, no matter how dire the Fool King's situation.
"Adaia, we are going into battle!"
For nearly an hour, nothing that Tara, Cullen, Alistair, Zevran, or Leliana had said had made an impression on the little elf. Apparently nothing Bronwyn could say made a difference, either.
"I know," Adaia said sturdily, keeping pace with the quick-marching troops with no visible effort. "I'm a Warden."
"That's right," laughed Brosca, slapping her on the shoulder—carefully, not wanting to set off any of the volatile trinkets the girl bore. "You tell her. All you have to do is stand in the middle of the horde, and you'll blow them all the way back to the Stone!"
Adaia grinned fiercely. "I've got lots of poisons, too. Everybody come get some. I've slathered my knives with them!"
"All right," Bronwyn said. Short of ordering her back to camp, there was nothing to be done. Adaia had been conscripted and wished to serve. "If you are determined to a Warden, you must do this: kill at least one darkspawn, and fill this vial with its blood." She reached into a pocket and thrust the container into Adaia's hands. "And don't tell anyone else about it. That's what you have to do. After the battle, give the vial to me and we'll have a ceremony."
"Yes!" shrieked Adaia, punching the air with a small fist.
Bronwyn shook her head. No one had time or energy to talk much, for Loghain kept his forces moving at the trot. The scouting party had not been traveling particularly fast, nor was it difficult to track them. If the King could hold out, there was hope that Loghain's forces could effect a rescue. If not, perhaps they would be enough to exact revenge.
A pair of new-model ballistae, broken down to manageable pieces, were carried by their dwarven engineers. If the machines could help bring down a dragon, perhaps they could help save a king.
His sword was unbearably heavy. Carver's blows were slowing, becoming sluggish. He used the weight of the sword to fight, letting it fall in controlled blows on his opponents. More darkspawn were coming up the north trail, now smoothed by dozens of darkspawn boots. Dalish bodies slumped here and there, hacked and bloody.
The shield-carrying genlocks had not reached them, thank the Maker, but plenty of their fellows had. The mages' voices were hoarse from shouting spells.
The earth shook: a deep vibration everyone felt from the soles of their feet to the top of their skulls. Darkspawn squealed and squawked and plunged out of the way of the monstrous being stamping up the hill.
"—Ogre!"
"—Bring it down!"
"—Shoot it! Shoot it!"
"—Make save us! Nooo—"
The ogre thundered toward them, boulder-like arms swinging; knocking elf, dwarf, and human aside like dolls. The mages did their best to slow it. Merrill had not finished her paralysis spell before she was thrown in the air, striking the ground hard.
"Merrill!" cried Cailan, rushing out of his formation to help her. Men cursed and leaped after him. The ogre pivoted, and mowed them down like wheat.
"To the King!" Ser Landry rallied the King's companions, and they charged in a body, shoving the ogre back with shields and pommel-strokes. The creature staggered, and then bellowed a challenge. A Dalish dagger, well thrown, struck it in the eye.
In agony, the ogre rampaged across the summit of the hill, smashing down anything in its path. Cailan stood his ground in front of the unconscious Merrill, and the ogre spotted him, reaching out with a giant fist. Cailan swung his sword, and it bounced off the ogre's breastplate. The ogre grabbed him and lifted the king up, looking him over with bestial gloating. A trickle of thick drool trailed into Cailan's face.
Amid the screams of horror, Adam Hawke launched himself at the ogre, his blade driving hard in the monster's groin. The ogre grunted in surprise and then pain. Tainted blood spurted from an artery. Slowly, its hand opened, and Cailan dropped and scrambled away, wiping his face. He groaned and slumped to the ground, hand on the his dented armor and cracked ribs.
It was a slaughter: the knights hacking, stabbing, slashing at the fallen creature. The ogre's death was a triumph, but the darkspawn came on, and kept coming. Instantly, the steel circle of warriors formed again, surrounding the fallen king.
An explosion crashed below. The air shone white, and sizzled briefly. The fighters paused, trying to assess the sound, and then the hill's defenders cheered.
Bronwyn said the King's people were still fighting, so they were not too late. They advanced on the darkspawn, hardly slowing their pace. Adaia followed her friends, a grenade in one hand and her good ironbark dagger in the other. She would help them fight darkspawn. Right. Some darkspawn were smaller than she was, after all.
On the edge of the battle, she found one of them: a short genlock archer, taking aim at the Wardens. Adaia crept up behind the creature and slit its throat. The poison on her blade mixed with the darkspawn blood, creating a sulfurous reek. Quickly, looking around for possible attackers, Adaia uncorked the vial and busied herself collecting the genlock's blood. That was the rule. A vial of darkspawn blood. Whatever. Adaia hoped they weren't just playing a joke on her.
Another genlock spotted her and squawked. Adaia tossed her grenade its way, then threw herself flat. The squawk stopped abruptly. The elf grinned to herself, face down in the dust. If she was quick and careful this should be fun.
Ballistae creaked and thumped. Bombs exploded. Curses shattered the earth and air. Archers loosed volleys, and warriors caught the darkspawn between the anvil of the hill and the hammer of Loghain's attack. Yard by yard, the darkspawn were crushed and slaughtered.
Bronwyn led her people against the strange darkspawn commander: the tall creature in the horned helmet. From the moment she crossed swords with it, she knew it for something more than mere darkspawn. On however limited a level, this was a thinking creature.
And powerful. It swung a blade with as much strength as Sten. The Qunari side-stepped the blow, and slammed against the Vanguard in the midst of his follow-through. Not even Sten could knock the creature down, but he slowed it enough for other blades, sharp and envenomed, to reach its vitals.
Still the Vanguard fought. Its sword snapped in half, and the creature shoved the broken blade into Oghren's surprised face. The dwarf's helmet saved his life, but only just. Blood squirted from the torn mouth. Big white teeth flew sideways. Tara screamed a healing spell, and the bleeding slowed to a trickle. Oghren fell back, while Alistair threw up his shield, giving the creature a smart buffet. Cullen followed up with a downward blow that smashed the creature's armor and broke its collarbone.
"Bastard!" Bronwyn snarled, stabbing at the thing's eyes. "I'm sick of you!"
"Me, too!" Brosca agreed. She dove behind the Vanguard and gave an ankle a hard yank. The creature stumbled, and the back of its neck was briefly exposed.
It was enough. Sten roared, and swung his blade. It cut part way through the spine, and the horned helmet was knocked all the way off the Vanguard's head. It cannoned into Zevran, who sat down, winded.
"Braska!" the elf swore. Then he laughed, as Bronwyn drove her sword into the thrashing darkspawn's throat. It twitched for some time, but finally was still. Brosca kicked it in the head.
With the Vanguard's death, whatever order and purpose the darkspawn had was gone. The horde disintegrated into mindless monsters fighting whatever lay before them. With no coordination, Loghain's forces mopped them up, and then advanced up the hill to the King.
The teyrn himself, his sword dripping red, was one of the first to the wide summit. Loghain eyed the aftermath dispassionately. The darkspawn had lost more than he had, which was always a good thing; and his army was in possession of the field, which was the traditional definition of victory. He pushed through to see if Cailan lived or not. The king was on the ground, but Keeper Merrill was murmuring over him, and the king's guard parted to let their general pass.
Cailan grinned up at him, knocked silly: boyishly pleased with himself.
"So, Loghain…who's King of the Mountain?"
Loghain bit back dark anger at the sight of Cailan on his makeshift stretcher. The walking wounded were limping back, helped by their friends. The worst cases were lying out in the Wilds, waiting for the wagons to retrieve them, guarded by a handful of soldiers, and cared for by a few Healers. Many of them would die out here.
But it was good to be a King, even when squeezed and drooled on by an ogre. A mage named Petra was walking by the stretcher, waving her staff. Little Keili looked over anxiously, and cast a rejuvenation spell now and then, until Loghain's irritated expression gave her pause.
"Other soldiers need help," he growled. Of course she cast the next spell on him, but he wordlessly pointed at a dazed knight, staggering along with a bloody head wound. She nodded and sidled over to the man, her staff aglow. Then she moved on to Adam Hawke, who would henceforth have a faint but dashing scar across his cheekbone.
Bronwyn smiled to herself. Loghain narrowed his eyes. Her smile only sweetened.
"You have a loyal admirer."
"Complete rubbish."
"I should say, 'another loyal admirer,'" she teased. She saw he was genuinely angry and upset, and could not quite understand why.
"A gift from the heart does not deserve scorn, whether from a despised mage or mighty king. The girl means well, and is trying to serve her country in the only way she knows. The Chantry has seen to it that she has nothing but her magic to give, and they allow little enough of that as it is."
"I don't despise her," Loghain snapped. "I just don't like people fussing over me. Or over other people who have the means to care for themselves."
She followed his glance over to the royal procession. Adam Hawke was now walking on the other side of the king he had saved. Cailan reached out to shake his hand. Carver's brother was likely to profit handsomely from this day's work.
Oghren had found most of his lost teeth. One of the mages was spelling them back into his mouth. It was a fairly disturbing sight.
And Morrigan reported in: her face stony, her tone scathing. Anders had lured the darkspawn away with a diversion and had killed many of them. He had nearly been killed himself.
"And—" Morrigan noted acidly, "I did not see anyone coming to his assistance other than myself!"
Bronwyn laughed. "Who else would he need?"
Morrigan scoffed, only partly appeased. "We shall return to camp by ourselves, in stages, and I trust that Anders will be permitted to recover before performing any more ridiculous heroics!"
"Very well," Bronwyn assented smoothly. "And my congrulations both on your survival and all associated heroics. Very well done indeed!"
Another scornful huff, and Morrigan took to the skies in her hawk shape. She passed impudently close to Loghain's head, feathered wings ruffling his hair. Loghain glared irritably after the shape-shifter.
There was more fuss yet to be made over the king when they arrived at camp. Every Healer among the mages vied to do the honors, but of course pride of place went to Wynne. Loghain ground his teeth in annoyance. Who knew how long Cailan would demand the woman's attention? She was desperately needed in Denerim. Anora needed her. Instead, she was likely to stay in camp, coddling Cailan; bandaging his insignificant cuts and bruises.
Cailan was in rather good spirits, and enjoyed making the most of his adventure.
"Well! Loghain! All's well that end's well, anyway! That's a few hundred of the creatures we'll never have to fight again! What shall we call today's battle? 'King's Mountain' sounds very well, I think."
"Indeed," Loghain answered dryly.
Cailan put out his hand to the Dalish Keeper.
"Merrill!" he said, eyes blue and radiant. "Your people fought most bravely—most honorably. I hope today strengthens the bonds between human and elf... between Fereldan and Dalish. I wish to say now, before all of you, that I mean to reward the courage and friendship of the Dalish with a free grant of land. It is time that the elvhen had a home once more, and I would be honored if they would consent to be our neighbors."
Merrill's delicate face was luminous with joy. "My King, nothing could give me greater happiness!"
There was a murmur of talk. Loghain felt his temper rising. What land was Cailan talking about? Where? Whose land was he giving away? Loghain hoped it was something actually within the gift of the Crown of Ferelden. And a "free" grant of land? "Neighbors?" Did Cailan not mean to keep the overall sovereignty of that part of Ferelden soil?
"And Bronwyn!" the king called out, wincing as his gestures grew too taxing. "Come and drink to your Wardens' heroism! They've done their duty today!"
Bronwyn lifted her cup willingly enough. "I thank Your Majesty!"
"Yes!" Cailan drank with her. His eyes brightened with the first welcome swallow of good Antivan wine. "Danith and Carver! Our thanks to you!"
Bronwyn did not allow the frown inside to show. "And Anders, Your Majesty. His wounds, too, are being treated, but we shall not forget his brave deeds."
"Right. Warden Anders, of course. Elric, my good fellow, come over here..." Cailan whispered a few words in his friend's ear.
"Of course, Majesty," the man nodded, and went into the next room.
"For the three Wardens who stood with me today, a golden reward."
Elric returned, a small casket in his hand. He stood beside the king, and opened the lid. Inside gleamed rings of massive gold. A stir of appreciation hummed through the chamber.
"Bronwyn, take this ring to Warden Anders, with my thanks. He saved many lives today—probably mine among them. Warden Danith, this is probably much too big for the delicate hands of an elf, but I tender it with the deepest respect. And young Carver, I couldn't forget you. You're well on your way to a noble life of duty and heroism. Take this ring as my tribute to your good service. Though I'm cannot be surprised at your deeds, when you have such a fine example to guide you. Adam Hawke, come here."
Carver stepped back, his face a study of suppressed fury and exasperation. Bronwyn only smiled and put a friendly hand on his arm, making a point of admiring the ring. Carver slid it onto a finger, clearly upset. Recognizing the lad and then holding up his loved and envied brother as a model must be beyond galling. Carver managed more of a grimace than a smile, as his brother approached the king.
"Kneel."
In the golden circle of candlelight, Adam dropped to his knees at the King's side. Cailan struggled up on an elbow and rested his hand on Adam's head. He coughed, and cleared his throat.
"Revered Mother, I call on you to bear witness."
The stern-faced old woman stood forth. "I am here, Your Majesty."
Cailan looked around the room, eyes flicking to each face. "And I call on you, Lords of Ferelden, Lords of Orzammar, brave Elvhen, and Grey Wardens alike. Hear me: in the name of Calenhad the Great, here in the sight of the Maker, I declare this man a Knight of Ferelden." He managed a lop-sided smile. "Rise and serve your country, Ser Adam Hawke."
"He got a knighthood. A knighthood! And all I got was this lousy ring!"
"Shh! Carver!" Leliana ran after him, trying to hush him. "Oh, let me see! It's a splendid ring, and from the hand of the King himself. Such an honor!"
"'Rise, Ser Adam Hawke.' I think I threw up a little in my mouth."
"What is wrong?" asked Danith joining them in the Wardens' quarters. "You do not like your ring? It is good gold. I shall wear mine on a leather thong around my neck."
"Can I see it?" Brosca asked eagerly. "That's a nice bit of treasure! I wish the King had given one to me—"
"You can have it. Here." Carver shoved it at the delighted Brosca. Bronwyn came through from the little cubicle where Morrigan was alternately nursing Anders and raging at him.
"You can't give that away!" she said sharply. "It's a royal gift. Someone is going to ask you where it is. Brosca, give it back. We cannot afford to offend the King."
"Sodding ring," Carver muttered. Even more quietly, he added, "Sodding king." Brosca made a face and shoved the ring back into the boy's big hands.
"Later, Boss," she said, making her escape from what she suspected would be a scene.
It was not.
"Excuse us. I need to speak to Carver. Over here," Bronwyn said, waving him over to the corner by the window. "Have a drink with me. Is it the knighthood? You already bear the title of Grey Warden. You cannot also bear the title of knight."
Carver exploded. "Adam manipulated the whole thing! He talked me into getting away from the King so I wouldn't attract the darkspawn to him with my Grey Warden-ness, and then he stayed and played hero, and now he's 'Ser Adam Hawke,' the perfect knight. I got a stupid ring."
"Carver," Bronwyn said thoughtfully, looking out the window, "I do know something about having an older brother. One of the first things I learned was that he was always going to be bigger and stronger than I. I learned that I was never going to be Teyrna of Highever, and that my brother would succeed my father. I learned that I would have to make my own way, by marriage or by politics or in the Chantry."
"Everyone says your brother is an decent man. Even Morrigan likes him."
"Yes," Bronwyn said dryly, "Everyone likes Fergus. I learned that early on, too. Except not everybody did, or his wife and son would be alive today. But still, he's Teyrn of Highever, and I'm not. I'm a Grey Warden, and that's all the title I'm likely to have. But a Grey Warden can save the world, and that is not something that a mere knight can do, nor a teyrn, nor even a King."
Streaks of purple lay softly on the horizon, mixed with dove grey and radiant pink. Bronwyn wondered if all the dust and debris of battle in the air was making the sunset more beautiful.
"That's true, I suppose," Carver said, shuffling restlessly. "I always wanted to do something different—something important, and I guess being a Grey Warden is just about the most different and important thing there is. But..." he burst out, "do you think the King will take Adam into his personal guard?"
"Maker! I hope not!" Bronwyn exclaimed. "I hadn't thought of that! I was hoping he'd go to Fergus and help him in the North." Unwillingly she thought of Wynne going alone to Denerim with no protector. Except she might not go at all if the King claimed her services. "Such a tangle," she sighed.
Cailan was indeed inclined to celebrate the knighting of his new friend Hawke, and would have had all his knights to dinner in his private chambers, had he been strong enough, and had Wynne not shooed all the visitors away, wanting her patient to get some sleep. Instead, Adam sat with the King's companions in the room just outside the King's bedchamber, matching them drink for drink.
Everyone else went down to the mess hall for their meal, celebrating the victory at what everyone now called "King's Mountain." Bronwyn smiled. It was hardly a mountain, but it was certainly a victory.
Most of the Wardens were cheerful as well. Adaia fidgeted, awaiting her Joining. The candlelit stone hall seemed to her more than beautiful. She had done something: really done something helpful and brave, and she was practically a Warden already.
They lingered long over food and drink. Leliana was persuaded to give them a few of the good old songs soldiers liked on these occasions. Bronwyn smiled at Loghain, who granted her a grave look that was not a scowl. It was the closest thing to a smile he could muster at the moment. He had thanked and congratulated his soldiers on a job well done. He had praised his allies, and commiserated with them over their casualties. The Dalish had performed superbly, and the Wardens had been in the right place at the right time, which was half the battle. A pity that Anders was not up to celebrating with them, for he had done more than anyone, but he would have a word himself with the man when he was feeling up to it. He had shown remarkable initiative and resourcefulness. Even that very shifty young witch had done well, no matter how suspicious her motives.
"So you're going to let that little elf Join. Do you think she'll live?"
"I don't know. We've been very, very lucky so far with our recruiting. I do know it would wound and grieve her if I forbade it. If she doesn't make it—well, it will soon be over, and she will be have died a Warden, at least. I hope she lives. She was very brave today. One doesn't always appreciate how hard it is for the small and weak to be brave."
"I suppose not."
A guardsman made his way through the maze of table to Loghain, leaning close and speaking softly. "Beg pardon, my lord. The King's Healer craves a word with you and the Warden Commander."
Bronwyn glanced up. "Is something wrong?"
"That's not for me to say, my lady," the man answered, distressed. "Come as soon as you can, if you please."
The Wardens were moving up to the quarters, anyway, so they used that as a kind of cover. Loghain touched Bronwyn's arm at the top of steps and they slipped away together.
Wynne cracked the door open and looked out anxiously.
"What's wrong, Wynne?"
"Come and see for yourselves. He was so cheerful earlier this evening. He seemed to be healing well, but then... It's as I feared. One says as little as possible, of course. There's no use in frightening one's patient with dire possibilities, but..."
The king's knights were sitting over a card game, glum and red-eyed. Well-mannered men, they rose for Loghain and the Girl Warden. Loghain noticed Adam Hawke among them, already accepted as a peer.
Loghain asked harshly, "What is it?"
Elric Maraigne stared at the floor. "Blight sickness, my lord. The King is grey with it."
Bronwyn caught her breath in a startled gasp.
Wynne pressed her lips together, and shook her head. Ser Landry wiped his face and said, "There's no use in wishing and hoping and pretending otherwise. The King's going to die."
Loghain pushed through to Cailan's bedchamber to see for himself.
The candles had burned lower. A haze of smoke dimmed the light. Cailan was sleeping restlessly, his head turning from side to side, his brow sweat-slick with fever. None of those things were as ominous as the King's grey and mottled skin.
Bronwyn whispered to Wynne, "How long as he been like this?"
"Not long. It came upon him suddenly. He was asleep when his breathing changed. I think he is having nightmares. I hoped it could be something else—"
"No," Bronwyn choked out. "This is Taint. I have seen it."
"Then he will die," Wynne sighed. She bowed her head, her lips moving in prayer.
"The Wardens know of nothing to help him?" Loghain demanded furiously. "After a thousand years, the Wardens know of nothing that will cure a man of the Taint? That Dalish Warden of yours was dying of Taint when you found her, and she still lives!"
"But she had to become a Ward—" She stared at Loghain at alarm "You can't mean... No! Loghain! It only works half the time at best. And he would be a Warden!"
A crazy, impossible vision flashed before her imagination: Cailan under her command, disobeying her every order, swaggering like a man destined to save the world, when he ought to be flogged regularly instead... She shuddered.
Wynne came forward, hope in her eyes. "You can save the King by making him a Warden?"
"Shhh!" Bronwyn shut the door tightly. "Sometimes it works, but over half the people who join the Grey Wardens die in the process. And even at the best, it would make the King a Grey Warden!"
"He's going to die if you don't," Loghain growled. "And if it works, no one needs to know."
But they would know, Bronwyn thought despairingly. Cailan could not be kept from talking. He would boast to the skies that he was a Grey Warden. Could there be a Warden King? Would the Landsmeet stand for it?
Cailan stirred and opened his eyes. Bronwyn bit down hard on an anguished moan. The blue eyes Cailan had from his father Maric had faded, the irises turned a dull milky-grey. He was becoming a ghoul. A Warden King might be a political impossibility, but a Ghoul King was worse than an abomination.
"Loghain.." Cailan rasped out. "What dreams I've had...horrible..." He saw Bronwyn standing at Loghain's shoulder and managed a ghastly smile. "Hullo, Bronwyn. Is this what Grey Wardens have to put up with all the time? Duncan told me about the nightmares... What is happening to me?"
"Cailan," Loghain told him bluntly. "You've been poisoned by the Taint. There's only one possible way to save you."
A quick gasp, and the King's sweaty grey face lightened with unbelieving hope. He beamed—shockingly—at Bronwyn. "You want me to Join the Grey Wardens!"
"I know of no other way to save you," Bronwyn admitted.
"A Grey Warden!" Cailan murmured, rapt. "How strange Fate is! It's what I've always dreamed of."
"Your Majesty," Bronwyn protested, "It might very well kill you."
Cailan did not appear to hear her. He whispered, "Glorious!"
Bronwyn stormed blindly up to the Wardens' quarters. Would the King live? If he lived, what would they do with him? Did they even have enough darkspawn blood for the ritual? She might have some left, preserved by Tara's spells, but would it do?
Adaia. Adaia had gathered a vial of darkspan blood today for her own Joining. Could she possibly ask that poor little girl to stand aside for the benefit of an arrogant human king? It seemed cruel and outrageous...
And what, after everything, if it did not work? Would the Grey Wardens be accused of murdering the King?
She paused, overwhelmed by the horror of that. It could happen, if they were not very, very careful.
Taking a breath, she pushed the door open.
"Wardens! To me!"
Eyes turned to her, some more quickly than others. People were chatting together, washing, reading—all in various stages of undress. Leliana was trimming Tara's hair. Brosca was helping Cullen clean his armor.
The little dwarf called back, "Are we going to have to fight again? Because I really, really hope not..."
Alistair emerged from the other room. "Bronwyn? He took another look at her face. "What's the matter?"
She gestured them closer and called out. "I need to speak to all Wardens right away. Those of you who are not Wardens I must ask to step into the other room for a few minutes."
Zevran grinned wryly, and swaggered into the next room. Bronwyn thought of Anders, and walked over to the little curtained corner.
"Excuse me," she said. "Is Anders awake and well enough to come out?"
Anders poked his head out, "He is."
"You are not," Morrigan contradicted crossly, behind him.
"It won't be very long," Bronwyn said looking the blond mage over. "You seem much recovered, and I have news that concerns all the Wardens. By the way, the King says thank you, and here's a thumping big golden ring from him. As for you, Morrigan..."
"I am going nowhere," the witch sneered. "I know all your ridiculous secrets—and perhaps some that even you do not know."
Alistair glared at her. They had never taken to each other, "You know, we really don't need to put up with this..."
Bronwyn lowered her voice. "Morrigan, I ask you as a friend not to undermine my authority. I don't doubt that Anders will tell you everything, but for now, just go. Or join the Wardens permanently."
"Very well. "Tis all one to me!" Morrigan said, drawing a shawl furiously around her shoulder. She stalked into the next room, her back radiating contempt.
Anders tossed the heavy ring from hand to hand. "I'll give this to her. She likes jewelry."
"Can't I stay?" Adaia pleaded. "I'm almost a Warden!" A hesitant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Is this about my Joining?"
Bronwyn sighed. "I wish it were. It's something else, and rather awful. I promise to talk to you in a bit." Adaia went away, disappointed. Bronwyn asked Alistair, "Where are Sten and Oghren?"
"Next door. Oghren's already passed out."
"Good," Bronwyn said without thinking. Grins bloomed around her like impertinent flowers. She grimaced, "Well...in this case, it is. I have something very serious to tell you. First of all: Tara, is any of the darkspawn blood we gathered weeks ago still viable?"
"I think so. Probably. There's not much of it—only a couple vials. The spells should have held all right."
Cullen caught on. "Someone else is Joining tonight? A volunteer?"
Bronwyn refrained from rolling her eyes. It was all too dire. "Not exactly. Someone contracted the Taint during the battle. We will have to perform an emergency Joining to save him."
Alistair shook his head. "It was Duncan's policy that we had to stand back from those cases. If we tried the Joining with everybody who had Blight disease, it would give away our secrets."
Bronwyn sighed. "It isn't just anybody. I have been asked to perform a Joining for King Cailan."
A brief, shocked silence followed. Even Danith's eyes were wide, very wide, taking in the enormity of the situation. Everyone took a breath, and looked ready to start talking at once. Bronwyn put up a hand to fend them off, and was only partly successful.
Astrid, alive to the political implications, asked, "And what exactly would be the King's status were he to Join? Would he remain a King, or would he be a Warden recruit?'
"Andraste's bloody—" Anders began. Tara slapped a hand over his mouth, glancing at a stormy Cullen.
"Don't say it!" she hushed him. "Maybe... oh, Maker...this is big."
"It has never happened before," Leliana breathed. "Never. Not in all the history of Thedas. It has never happened that a King became a Warden. What a song it would make!"
"No songs!" Bronwyn interrupted sharply. "And no more political talk! I charge you on your honor as Wardens, never to reveal this to anyone! We don't even know that the King will survive! He's pretty far gone already, to tell the truth."
"It was the ogre," Carver said instantly. "The ogre drooled all over his face. Maybe he swallowed—"
"Shut up!" Alistair burst out, "Just shut up!" He walked away and leaned against a wall, breathing heavily. Carver was offended, but Bronwyn caught his eye and gave her head a little shake. Leliana whispered in Carver's ear, and the boy's face changed. Bronwyn groaned inwardly. She should have known that Leliana would ferret out Alistair's secret. At the moment, she did not much care how she had.
Instead, she went on, "I don't want any more comments or interruptions. Every minute counts now. Tara, I need you and Anders to put together a Joining potion immediately. Then we will go to the King, but not all of us, because I think it would be very, very bad if things go wrong and people start speculating about a crowd of Wardens at the King's deathbed. Alistair and I will go, and no one else. We'll go as soon as the potion is ready. If the rest of you can manage to keep this secret, you can let everyone out of the other room. You can tell them that the King is sick, and to keep quiet about it. I'm going to put on a fresh tunic."
She walked away to rummage through her belongings. Tara followed her, and looked around to see if anyone else was listening.
"Bronwyn—maybe we should ask Adaia for her vial. It's fresh. It might work better than the old stuff I've got. I don't know, of course. Nobody seems to really know much about how the process works. What do you think?"
A long pause. Then Bronwyn made up her mind, while tossing off the old tunic and donning the new. "I thought about it on the way up. All of you were Joined with preserved blood, so we know it works. Besides, asking Adaia for hers would be cruel. Not only are we delaying her Joining, but we would ask her for the vial she gathered after showing great daring and personal courage—which was, by the way, not noted or rewarded by the King. Would we then ask her to gather another, or force her to make do with the old blood? Humans have done her so much harm. I don't want to ask this of her. If the King were any other man we would not even consider it. He wants to be a Grey Warden recruit. Demanded it, in fact. Therefore, I shall treat him like any other recruit as far as possible. Mix the potion, and we'll find a way to take it to the King's room in secret. We can hardly walk past the King's knights carrying a steaming cup of darkspawn blood, for Maker's sake!
"Right," Tara said, a little distracted. "We'll mix it, and then we'll put it in a vial, so you can pour it into the cup in the King's own room. I imagine he has something fancy enough for a Joining."
"Maker preserve us!" Bronwyn groaned. "I can't leave the dregs of a Joining for anyone to find! They know we'd poisoned him for sure!"
The document lay on the King's writing table, signed, witnessed, and sealed. Loghain regarded it with loathing, torn between the desire to beat the wretched, dying boy over the head with it and the desire to throw the infuriating document into the fire. The king's sickbed was a carnival of visitors and confusion. Loghain glanced again at the parchment, a sour taste in his mouth. "This is the last Will and Testament of Cailan Theirin, King of Ferelden..."
Cailan clearly did not really believe he was going to die, or that it was even a possibility. He had consented to reason only so far as to leave Anora, as "Dowager Queen"— a term that enraged Loghain—on the throne as a caretaker for three months after his death.
"—at which time a Landsmeet shall be called to choose a new sovereign as it shall see fit—"
He refused to name a successor—whether Anora or some other—at all.
In fact, he gave Loghain a conspiratorial grin. "Are you hoping I'd name Fergus?" he nearly winked. Luckily he was too weak, for Loghain would certainly have knifed him for it. "That would certainly please Bronwyn," the King went on, fatuously. "Not that Fergus wouldn't be a sound choice," he added, more and more patronizing. "Don't worry about Anora. She's the Heiress of Gwaren, after all."
And what about the vague bequest to the Dalish elves? Merrill, luckily, was busily caring for her own people and had not been notified of the King's sudden illness. Loghain would keep it that way. Cailan was in no shape to call for a map and be specific: he had merely designated an area southwest of Ostagar to be granted to the Dalish clans "in perpetuity." Could a king give away a portion of his kingdom without the consent of the Landsmeet? Or could he give away land that was beyond the borders, that was territory claimed by the Chasind tribesmen, protected by a prior treaty? What would happen when the Chantry insisted on sending missionaries there? In fifty, a hundred, two hundred years—it would be the Dales all over again. The King's will was a bomb, waiting to explode.
And there was no more hope of keeping the will a secret, than there was of keeping the king's condition secret from the nobles. Loghain knew he had to summon Wulffe and Bryland and some of the senior banns, and had done so immediately. It was no longer possible not to send for the Revered Mother—the interfering old hag.
In addition to Loghain and the arls, Cailan had insisted on having his friends Elric and Landry witness the document—and also his new favorite, Adam Hawke. That done, many wished to make their farewells. As each individual or group had their audience, Loghain took the precaution of closing the door behind them. When Bronwyn arrived for her bit of Warden ritual, it would not seem so odd that the door would be closed, giving her privacy.
Loghain eyed Hawke. Bronwyn was sending some letters north with him. There was no opportunity to speak privately with the man. He needed someone reliable to take the news to Anora, no matter what happened. It might be best to send a man of his own, anyway. Or a woman...
He hated the idea of losing Cauthrien, even temporarily, but she was the one person he could trust to follow his orders in the teeth of any opposition. And she was personally loyal to Anora as well, having grown up with her practically as a foster-sister.
Bryland and Wulffe were serious and concerned, as was proper; but they were also whispering to each other urgently, trying to stay on top of the situation. While Loghain awaited Bronwyn with growing impatience, the arls cornered him.
"So. That's Blight sickness, that is," Wulffe rumbled. "The King's sure to die."
"Maker forbid!" Bryland whispered. "But if he does, Loghain, we need to make sure the country doesn't fly to pieces. I thought that the King would name Fergus Cousland his heir outright, but it seems not so."
"Anora is Queen—" Loghain began heatedly.
"—For now," Wulffe growled. "That bit about the three months is a mercy. Of course, she could stay Queen if she marries the new King. The Couslands have the best claim by blood. Fergus is a widower now, and maybe that would be the tidiest solution all 'round."
"Yes!" Bryland agreed. "A bit of continuity and still a descendent of Calenhad on the throne. Unless—" he peered at Loghain intently "—you're backing another descendant of Calenhad. One whose claim is just as good as her brother's. Is that it, Loghain? You and Bronwyn? A lot of people would go for that, especially in the middle of a war..."
"Bronwyn is a Warden," Loghain countered.
Wulffe pursed his lips, considering. "No. No one's going to care about that with a Blight going on. The Girl Warden's that popular. Nice girl. Young. Probably good for a brace of heirs. Couslands always do their duty, after all. Make up your mind, Loghain, and talk to us. The three months will be over before we know it."
"Cailan's not dead yet," Loghain said sharply. "And I'd best get back to him now."
A soft knock, and Bronwyn slipped into the room. With her was Alistair. The boy's eyes met Loghain's, as if pleading to make everything better. Loghain put out a hand to still the murmurs of the grieving knights.
"Come, Wardens," he said. "The King wishes to speak to you." He stepped into the bedchamber and spoke to Wynne, "Privately."
The woman bowed in assent, understanding only in part.
The Revered Mother grimaced in distaste at the presence of a mage. Her droning prayers tapered off. Then she saw Alistair, and her eyes narrowed.
That's right, Loghain remembered. The Chantry hierarchy seems to know who Alistair is, somehow. I expect that Eamon told them when he palmed the boy off on the Templars. Well, the lad is well out of their clutches.
Loghain waved the Wardens in the King's bedchamber, and shut the door behind them. Alistair gasped at the sight of the King: half-asleep and thrashing on the bed, his face changing by the minute. The young Warden gave Loghain a quick, panicked look, and whispered to Bronwyn. "Is he staying? He can't stay! It's a secret—"
"Alistair," Bronwyn hissed back, "He must stay! Riordan told us that heads of state are privy to certain Grey Warden secrets. With the King in this condition, Loghain is as close to a head of state as no matter. There is absolutely no excuse those men out there would accept for leaving a dying King alone with two Grey Wardens. With Loghain here, we are simply two more making our farewells."
Alistair turned anxiously to Loghain. "You won't tell, will you? I mean, I know we can trust you, but this is really, really important..."
"Alistair," Loghain said patiently. "Of course I won't tell. I already swore an oath to Bronwyn. She's right. This can't be done without my presence—especially if the King does not survive."
"He's got to," Alistair muttered. "He's got to!"
Bronwyn pulled a little silver cup out from beneath her tunic and then the large vial of Joining potion. Loghain grimaced, stepping back, as the stink of Taint in the room redoubled.
Cailan opened his filmy eyes. Alistair gasped. They were now almost white.
"Alistair!" Cailan croaked. "Brother! No...at last...brothers indeed." His eyes traveled to Bronwyn, a cup in her hand. "Is that what I think it is?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," she said gravely. "It is time."
They must make this good, not just for Loghain, listening and judging, but for the King, who might die, or who might live to serve with them.
Bronwyn cleared her throat, and spoke softly. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood at the verge of annhilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood, and mastered their Taint. You, too shall drink: as the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power...and our victory. We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the beginning. Alistair..."
With a visible effort, the young man pulled jhimself together. "Join us, Brother: join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant; join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. Know that if you perish, your sacrifice shall not be forgotten, and that one day... we shall join you."
Bronwyn lifted the cup before her and said, "Cailan Theirin, you are called to submit yourself to the Taint for the Greater Good. From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden."
Cailan smiled dreamily. "I always knew this was my destiny."
He struggled to sit up. Alistair put an arm behind his back, while Bronwyn put the cup to his lips. The king shuddered a little at the first swallow, but forced himself to drain the cup. Bronwyn stepped back and nodded to Alistar, who gently lowered Cailan onto his pillows. They watched, hardly breathing, wondering what would happen next.
The king's eyes rolled back. He jerked up convulsively, his entire body wracked with spasms. A deep cough shook him, and then another.
"No..." Alistair moaned. "Oh, no! No!"
Loghain did not need more than a second to interpret that look of despair on Bronwyn's face. The cup dropped from her shaking hands and rolled madly under the bed. Loghain threw open the door and shouted, "Healer!"
Wynne dashed in at once, ahead of a surging mob of knights and nobles.
"Oh, Maker!" she cried. "Hold him, one of you. I can try this..."
The Revered Mother pushed her way to the front, indignant and suspicious. "Let me through! What is that mage doing to the King?"
Healing blue light surrounded Cailan, but it could not stop the dreadful, violent coughing. Cailan groaned horribly between the coughs, as if coughing out his very life.
It was, indeed, exactly what he was doing. It hurt, Loghain realized. He had been angry—so bitterly angry at Cailan—but it hurt horribly to see him—to feel him— die. He held Maric's son close, trying to offer whatever comfort was possible at the end.
"My lord," Bronwyn pleaded, "Stand back, I beg you. You will expose yourself to the Taint. Alistair and I will care for the King."
The word "Taint" was enough to discourage most of the crowd. The rest shrank away from the terrible stench. Loghain held his friend's son, nonetheless; enduring the boy's last moments along with him, until a last, rattling gasp trailed away to nothing.
King Cailan was dead.
Thanks to my reviewers: Tikigod784, demonicnargles, Juliafied, MsBarrows, Zute, Have Travel, BlackCherryWhiskey, Costin, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, Judy, KnightOfHolyLight, ZarosKnight, The Moidart, Josie Lange, mutive, JackOfBladesX, Dante Alighieri1308, cloud1004, gabriella cousland, Jyggilag, tgcgoddess, Kira Kyuu, callalili, Shakespira, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Gene Dark, almostinsane, Enaid Aderyn, karinfan123, mille libri, chocolatebrownie12, SkaterGirl246, euromellows, Jenna53, Elissa, BladesoftheValkyrie, Tyanilth, and Menamebephil.