Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 59: The Seventh Day of Harvestmere, Part One

Ser Norrel Haglin, once briefly Bann of Highever City, reached Gherlen's Pass on the seventh of Harvestmere. Mountains loomed on either side of the road, and road signs pointed forward to the west, informing travelers of the short distance to Gherlen's Halt and the Orlesian border; informing them also of various distances to the cities of Jader, Halamshiral, Lydes, and Montsimmard. Another stone was marked with the route south, first to Sulcher, and then to Redcliffe. Haglin did not bother to look at the stone's other side, which displayed the way north to Highever, and home to Amaranthine. He was unlikely to travel that road ever again.

He had been a proud soldier of Amaranthine since he was sixteen years old, and he was a proud soldier still. Whatever Teyrn Fergus might think of him, Haglin had done his duty as he saw it. Rendon Howe had been his liege lord, and orders were orders.

Rendon Howe, however, was now dead, along with two of his children. Of Lord Nathaniel there was no word. Without his arl's knowledge, Haglin had sent the boy a letter back at the end of Justinian when things were clearly going wrong. Not sure where Lord Nathaniel might be, he directed it to the boy's last known place of residence, Markham in the Free Marches. In a way, Haglin was glad Nathaniel had not come home earlier. He might have saved his family, but more likely he would have died with them. He was the last of them now. If the Howes were to have any claim at all to Amaranthine, Nathaniel needed to get back to Ferelden, and as soon as possible.

Whatever Bryce Cousland had done or not done, he was dead and gone, and his son and daughter were mighty powers in the land. The girl, from all reports, was Loghain's lover and right hand; Fergus was high in favor with the Queen, and was now unchallenged in the north.

It was useless to be bitter. The Queen had been fair enough. Haglin and his men were to go south and join Loghain's army. Likely they would be put in the vanguard and marched to their deaths, but in any army, some soldiers had to go first. Knowing Loghain, he would not waste troops out of mere spite. Haglin admitted to himself that it was better than having his head stuck on a spike over the gate of Castle Highever. The old arl had a lot of respect for Loghain, and Haglin trusted his judgment in that, at least.

Their route along the west of Lake Calenhad was slow, but not particularly arduous. They could take the Imperial Highway all the way to Ostagar, resupplying themselves at the villages along the way. Their first important stop was at Gherlen's Halt, where they were to report in, and then have a courier sent ahead, to inform Loghain they were on the march. They might even be issued new orders, based on the situation in the south.

As the column moved deeper into the pass, they met a courier galloping the other way. The soldier pulled up his horse in a cloud of dust, and shouted at them.

"Who are you? Who's in command?"

"I am," Haglin told him. "Ser Norrel Haglin, en route to Ostagar. I was instructed to report to the commander at Gherlen's Halt."

"Good luck with that, ser," the courier replied. "The Halt is under attack since early this morning. I barely slipped through."

The soldiers nearest to the conversation murmured, looking at each other.

"Darkspawn?" asked Haglin urgently.

The courier spat. "Orlesians! We're told they claim to be 'independent mercenaries' but we know better. Even without the badges and the banners, we can see that they're being led by chevaliers. Not a peep out of the Rock. They must know what's going on. "

Haglin briefly bowed his head in thought, and then began firing rapid questions at the courier: the size of the attacking force, where they were were strongest, their armament, if they had siege engines… There was no doubt in Haglin's mind where his duty lay.

"I have five hundred men," he told the courier. "I think they may be of some service. Show me the way through the pass, and then ride for Ostagar."

This was the day appointed: the seventh of Harvestmere. The marks were expected back in the late afternoon. Yesterday, all the necessary gear had been meticulously prepared; quarrels sharpened to razors, crossbows and poisons hidden in the chosen concealed vantage points. No one would suspect them. They had already found a place where they could slip unseen through the barricades. They were unarmed, and appeared completely harmless. All they would have on their persons were fresh, dry bowstrings, hidden out of sight in the pockets of their aprons. It would all be easier if their marks shared the same quarters, but their plans took that into account, and followed the marks' declared schedule. The strike must be simultaneous, lest one mark warn the other. If all went well, it should be possible to blend in after the initial hue and cry, unsuspected.

Poison would have been surer, but the marks did not eat privately, in the state due their rank. They ate from the common pots, and it would have been necessary to poison everyone. The risk of a bystander eating first and the situation coming to light was simply unacceptable. Getting close to the individuals had also proved impracticable. They were never alone, unless in their quarters, and even there they were rarely alone. If they were, only a few trusted servants were admitted. Their quarters had proved inaccessible by the usual means. The only way was to attack at a distance, with very accurate weapons. Even if the marks wore armor, there were always vulnerable points, especially considering the potency of the poisons in which the quarrels would be anointed. It was an interesting challenge, and by no means a sure thing. But then, what was?

The upper camp was not suitable for the venture: too exposed and too crowded. The valley below, however, was another matter. There was tree cover: there were piles of debris. Just outside the gates of the lower camp was a heavily wooded area through which the marks must pass. The marks would be talking on their way back, and they would be tired; not imagining any danger so close to the camp. The rest of the party would be in conversation. Yes, there would be noise. Crossbows made noise, of course, but only briefly. At a distance, it could be confused with the sound of someone chopping wood; and there was always someone chopping wood nearby.

Anora looked about her with carefully concealed distaste. Werberga and Habren had certainly gone all out for this wedding. Huge sprays of autumn flowers sprouted up, ogre-like, from every corner of the Cathedral; the designated seats of Denerim's elite were draped in pink satin. Anora was well aware that pink was Habren's favorite color. So much pink in the Cathedral, however, seemed to her frivolous and inappropriate. The huge statue of Andraste seemed to think so as well. Usually Anora would describe the unworldly expression on the Prophet's gilded face as one of renunciation: in the present context, Anora felt she could detect a certain disgust. At least the Grand Cleric imposed some sort of restraint on the decorations here in the Cathedral; Anora dreaded the atrocities that had no doubt been perpetrated on the Arl of Denerim's estate, where the feast was to be held. She was almost sorry that she had worn her lovely blue dress and her crown, since she was thus contributing to the overdone grandeur of the day. Everyone of importance in Denerim…everyone of title…everyone who could beg or bribe an invitation was crowded into the Cathedral today.

No amount of blossoms or pink satin could make Arl Urien look anything other than what he was, of course: a dyspeptic, hard-eyed man in late middle age; soft around the belly from indulgence at table and having everything done for him. He had not looked so badly when he had first returned from Ostagar, but since then he had deteriorated.

Perhaps the engine of the change was the loss of his son. Everyone else might have despised Vaughan, but he had been the sun, moon, and stars to his father; the focus of all his hopes and plans. Now Urien was forced to start all over again, and try to have new plans and a new heir. He was obviously not enjoying this day as relentlessly as Habren and her aunt were, nor was he dressed in pink satin, thank the Maker.

Habren was encased in enough of it, certainly. She looked very happy. and pretty enough, Anora supposed. That combination of dark hair and fair skin that came through the Pengallon line was much admired by a great many people. Bronwyn was very much of that type, though only in the face. She was much taller and not nearly so curvaceous as Habren.

Oh, dear! Father and Bronwyn were planning to marry. What a spectacle that would be… Anora hoped they would do something simple and quiet and not so utterly devoid of dignity as this carnival, but the pressures of politics might demand otherwise.

The Grand Cleric was pronouncing the wedding prayer now. Urien had not smiled once. Anora sighed. Habren was smiling enough for everyone, but Anora suspected that state of affairs would not last more than a few days. Being married to Cailan had been blissful in the early stages—even fun—but Cailan had been a beautiful young man who loved life and had at the time loved Anora, too, quite a bit. The memory made her so sad that tears prickled in her eyes, fracturing the candlelight into dim rainbows. She felt very sorry for Habren, whom she was sure would not enjoy the night that would follow her wedding day. Urien would do his duty to beget an heir, and would not consider pleasing his young wife to be any part of said duty. Everyone knew how unkind he had been to his wife and daughter.

Habren, however, would be an Arlessa. That seemed to be all the silly girl understood about it. She would be important for a day, dress grandly, and receive a great many expensive presents. Had she even really thought about what followed after? Did she imagine that Urien would open his purse strings as her father had? Did she imagine she would have any power of her own at all?

There was Arl Bryland, stepping back to sit with his fine little boys. Anora had always thought him quite an attractive man. He looked…relieved…Anora supposed. Habren had been too much for him. He obviously loved her, but did not know how to guide or improve her character. This wedding must have cost a fortune, and they had not yet moved on to the feast. Leonas Bryland had contributed coin in plenty for that, though it would be held at the bridegroom's estate. The Arl of South Reach's house in town was large, but nowhere near as large as Arl Urien's Denerim estate, which was of course his principal seat. All sorts of people had been hired for the occasion: minstrels, maskers, jugglers, performing animals, dancers, and experts in Maker-knew-what.

The choir was singing now. It was almost over, and then would come the final blessing, more singing, the procession out of the chantry, the giving of alms to the poor, and the departure to Arl Urien's palatial estate. She, of course, had precedence, even on another woman's wedding day. And, even better, since she was so recently a widow, she was not expected to be cheerful, as if she approved of this folly.

She looked the spectators over carefully as she made her way down the aisle and out the door. A great many people were here to goggle at a grand wedding, but more were here, like Anora herself, to work: that is, to make connections, to observe, to comprehend the tides of power and politics.

There was quite a bit of cheering in the streets for the parade of carriages, splendid horses, and fine clothes. Anora had felt some concern about this flagrant display of wealth and luxury at a time when many Fereldans were grieving the loss of loved ones in the war against the darkspawn. She was a little surprised that there were no signs of public unrest today. Much of the good feeling was probably due to the alms that the Arls were distributing. As it was his wedding day, and as Bryland was paying for the wedding, Urien must have coughed up a decent sum for the alms. As well he should. Anora eyed the crowd analytically. Everyone in the street was human…no, wait…there was a dwarven couple with a babe in arms. No elves. Of course, there were no longer many elves in Denerim, and they had little reason to cheer Arl Urien in any case.

A slow, tiresome ride across the river to the feast. It was not far from the palace, which would be a good thing at the end of a long, long, day. As they drove down Gate Street, Anora took note of Highever House, lofty and elegant; the city home of the Couslands. Anora had visited Eleanor there often, and particularly loved the rooftop garden. The idea of living there was not at all an unpleasing prospect.

A brief delay on arrival, as Arl Urien and his Arlessa stepped down from their carriage, then formally welcomed their guests.

"I wish you and your lady all happiness, my lord Arl. Such a beautiful wedding," said Anora.

The couple bowed. Urien's simple, "I thank Your Majesty," was counterpointed by Habren's, "Oh, Your Majesty! Wasn't it perfect?"

Anora was ushered into the reception hall and was impressed, though not entirely favorably. This feast would cost a fortune in candles alone, she estimated. The air was heavily perfumed by masked and costumed dancers carrying pomander balls or glass vials of colored, scented powder, which they blew into the air with little pipes. Anora had heard of this being done in Orlais. Thank the Maker Father was not here to see it here! Once down the corridor and into the hall appointed for the feast, the perfumes merged with the smells of roasted meat, and meat was winning.

I suppose we're going to eat all afternoon, she sighed to herself. Except for those of us who will spend the entire time drinking.

Her seat was between the two Arls. It could have been worse. At least she did not have to sit next to Habren, who was preening and smirking as if she had never heard of marital incompatibility. The juxtaposition of the newly-widowed with the newly-married was too pointed for Anora's liking as it was. Anora's two bodyguards were posted discreetly behind her chair, nearly out of sight.

Leonas Bryland had the good breeding neither to boast about nor apologize for the excesses of the day. The two little boys were eventually settled down in between their father and their aunt Lady Werberga, who would, Anora hoped, see that they were not made drunk or sick by the wagonloads of rich food and strong drink on continual offer.

"I had to leave Killer at home," the older boy, Corbus, complained. "Habren hates him. Just because he liked me better. It's not fair."

"Enough of that, Corbus," his father reproved him. "This is Habren's day. You'll see Killer at home tonight."

A large consort of instruments played sweetly up in a specially-built minstrel's gallery. Someone was singing, but Anora could not make out the words due to the shouts, the toasts, the stupid jests of the noblemen, and the shrill, excited squeals of titled ladies.

The tables were set in a wide U shape, to give sufficient room for the performers. Against the far wall, watched over by two imposing guards, was a large table, on which the bridal gifts were displayed.

"Not all of them have arrived yet, of course," Habren declared loudly to the room in general. "Everything is in such a muddle with this awful war. I haven't had a thing from Bronwyn, though Fergus sent me quite a nice silver salver."

A troupe of tumblers, colorful in cheerful motley and animal masks, were going through their routine now. They leapfrogged, pirouetted, and somersaulted in all sorts of astonishing ways. An assistant set up hoops and the tumblers bounded through them; backwards, upside-down… It was quite diverting.

The first course, composed of soup and foreign delicacies, was carried in on silver platters. Not everyone knew how to eat the artichokes, and Anora felt scores of eyes on her as she composedly dismantled the vegetable.

The Grand Cleric was on Habren's other side, and the older woman was listening with ironic kindness to Habren's frenzied babbling about the glory of the day. Beside Her Grace was the Knight-Commander of Denerim, Ser Tavish, a tall and impressive man, though not noted for his conversational abilities. He drew his belt knife and cut through to the artichoke's heart with rough dispatch, devouring it whole.

After the first course came the dancing, since the ladies wanted to have a chance at it before everyone was too drunk to stand up straight. Anora had been discreetly approached, some days before, and asked if, under the circumstances, she cared to dance.

Of course she did. She had few enough occasions to dance as it was. True, Cailan was only dead a month, but life went on, and Anora loved to dance. She still had precedence over everyone else in Ferelden, at least until the Landsmeet, and so she would lead the opening dance. It might be her last chance to do so. So, yes, she replied, she did, in fact, care to dance.

Thus, according to strict rules of precedence, she, partnered by Arl Bryland, would be first in line for the pavane, followed by the bridal couple. After that, the lesser nobles could fight it out for their places in the line. It would be amusing to see them at it.

Leonas Bryland, whispering a brief, firm admonition to the little boys, rose, and led Anora to the top of the set, which was rapidly forming behind her. Anora smiled quietly, listening to the civil—and not so civil—disputes about precedence taking place further back in the line. After more wine, there might even be a fight or two…and not just among the men.

What wonderful music! Urien had engaged some excellent minstrels. She must ask him about them later. From time to time, it had occurred to her how pleasant it would be to have a minstrel or two about her on a permanent basis. Erlina had played well, but was gone, gone... A human woman, perhaps, would be best, to thwart the inevitable gossip: a woman who played well and had a pleasing voice. Not even Father could object to that—as long as the woman were not Orlesian. Come to that, Anora had no great desire to keep Orlesians about her any longer.

The Arl of South Reach was a man who could manage to remember the steps of the dance while still chatting pleasantly, something one could not always take for granted. His hands were warm and dry, and not clammy like so many others. He could tell her something of the recent adventures in Ostagar; lighter things, not inappropriate to a feast. She wanted to understand more about the people who were so important to the war; and choosing a favorable moment, asked him specifically about the Grey Wardens, beginning with Senior Warden Alistair.

She was curious about Alistair. Cailan had once confided in her about the existence of a bastard brother. Bronwyn had mentioned him in passing, but no one seemed to think him a threat.

"Alistair?" Bryland smiled. "Very pleasant young man. Splendid warrior, too. Loghain's trying to bring him along as a leader. A bit too self-effacing. He's done well while Bronwyn's been off on her jaunts. He's from Redcliffe, originally. At least I think so. Now that Astrid of his—there's prime leadership material, if you like."

"I have met Warden Astrid," Anora said. "She seems very intelligent. Are she and Warden Alistair…fond of one another?"

"That was my impression."

This…was rather good news. If Alistair was involved with a dwarf, princess or not, he was not positioning himself to grasp at the crown. It seemed strange and unnatural to her, but some people really were not very ambitious. Perhaps he genuinely liked being a Warden, and did not wish to risk his life for his father's throne. It was one less complication, which was very welcome. Still, she would like to meet him. She wondered if she would see Cailan in his face.

One dance ended, and another began. This time her partner was Arl Urien, who hated dancing. It showed. Then Bann Sighard and his pretty young son Oswyn, then Bann Moorcock and Bann Ceorlic, and finally Bann Frandarel. After that, the second course was announced. People settled down for serious gluttony and more entertainment, to be followed more entertainment, more dancing, and by the best entertainment of all: the bedding of the bride and groom.

Anora did not look forward to this event, and thought it all very nasty and tiresome. She well remembered the leers and prurient curiosity at her own wedding. Habren's experience would be much the same.

The tipsy revelers would call out bawdy jests, while the most distinguished guests would follow the procession down the corridor to the bridal chamber. Anora, alas, would have to take part in this, and would have to smile and pretend to like it. The Grand Cleric would bless the marriage bed, and Lady Werberga would strew it with flowers, which Anora remembered could be very awkward if not all the roses had been stripped of their thorns. How she and Cailan had laughed…

Tears prickled in her eyes again, and were swiftly overcome at the sight of the mismatched couple who would soon be in bed together. At least no one followed the ancient custom of displaying bloody sheets any more; though in Orlais, the distinguished guests waited in the bedchamber, sipping wine, until the bridegroom pushed the curtains aside and declared the marriage consummated. And the Orlesians called Ferelden barbarous!

Anora played with her food, more interested in the performers. The newest entertainment was quite riveting, even for the drunken guests...even for Anora. She had never seen a knife thrower before. The man was wonderfully skilled; and while Anora expected the pretty elf assisting him to be killed, she was not. The man unerringly sank his blades into the painted backboard behind the girl, outlining her shape, slicing off the feather in her headdress with astonishing precision.

After these feats came a woman who could walk on her hands, while her three little dogs walked on their hind legs. The crowd was less certain about this; uncomfortable with the idea of dogs wearing clothes, though the little red and blue satin coasts, which matched the woman's costume, were rather adorable. In the end, everyone was won over when the dogs danced to a cheerful tune.

And the food kept coming. Whole roast boars were trundled into the hall, and then a great meat pie in the shape of the Arl of Denerim's estate. There were geese stuffed with apples and chestnuts, and ducks stuffed with prunes and whole cooked duck's eggs. There were huge joints of beef and mutton, which many of the guests, inhibitions relaxed by the excellent wine, were frankly gnawing upon, as if they feared this were their last meal.

So much meat made Anora feel a little queasy, and when the minstrels struck up more dance music, she was pleased that Lord Oswyn requested the honor of another dance. Better by far to be dancing than eating and drinking until she was sick, like all too many here. Besides, Oswyn was handsome, reasonably sober, and a good dancer. If she were very tired by the time she left, Wynne would attend to it on Anora's return to the palace. She hoped to dance until the next round of entertainments.

Arl Bryland could not partner her at the moment. The little boys were understandably bored and restless, wanting to see the tumblers again, and the younger was innocently gloating about the fact that Habren was to be put to bed earlier than he.

"She was bad, wasn't she? She always is."

The older boy, Corbus, then apparently shared his own understanding of what Arl Urien was going to do to their sister, which from his gestures was gleaned entirely from mabari behavior. Lothar was impressed and horrified, and then both boys began giggling uncontrollably. Lady Werberga loudly pleaded with her brother to stop them. Arl Bryland threatened to have the boys sent home.

"Fine with me," Corbus sulked. "Then I can play with Killer."

"I want to see Habren sent to bed early!" protested Lothar.

The guests were becoming sodden and unruly, and Anora began to hope that the bedding would be soon, since she could leave immediately afterward. Bann Loren begged her very courteously for the honor of a dance, and Anora decided it was best not to refuse him when she had permitted others the privilege. It was getting dark outside, and the light had changed; more lurid from the great fires. Flickering shadows on the walls mirrored the dancers and the masked mimes who frolicked alongside them. Anora ducked under Bann Loren's arm and came face to face with a startlingly life-like bear. The mime roared at her, and then dropped to all fours, lumbering through the crowd. One of the dancers, dressed in a filmy silk dress, ran up, straddled his back, and rode him up and down the hall, to much applause.

Yes, it was getting entirely out of hand. She fixed a smile on her face, wishing she were anywhere else. Urien was speaking to his seneschal. Surely the couple would depart when the dance had ended.

The musicians struck a final, brilliant flourish, and the guests applauded. The minstrel playing the straight flute bowed, and swept off his half-mask. He had a striking face, swarthy, black-haired and moustachioed, a cheerful smirk on his handsome face.

"And now," he proclaimed, with a most charming Orlesian accent, "you shall dance to a new tune!" As one, the minstrels dropped their instruments and rose up with crossbows. And with that, hell broke loose.

It seemed later to Anora that only her own bodyguards and Leonas Bryland grasped immediately that they were under attack. They saw it coming from the time the musicians dropped their instruments. Bryland shouted at his sons to "Get down!", and pulled a dagger from his boot, dodging out of the way of a tumbler who bounded at him with alarming speed. A masker with a stiletto charged him from his other side. One of the bodyguards shouted, distracting him, and Bryland hit the attacker with a chair.

Anora, under the shadow of assassination for so long, understood the danger as soon as the crossbows came up. Most of the noble guests stood gaping, as if thinking this must be part of the entertainment. Anora tore her hand from Bann Loren's grasp, running for the cover of a trestle table. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the knife thrower turning in her direction, and a moment later, heard a pair of knives thud into the pillar where she had been a second before. Behind her, Bann Loren was clutching at a crossbow quarrel sprouting from his chest. Anora knew she had been the target, but was fiercely glad it was Loren and not she, as she huddled under the table, drawing her feet up under her.

Orlesians! If they didn't have to make a game of it, they could have shot me dead while I was dancing!

Her little dagger was sewn into her gilded corset, she fumbled for it frantically, nearly slicing off her thumb. One of the performing dogs scampered under Anora's table, and pressed against her, shaking, its little satin coat spotted with blood. Cautiously, Anora peered out from under the tablecloth.

Most of the guests made a dash for the south door, trampling the slower among them underfoot in a frenzied din. This crush kept the Arl of Denerim's guard, mostly posted in the corridors outside, from being able to get into the hall and deal with the assassins.

"Hold! Stop this violence!" the Grand Cleric cried, trying to make herself heard over the chaos.

"Your Grace! This is none of our affair!" Ser Tavish shouted, bodily dragging the old woman away.

"Release me, ser! You overstep your—" Her objections were smothered as Templars closed in and rushed for the door, swords drawn, the Grand Cleric sheltered in their midst. Shrieks rose up as they cut their way through the crowd. Bann Sighard protested indignantly, and went down, dead or stunned.

Arl Urien's servitors had overturned one of the tables, and the Arl crouched behind it, pulling Habren down beside him, while some of his bodyguard, carrying shields, materialized from behind a tapestry. Anora watched them, intent on what was happening. There was a door hidden there. Urien was wounded and bleeding, and backed toward the doorway, shouting at Habren to follow him. Anora cursed the distance. There was too much open space between her table and the hidden door. She would never make it if she tried to follow them.

"Habren!" Lady Werberga screamed for her niece, and Habren screamed back for her aunt. Without further ceremony, Arl Urien cuffed Habren across the jaw, and the girl slumped, unconscious. A guard dragged her out, while others sheltered the Arl with their shields. One of them fell, and the rest rushed through, slamming the door, leaving the other revelers to their fate. Werberga screamed again, briefly, when an arrow thudded into her chest.

Bodies sprawled and twitched amongst the overturned tables. Bann Loren sobbed, sitting in a pool of blood, trying to pull the quarrel out of his chest. Bann Reginalda drooped in her seat, her throat cut by one of the tumblers. The knife thrower shouted in triumph as he flung a blade into Bann Grainne's eye. Dancers blew powder in the guests eyes, blinding them; and then they danced away to the safety of the minstrels' gallery.

But the initial shock was over, and the Fereldans were fighting back. Bryland had grabbed up a big silver platter from the floor, scattering sweetmeats. Using it as a shield, he snatched a burning brand from one of the fires, and flung it at the base of the scaffolding under the minstrels' gallery, where the crossbowmen were positioned. Following his lead, others did the same. Quarrels pinged and clattered on Bryland's makeshift shield, and the dog trainer grabbed at him from behind a drapery. Bryland smashed the platter into her face, and she went down. One of the bodyguards—perhaps Bann Sighard's—finished her off. One of her dogs licked at her dead face, whining. The little dog huddled with Anora yelped and ran out into the fight. A stray quarrel struck it in the back, and it squealed horribly, thrashing on the floor. Bryland and Oswyn cornered the knife thrower, and the man fought back with a wild yell. They struggled, blades rising and falling, and then crashed into the table loaded with gifts. It went over, spilling silver vessels onto the floor like a prodigal's sacrifice. Bolts of sumptuous silks and velvets unrolled, and were trampled and bloodied by the combatants. Blood and wine spread over the stones.

Anora saw her bodyguards looking for her and trying to fight at the same time. "I'm here!" she shouted at them. "Bors! Dalkeith!" They heard her and started running toward her table, shields up.

"No!" she shouted again. "Help Arl Bryland!"

Her table jolted, and Anora was grabbed from behind. It was the man in the bear costume, and his hands were horribly strong. He growled, beast-like, at Anora, and without thinking, she stabbed at the man's eyes, small and human behind the mask. The masker cursed and let go of her: and then was dragged backwards out from under the table by two guardsmen. The bearskin was nearly as tough as armor, and they stabbed and stabbed him until he lay still. Anora shuddered and looked away, knuckles white on her dagger.

A cheer rose up. Oswyn was bleeding, but he had yanked down some of the draperies and threw them into the fire under the minstrel's gallery. Instantly they were aflame, the blaze crackling up the supports.

"Allons-y!" shouted the moustache on high. A pair of tumblers somersaulted onto the scaffolding supporting the minstrel's gallery and climbed up, inches ahead of the flames. Two of the minstrels threw instrument cases through the windows, shattering them. There was a bustle Anora could not quite see, and then the assassins were getting away, climbing down rope ladders, the leader grinning and bowing as if he had done something frightfully dashing and clever. He had time for a parting shot, and then threw his crossbow at Oswyn and leaped out the window after his confederates.

Across the room, a child's scream shrilled out. Another child's voice joined in, shocked and terrified.

"Lothar!" cried Bryland. The little boy had stood up to watch the fight, and the moustachioed assassin had put a quarrel through his shoulder. His face paled as his tunic reddened. Corbus stared at his brother in disbelief.

Lothar whimpered. "Daddy…hurts…"

Bryland swept the boy up in his arms, his face terrible. Anora crawled out from under the table to see what could be done. A few of the attackers were still alive, moaning or unconscious. First of all, though, the Arl's son must be saved, and as many of the other victims as possible. Oswyn rushed to his father, who seemed, against all odds, to be alive.

"Dalkeith, fetch a Healer!" Anora shouted at her guardsmen. "Find Mistress Wynne at the Wardens' Compound! Rouse the city guard after the assassins! Bors! Don't let the men kill all these wretches. I want them questioned!"

Danith and Merrill walked back to camp together in silence. What Danith had seen under the earth was too terrible for speech, but whispers had reached the Dalish scouts of the horrors the Wardens had found and destroyed. There had been stories...legends half understood. Much was now explained.

Merrill touched her friend's hand. "Is it cruel of me to say that I am still glad that one of the People is a Grey Warden?"

"No," Danith said instantly. "These things must be known. How else to guard against them? Our women must know what to do if the creatures take them. If it were only shemlens talking, many would not listen. This fate, though, is not a matter of race: it is the fate of all women in grasp of the darkspawn. Man can become ghouls, but this horror is not for them."

Her voice trailed off. Thanovir came up beside her and offered her some water. She was glad of it. Her canteen was empty after the smoke and stink of the Broodmother caverns.

She said, "Bronwyn has hinted that she wishes to recruit more Wardens, Dalish among them. It will be hard for some to leave their clans, just as it was for me, but I believe it to be necessary. These creatures must be destroyed, for they are utterly evil."

They were nearing the camp, and Danith longed for her little cot in the Tower of Ishal. She never thought sleeping under a roof of stone could be so inviting. The elves passed a stand of larches, and a flock of crows rose up with a great noise.

Thanovir whispered, "Keep walking, but be silent! Someone is watching."

Danith knew instantly that he was right. Not darkspawn, no; but something or someone. Using her peripheral vision, she scanned the trees on either side, and her gaze paused at the trampled undergrowth.

They walked to the gate in careful silence, taking in all the signs left by a hunter hiding in a blind.

Time passed slowly for the watchers in the trees as the weary soldiers filed by: first the savage Dalish; then human footsoldiers, muttering among themselves, shaking their heads; a disciplined band of sturdy dwarves; then some of the Wardens, looking particularly grim. The targets were on horseback, a little behind, talking to each other. It was nearly time. Everything was in readiness.

So focused were the watchers that they were unaware that they themselves were being hunted. There was only a sudden breeze as the twined branches of their shelters seemed to melt away. Then strong hands pulled them down and disarmed them; and fierce, tattooed faces were inches from their own.

"The Dalish were not pleased to discover they were elves, I take it." Loghain settled into his chair and rubbed his forehead, hoping to ward off a headache.

"Not at all," Bronwyn said, "They were disgusted with them. Dalish don't think much of city elves to begin with, but this kind of murder seemed to them particularly squalid and dishonorable."

She could not settle down. An assassination attempt. Again! This had been a clever one, and very likely would have succeeded, but for the superior woodcraft of their Dalish allies. She was angry; bitterly angry that anyone would knowingly try to assassinate a Warden in the midst of a Blight. It was an act of depraved indifference to the welfare of everyone in Thedas. A quartet of elf women had nearly accomplished what great warriors had attempted for years: the removal of Loghain Mac Tir from the political scene. Bronwyn hated to admit it, but she was not only angry; she was frightened, too.

The assassins' gear was piled on Loghain's writing table: fine crossbows, easy to break down and assemble quickly; razor sharp quarrel heads of silverite; a collection of powerful, cruelly lethal poisons guaranteed not to simply cause death, but lingering agony. Also on the table were the women's other weapons, found in their quarters: superb daggers, throwing stars, more poisons, and cunning wire garottes. Their employer had deep pockets.

"So far, we don't even know if you or I or both of us were the targets," she growled.

"Who sent them is the other issue," Loghain pointed out. "Most probably the Empress. She has the most to gain by getting rid of both of us, though of course each of us has other enemies. You never know. It could be Crows paid for by Rendon Howe, still trying to get at you. All we know so far from what papers we could find is that the attack was to be made on this day and no other: the seventh of Harvestmere."

The elven agents had been extremely clever: not revealing that they knew each other; coming to Ostagar at different times in different ways; above all, playing the parts of humble servant girls so very, very well. They were being held separately now, and Loghain hoped that at least one of them would eventually confess all she knew.

"I want to talk to them," Bronwyn said briefly, not slowing in her pacing. "I want them to know what I'm prepared to do to them if they don't cooperate."

"And what is that?"

"I'll give them to the darkspawn. Not for long, of course. I wouldn't allow them to become mature Broodmothers. However, I will describe the process in detail. What else do people who interfere with a Grey Warden's mission deserve?"

He was surprised; even shocked, and took another look at the stormy young face. She might threaten it, even convince herself the threat was real; but in the end, could she do such a thing? Loghain doubted it. It was quite an impressive threat to use, however. She had grown harder than he realized.

"Yes," Bronwyn said. "I'll talk to them, and then leave them to your people. Then I've got to move ahead with recruiting. If it's Orlais, it's a clear sign that they will do anything to keep Ferelden from defending itself. We need more Wardens, and we need them now. But I want those elves to talk, and tell us where the next blow is coming from."

"They'll talk," Loghain assured her. "Make your threats. Let them believe that we won't give them a clean death. In the end, they'll talk. I cannot guarantee, of course, that we'll like what they have to say."

Thanks to my reviewers: Aoi24, MsBarrows, Kyren, Chandagnac, sizuka2, mmsbddvr, Psyche Sinclair, Have Travel, Notnahtanha, Mike3207, Jyggilag, Granoc, almostinsane, JackOfBladesX, Judy, Blinded in a bolthole, ShyWriter413, Remenants, KnightOfHolyLight, Jenna53, Nemrut, Hydroplatypus, Zute, anon, ByLanternLight, EpitomyofShyness, mille libri, Tirion, Death Knight's Crowbar, Josie Lange, Enaid Aderyn, Kira Kyuu, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Costin, WhosAmandaPhillips, Biff McLaughlin, Alys, Tsu Doh Nimh, and Blackdex.