Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 69: Last Man Standing
Bronwyn had seen the living dead before, with Zevran in the elven ruins. Others had fought ferocious phantoms in Orzammar. For the rest, these were enemies, in arms against them, and they fought back against the creatures, freezing them, hacking them apart, smashing them down, ending them. Not all the skeletons wore the insignia of the Grey Wardens. Others wore the rampant mabaris of the crown of Ferelden. Though they had fought each long ago, the dead were united in their hatred of the living. On the steps, leading to the castle door, a skeleton used an antique crossbow with formidable skill. Bronwyn threw up her shield before her and slammed the thing back. Carver's sword swung down and beheaded it. Whatever evil enchantments animated the creatures, beheading them seemed to be effective.
"More of them!" Morrigan shouted, pointing behind them to a slope near one of the towers. One of the dead was casting spells. Scout bayed at the attackers, and barreled toward them, knocking them flying. There were archers among them, too.
Once these unquiet spirits were put to rest, the Wardens ranged over the big courtyard, poking into outbuildings, peering into lofts. They tried the door to the nearest tower: a tall, freestanding structure connected at its top to the castle by a stone bridge. The door did not budge.
"Probably barred inside. Doesn't look like the king's men got in here," Carver said.
Anders took another look at the tower. "There might be a magical barrier, too," he said thoughtfully, hidden behind the door. That's subtle."
Aveline looked uneasily at the castle's arrow slits. "I would half expect ghostly archers to shoot down upon us."
"Fine with me that they're not," grunted Soren.
Everyone agreed with that.
"Clear here!" called Toliver from a doorway. "This was the smithy. It's all over dust, but the tools are still sound. Not even very rusty!"
"Something or someone has cast some serious preservation magic over the place," Anders told Bronwyn. "It's the only thing that explains the condition of the castle and courtyard."
"If the spells wore off," Bronwyn wondered, "Would everything collapse into decay?"
Anders shook his head. "Doesn't work that way. If the spells wore off, the usual processes would take over, sort as if the battle happened that day." He thought a little more. "Except the spells weren't cast the day after the battle. Maybe months or a years later, which would explain the skeletons."
"I concur," Morrigan agreed. "Powerful magic has been done here. The preservation spells themselves are not malevolent. Neutral magic, if you will."
Cathair wandered about, curious and disapproving. "Do not humans dispose of their dead? Why were all these bodies left to rot under the sun and rain?"
"It's a puzzlement," Bronwyn agreed. "We are told that King Arland's forces triumphed, and the Wardens were exiled. That clearly is not the full story. The Wardens seemed to have been killed, rather than exiled, and the king's forces did not remain here long enough to burn even their own dead."
"I found the spring house!" Carver called, coming around a corner of the castle. "There's a spout that faces the stables. I think another one is on the other side of the wall inside the cellar of the castle. They had good water."
That was practically an invitation. The water bubbling out of the bronze griffon head was cold, clear, and fresh. They took turns drinking and refilling their canteens.
"Carver, water the horses before we enter the castle," Bronwyn ordered. "Levi!" she shouted. "Unhitch the oxen and bring them around to the watering trough!"
The trader had hidden in the wagon during the fight. Now he peeked out from the sheltering canvas, trembling.
"Is it safe?"
"For now. Out here," answered Bronwyn. "Who knows what we'll find inside?"
The man edged over to her, nervous and fearful. Bronwyn wondered why he was here. Why not give them the map and wait for them at Breaker's Cove? He had said somethng about wanting to redeem his family's honor. He wanted to find historical evidence that Sophia Dryden was no traitor, but the innocent victim of the tyrannical King Arland. Even if King Arland had been a tyrant, that in itself was certainly no evidence that Sophia had not rebelled against him.
With the Arling of Denerim vacant, did he hope to put in a claim for it? Sophia Drydan had been Arlessa of Denerim before she was made a Grey Warden and her children disinherited. The arling had eventually served as a dowry at the marriage of a royal princess to one of the Kendalls. The Kendalls, according to Cousin Leonas, were far from extinct.
Bronwyn thought nothing could be less likely than the Drydens being reinstated to the Landsmeet. Too much time had passed; too much opprobrium had been heaped on their name. Even if Sophia were found to be as innocent as a spring lamb, there was little, realistically, that could come of it. Perhaps the trader would find a scholar to write a revisionist history of the period. The question was: who would read it, or act on it if they did?
After their rest, they opened the heavy double doors. The doors were unbarred, and opened easily, without even squeaking. The Wardens stepped into a high-ceilinged, chilly entrance hall, its rafters meeting at a sharp angle at the ridge line. Faded banners hung from the ceiling, a little shabby and threadbare, but still colorful. Dusty benches lined the plastered walls.
And abruptly before them was another vision. They gathered, pushing for the best view, as misty figures in Grey Warden gear met in council: a Dalish elf, a dwarf, humans; axemen and hammermen and swordsmen; archers and mages.
One mage, whom the others called Avernus, was reporting low morale to a slender woman in splendid plate armor, whom he called "Sophia."
Levi, on the fringes of the group, leaned over with a quick intake of breath.
Yes, Sophia Dryden: last Warden Commander in Ferelden before the return of the order twenty years ago. The edges of the woman were blurred, but her voice was clear and powerful.
"Men, I won't lie to you. The situation is grim: our forces outnumbered, our bellies empty, and our hearts are sagging. But we are Wardens! Darkspawn flee when they hear our horns. Archdemons die when they taste our blades. So are we to bend knee to a mere human despot? No! I, for one, will never give up! I, for one will never surrender, just to dance on Arland's gallows..."
It was a powerful appeal to their courage, but a counsel of desperation. Bronwyn scowled. This woman had led the Wardens to death and disaster. A charismatic leader, but perhaps not a very prudent one. And one of vaulting ambition, from all accounts.
The vision faded to nothing.
"That was quite the speech," Anders said cheerfully. "Sounds a bit like you, Bronwyn, though I don't care for the part about the gallows. Don't get us hanged, all right?"
"Or lead us in some heroic last stand in which everybody dies," Zevran added. "It sounds good in a song, but it must be very uncomfortable to experience."
"For me, too," she agreed, with a wry smile. She jerked her chin at the arched portal before them.
Carver and Toliver moved to either side and gave the door a nudge. It, too, swung open easily.
"Demon!" shouted Jowan.
The big, dark common room was occupied by three demons, in fact. One was the horrid apparition called an Arcane Horror: powerful in magical offense, but comparatively fragile. Morrigan sneered elegantly when it at last collapsed to dust in front of the fireplace. The Wardens moved carefully about the chamber, looking for clues and treasure. There was a door on either side, and another opening directly opposite the entry way, but that was unusable due to the remains of hastily-constructed barricades.
Left or right? Bronwyn considered the exterior she had seen, and thought that the door to the left would not be as complicated as the other.
It was complicated enough. More of the walking dead attacked, one of them very powerful and aggressive. Once again, the mages' freezing and immobilization spells were essential. Some of the skeletons shattered to bits, leaving the leader to be mobbed and smashed.
"A barracks? " Aveline wondered, looking about. "A training room? "
"Both," decided Carver. "Which would not be conducive to sound sleep."
"And no privacy at all," Leliana added, disapproving.
It was a very large, high room on two levels. At entry level, there were archery targets and weapons stands, along with tin bathtubs and a table with the remains of its last card game. Up a short staircase was a gallery along the length of the room, filled with bunkbeds, trunks, and cracked chamberpots. There had been a battle here long ago, too.
"The bunks aren't in bad shape!' Toliver said cheerfully, sitting on a lower one and bouncing a little.
"If you don't mind sleeping on dead guys' mattresses," snarked Carver.
"I don't think I'd keep the bunks in here," Bronwyn remarked, thinking to herself.. "I'd have to see the rest of the castle, but perhaps this should be a training room only, with the level above for seating and observation. It's rather nice, really, and in bad weather very practicall."
"You sound," Morrigan said, "like you are ready to move in and take up housekeeping."
Bronwyn nodded. "If the demons can be destroyed and the Veil repaired, this could be immensely useful. If the rest of it is in this condition, it wouldn't cost a fortune to make it habitable."
"I want to see the bedchambers first," Leliana muttered. "The Compound is so pleasant in comparison."
"Not as many skeletons littering the floor, certainly," Cathair agreed.
They moved back into the big common room. Morrigan used a mild concussive spell to shake ancient soot and leave from the chimney. Part of the old barricades were used to lay a fire. In a short time, the blaze was taking the worst of the chill off the air in the room.
Carver found a scrap of parchment, which was, interestingly enough, a note from someone who appeared to be an ancestor of Arl Wulffe, begging Sophia Dryden for help against King Arland.
Sophia,
Arl Ruahn and his entire family have been slaughtered, even the children. The Ruahn line is no more and the arling belongs to the crown, for now. Arland believed Ruahn was plotting against him. Ruahn criticized the king's spending on Wintersend-that is all. It was an idle word, spoken out of turn. The king goes too far. His brain is filled with madness and he clings to the crown like a drowning man clutches at a straw.
Sophia, I beg you, help us. If nothing is done, more will suffer.
Your humble servant,
-Wulffe
"Told you!" Levi said smugly. "Old King Arland was a terrible tyrant, he was."
Everyone had a sip of water and a bit of food, and then it was time to move on.
"Door," Bronwyn ordered.
This led to a long hall, running parallel to the common room, and several doors led off from it. Blessedly, there were no demons or walking dead awaiting them.
The first door led to the kitchen: a large, big one, too, and well lit by high windows. A few human bones were scattered around the room, but nothing manifested from them.
"We should do something about these bones," Aveline muttered.
Bronwyn heard her. "If we are successful in clearing out the demons, we'll collect all the human remains, take them outside and burn them in a single place. We'll find a way to mark it too, and perhaps eventually put up a memorial stone."
Anders helped Morrigan clear this chimney as well, while Toliver poked into piles of sacks, crocks, and crates. Everything was empty. The Wardens had been living on air, at the end.
The door on the same wall at the far end of the hall led down some steps to a lower level. Once again, there were no demons here. No human remains, either.
"I don't think the king's men ever got this far," Jowan said slowly. "I think they killed all the Wardens, or thought they had, and then demons might have driven them off."
"I think you're right," Carver agreed. "There's a lot of stuff here. Dusty and dirty, but usable."
"It's interesting," Jowan mused. "I think that anything that looks particularly shabby or dilapidated already was like that. Maybe the Wardens hadn't been keeping up the place very well."
"Possibly," Bronwyn considered. Very possible, if the order was in bad odor with the King. Sophia had been forced to become a Warden in order to remove her as Arland's rival. Then Wardens went and elected her Commander. That must have stuck in the King's craw. Maybe the clash was inevitable, and maybe the Ferelden Wardens had been feeling his wrath in little ways before the outbreak of overt war.
She touched Jowan gently on the shoulder, to get his attention. "You know what we're really looking for," she whispered.
Jowan nodded, and Anders, nearby, gave her a wink. They had been privately briefed about their need for Archdemon blood. The Wardens could have hidden it anywhere.
They moved, alert and cautious, from room to room. They found the barracks. First there were twelve smallish rooms, each containing a pair of bunkbeds. Four even smaller rooms held a lsingle bed each. Two big rooms held six bunkbeds. Around a corner and down some rather rickety stairs, they found the storage cellars, a clothing workshop, a still room, a wine cellar filled with shattered bottles and long-drained barrels, and finally the spring house, which, as Carver had guessed, did indeed have a spigot on the inside of the castle. It worked, too, and the water ran clear after a minute or so. Down yet more stairs were dungeons, amounting to a pair of stocks, a whipping post, and three cells. Unsurprising, of course, but completely empty.
Bronwyn walked back upstairs, collecting her thoughts about her find. There was so much more than she had expected or dared hope for. There was potential here: a lot of potential. She glanced at an open cupboard of linens in puzzlement.
"Why haven't the rats got into everything?"
"No rats," Anders declared. " No mice. No vermin of any kind. Part of the spells that were laid down. Now that we've opened up the place again, we might think about getting a cat. I'd like a tabby, myself."
"It's a fine place," Hakan said to Soren. "Better than anything the Legion ever gave us."
"Very nice indeed," Bronwyn said, "but we'd best get back to the demon-infested main keep."
"Joy," sighed Zevran.
They stepped back into the hall, and across it was the last door: a door badly damaged by heavy blows. This was opened cautiously, and Bronwyn instantly got a very bad feeling. It was the ravaged ruin of the library, and it had seen plenty of fighting, judging from the scorch marks and jumbles of bones. Tables and chairs were overturned, and the pillars were scarred by swords and axes. Books were scattered everything. Nearly incinerated, a large tome lay open on the floor. Jowan reach out a tentative hand, and instantly triggered yet another vision.
A greying man inmage's robes was writing furiously into a large codex. Muffled shouts and screams filled the air, and an ominous, regular, booming noise shook the stones. The man's assistant, a young female mage, frantic with terror, begged him to hurry.
"The door won't hold, Archivist!"
"Almost done. The truth must be told."
"What does it matter now?" the girl moaned. "We're dead."
The man kept on writing, his face strained and intent. "Our grand rebellion! So close! And to die here a stillbirth..."
"We never should have done it!" the girl cried. "Wardens aren't supposed to oppose kings and princes!"
"Should we stand idly by and—"
With the crash of a forced door, the vision blinked out, and in its place rose up Rage Demons, blazing like pillars of fire, bitterly aggrieved at their fate. The Wardens fell back. Scorching fire licked at their armor and crisped their hair. The mages shouting out freezing spells, but yet more of the demons emerged, rushing at them vengefully.
Everyone was burned, some of them rather badly. The demons were put down, and the mages performed healing spells. There was general interest in the book collection: some of it looked very old and valuable. The chairs and tables were righted, the floor cleared, and a staircase leading up beckoned them on.
They first found a little mezzanine, which Bronwyn liked the best of any room she had yet seen. It featured a little fireplace and a very dark and dirty portrait, which in archaic letters was labeled as that of Commander Asturian. It would be a very pleasant sitting room, once the grime was scraped away.
A few steps took them up to the second floor proper, which at first glance appeared to be entirely wasted space. A large dining table was arranged in a corner, but the big open area seemed otherwise empty. There were plenty of high windows in the walls, but most of them were tightly shuttered. The Wardens moved through the dim interior, some of them, like Leliana, already picturing partitions and improvements.
"Stop." Morrigan whispered. "Against the wall. A spirit mirror. And there on the floor… That part of the room was used for magical rituals."
"Summoning circles," Jowan squeaked. "It looks like some lunatic was summoning dem—"
They were in the middle of yet another vision, and this was the most violent and frightening of them all. Levi shrieked, and flung himself away. King's men and Wardens cut and slashed at each other, and another element had been introduced.
"Make them pay for every inch, men!" shouted Sophia, her blade flashing. "Avernus! We need you!"
The mage's arms were lifted, as he recited an incantation in Arcanum. Demons boiled out of the summoning circles, falling upon the king's men, ripping and tearing at the screaming, horrified soldiers.
"More, Avernus!" Sophia cried, wild with battle. "More! Whatever it takes! Press them! Press them now!"
A soldier screamed in a demon's grip. Not sated, the demon lashed out, slashing open a Grey Warden's belly. More demons fell on any warriors within reach, caring nothing for their allegiances, but only that they were living prey.
"No!" shouted Avernus. "I command you! Attack the King's men only!"
A demon drifted toward him, and a deep, gurgling voice issued forth.
"So much death...so much suffering...and...oh, yes...blood! The Veil is torn. Your soul is mine, Avernus!"
"Acolytes," cried Avernuis. "Retreat!"
The mages scrambled up the stairs. Some were caught by demonic talons, and dragged down. In the midst of the slaughter, Sophia Dryden still stood, fighting to the last, her face a mask of pride and despair.
"Avernus!" she shouted. "Avernus!"
They hardly knew where the vision ended and the demons began. A Hunger Demon surged toward them, feeding off the spirits of the walking dead. Its single eye glowed red as flame until Cathair put an arrow in it. Scout worried at an ankle, while the rest of them hacked at it. It threw out sudden bursts of raw power, knocking them aside, but with every surge it grew weaker, and eventually lay on the stones, rapidly deliquescing.
"Raising demons!" Levi said, discontented. "I thought my family was better than that."
Bronwyn cast him a look, biting back the retort that rose to her lips. Obviously they were not.
"It was life and death," Jowan consoled him.
"It was interesting, though," Anders remarked. "That mage Avernus called the junior mages 'acolytes.' That's the old Tevinter term for apprentice mages. Maybe the Grey Wardens have some other Tevinter customs."
"Probably," Jowan agreed. "Whether we wish to admit it or not, it's perfectly obvious that the Grey Wardens were a Tevinter creation. Just as the magisters who caused mankind to be cursed by darkspawn were Tevinter, so were those who developed the darkspawn's greatest enemies."
"The Chantry—" argued Leliana.
"Nope." Jowan cut her off, rather cheerfully. "The Chantry gets no credit at all for the Grey Wardens. The Grey Wardens predate the Chantry by hundreds of years. They predate the formation of the Orlesian Empire. We've been around before anybody."
"Not quite," Cathair disagreed, his voice suspiciously gentle. "The elven realm of Arlathan, destroyed by those very magisters, predates you all, and by a very great deal."
Jowan was briefly embarrassed. "Yes. Well. That's true enough."
"I don't think we need any summoning circles," Leliana said primly. "I think this entire floor needs to be completely gutted and remodeled into private bedchambers. Five...maybe six!"
Bronwyn sighed, thinking of their shrinking coin. Probably the little barracks rooms, after a good scrubbing, would have to serve. There were more than enough beds there for all her Wardens, and she would feel not the least shame in claiming one of the little private rooms for herself.
The next door they found opened on another staircase.
Anders murmured, "I don't think the king's men got past the demons."
They opened the door.
"—and neither did the Wardens, " whispered Bronwyn.
Another handful of walking dead shambled toward them, all clad in filthy griffon tunics. These were frozen, beheaded, and the stilled bones kicked into a corner.
"Oh, what a lovely chapel!" cried Leliana, happily distracted from death-dealing.
The large room was devoted to a beautiful statue of the Prophet, set on a big dais and surrounded by votive candles. Personally, Bronwyn would have put a council chamber here, but Leliana was not the only one admiring the statue.
"Quite the looker, wasn't she?" smirked Anders. "I mean, she was a barbarian. How do we know she wasn't as ugly as a tusked wild boar?"
Morrigan snickered, but Leliana was shocked beyond words.
Bronwyn felt it was only reasonable to assume the Prophet had, indeed, been comely. "If she had been ugly as a tusked wild boar, Anders, a great warlord like Maferath would not have taken her to wife, and other people—and people can be so shallow—would not have followed her, no matter how pure or noble her nature. We know from the record that she had a lovely and ensnaring voice. It was a source of great power for her. I think it's very likely that she was beautiful enough for people to take notice of her and hear her out."
"That's reasonable," Toliver spoke up. "That makes sense."
"Actually, it does," agreed Zevran, preening slightly. "The beautiful do have certain advantages."
"But we don't have to worship that goddess of yours, do we?" Soren asked. "'S'not required, is it?"
Before anyone else could say anything, Bronwyn replied, "Absolutely not. All Grey Wardens have a right to their personal beliefs and traditional customs."
"What if they are Chasind?" Morrigan inquired, with a touch of malice. "'Tis their custom to eat human flesh!"
Exasperated, Bronwyn snarled, "They'd better not try to eat mine. Now, come on!"
The room they entered next was occupied.
Bronwyn halted, staring stupidly at the back of quite a corporeal figure in splendid plate armor. The room was large, and had the look of a study: a reading stand by the fireplace; books on sagging shelves; a broad and well-appointed writing table, littered with parchment and maps. He—no, she, from the hair—turned slowly, and Bronwyn stepped into the room, sickened at the sight. Not a skeleton, but surely another of the walking dead, she thought.
"Is that—?" gasped Jowan.
"—Sophia Dryden?" whispered Carver.
"Grandmother?" croaked Levi Dryden.
Then the creature's mouth opened, and it spoke; and Bronwyn knew that no human spirit dwelled behind that blackened, rotting face.
"Come no farther, Warden!" the demon commanded in a hoarse, unnatural voice. "This one would speak to you."
Scout growled at the thing.
The demon growled back. "Get that annoyance away from me!"
"Quiet, Scout," Bronwyn said softly, her hand on the mabari's head. What new devilry was this?
"Why should I speak with you?"
The demon cackled its triumph.
"Because the Peak is mine! I am the Dryden. Sophia. Commander. All of those things."
"Sorry, Levi," muttered Anders. "Your grandmother's become a demon."
"Either that," the trader choked out, "or she's really let herself go."
Leliana shook her head. "I would not speak to it. It will utter nothing but lies."
"Silence your fledglings!" the demon raged at Bronwyn. "They should be meek...subservient...quiet. This one would propose a deal."
Bronwyn spoke carefully, trying to master her disgust and loathing for the entity that had stolen Sophia Dryden's body. No one, however ambitious or misguided, deserved such an indignity.
"You cannot possibly give me anything that I would want...other than your immediate death."
"Fool!" snarled the Sophia-Demon.
It rushed on them, sword in hand, fighting not like a demon, but like a mere squatter inhabiting a body it had stolen. The body showed some skill with a blade; but without Sophia's quick wit and powerful will, it really was only a puppet. Other skeletons rose from the floor. Levi fled the room, while the Wardens engaged the creatures. Bronwyn chose to fight the Sophia-Demon herself. battering her down, parrying her attacks, always a move ahead of her opponent. The Keening Blade was a big sword, and a bit longer than Bronwyn's last weapon, but it obeyed her like her very flesh.
Scout fought at her side, distracting the demon, nipping at its legs, snapping at its elbows. The thing tripped, and Bronwyn laughed sharply, kicking in to backheel the thing and bring it crashing to the floor.
"No!" shrieked the eerie, inhuman voice. Bronwyn's sword wailed its deathsong as it came down, beheading the animated corpse. A brief, frenzied thrashing of the decapitated body—a rush of foul air—and the corpse lay still at long last, her splendid griffon-chased armor still gleaming.
All around the room, the walking dead were falling. A skull, sent on its way by Carver, whizzed past Bronwyn's face and crashed into the wall, cracking plaster into a fine white powder. Another of the creatures scrabbled behind the writing table, savaged by Scout. Bronwyn dashed to help and kicked the skeleton's ribs apart.
She stumbled, fearfully startled, as her booted foot went completely through the wall, shattering plaster and laths together. Zevran had come up to her side, and caught her, saving her an embarrassing pratfall.
"And stay down!" shouted Leliana, finishing off the last of their assailants. "What's that?" she asked a moment later, staring at the hole in the wall.
"A hiding place!" Zevran shouted. "I knew the Wardens must have treasure somewhere! They concealed this, so that their enemies would never find it. Quick! Let us see!"
Eager hands tore at the thin false wall, widening the hole.
"There is a chest in there!" Bronwyn cried. "And more than one!"
Hakan and Soren used their axes to chop away at the remaining lath. The plaster had hid an alcove built into the stonework. A large iron chest was revealed, and on the shelves above, two smaller metal boxes. Everything, of course, was locked, and no one wanted to hunt for keys.
Between them, Leliana and Zevran picked the locks, first succeeding with the smallest of the metal boxes. Opening it with fingers trembling with excitement, Bronwyn cried out in relief at the array of fragile glass vials, carefully packed in goose down. Two...four...there were two dozen of them!
"What are those?' asked Hakan, craning past the taller bodies.
"Potions!" Anders lied genially. They had agreed that the truth would not do in the presence of Levi Dryden. "Special Warden potions. The First Warden won't send us any."
Morrigan rolled her eyes with a superior, knowing smirk. Bronwyn saw the witch's face, and frowned. Had Anders blabbed to her about the Joining potion, or was this something she had knowledge of from Flemeth? Very likely the latter. The idea that Morrigan had special, secret information about the Wardens rather dampened her joy. What else did Morrigan know that she had never revealed?"
"Yes...well...please have a look at them and see if they're still viable."
Anders took the box, and he and Jowan moved it carefully to the other end of the big writing table. Their faces intent, they began casting dark blue spells over the box's contents.
Leliana handed her the next box: it was wide and flat, and in it was Warden correspondence and recruiting records. Important in the days of Sophia Dryden, but not of much moment now. The tithing rolls would make interesting reading, Bronwyn supposed.
With more effort, the lock on the big iron chest was defeated. Zevran stepped away from the chest, with a bow and a sweeping gesture. the Wardens crowded forward, wanting to see.
Bronwyn took a breath and opened the chest. At first, her only impression was of rather smelly brown leather, and then she realized that she was seeing moneybags. Good sized ones, packed down together into the chest.
"Open them up!" cried Soren, losing control of his curiosity.
Bronwyn reached for a sack, and found it heavy. She untied the cord and poured the contents out over her hand. A river of gold sang sweetly, shining coins falling from the mouth of the bag in a torrent of treasure. They pooled on the tops of the leather bags, clinking: Tevinter coins and Orlesian coins; coins from Nevarra and from Rivain; plenty of Fereldan coins, stamped rather carelessly with the crowned profile of a scrawny man with a nose like an axeblade. Cries, squeals, moans rose from the assembled companions: the sort of noises heard more normally in the privacy of a bedchamber at crucial moments. Toliver briefly described the Maker performing an unnatural act on Andraste, and Leliana was too numb to raise a hand to him.
"Is it all gold?" Hakan squeaked. "All of it?"
"Can I help count it?" asked Anders.
Cathair stared, enchanted. "It really is very pretty. Beautiful."
There was a brief, reverent silence.
Dazed, confronted with something beyond her wildest hopes, Bronwyn tried to collect her thoughts and take a guess at how much was in the chest. Perhaps not all the bags contained gold, but before her from only one bag was at least a hundred sovereigns. The Grey Wardens would eat and drink and cover their nakedness for the foreseeable future. Reluctantly, she pushed herself away from the chest and shut the lid.
"We don't have time to gloat over this," Bronwyn insisted. "Come on. Now. We're going now. We still have a castle full of demons to deal with. We can count the gold after that's done."
"I could stay and..." Levi tried to offer. Bronwyn gave him a look.
"Not for the world would I deprive you of the knowledge you've come all this way to find," she said coolly. Not that she thought he could carry that big iron chest down the steps on his own; but it would be easy enough to stuff his pockets and boots with gold, and make a run for it. Perhaps he even imagined he had a right to it.
Carver gave the trader a mild nudge and too-bright smile. Levi whimpered a little and let himself be hustled along, out the door. There were deep, melancholy sighs as Bronwyn shut the door to the room behind them.
"Pull yourselves together," she ordered.
The other door off the chapel opened to the outside. Bronwyn was a little surprised to feel the sharp mountain wind in her face. It cleared her head of gold-fever somewhat. A stone bridge was before her, leading to the freestanding tower.
She had seen the bridge before, but from the ground. They were up pretty high, and a few of the walking dead noticed them and headed their way. Cathair picked them off before they reached their side of the bridge. One of the skeletons toppled over the side of the bridge, far, far, down onto the rugged slope of the mountain. Bronwyn wondered if the bridge should have safety rails.
"I still don't think the king's men got this far," Anders insisted. "So where do the dead come from?"
"Clearly," Morrigan replied, "they died of wounds or were killed by the demons, and then possessed by them."
"I suppose that's possible," Anders admitted, looking sick. "I've seen just about all of them I can stand."
To their surprise, the door at the other end of the bridge was neither locked nor barred. They opened it slowly, and were rushed by a few more of the skeletons. Everyone had a good grasp of how to destroy the things now. The creatures were frozen and beheaded within seconds. They then had a moment to look about them.
It was a antechamber, probably serving somewhat as a protection against the high winds. They pushed open the door on the far wall, and instantly Bronwyn had the feeling, however absurd, that this place was inhabited. It seemed to be a study of sorts. A short of flight of stairs led downward to a door. Another door was directly in front of them. Books lined the wall. A small lute rested on a shelf. Books and parchment were piled on a wooden table. Potion vials were neatly arranged on a wooden stand.
"No dust," Aveline said, gripping her sword more tightly. "No dust on anything. Someone's been here."
Bronwyn's senses tingled oddly. "You're right,' she said. "There is a Grey Warden in the next room."
With excited trepidation, she opened the last door, and led her companions into a vast and lofty space. It was cold here, and looking about it was not hard to see why. A large window at the end of the room was broken.
"What is this place?" whispered Leliana.
Anders peered at a square hole in the floor which held an iron cage filled with bones. "Some sort of...workroom?"
Jowan breathed in awe. "The most elaborate I've ever seen. There's nothing in the Circle like this!"
"Come," Bronwyn said, and walked toward the end of the room. The floor was raised there, overseeing everything else in the wide chamber, and a living Grey Warden was there, busy at a worktable littered with measuring devices and glass flasks and tubes, his attention on his studies.
He sensed their presence, however.
"I hear you! Don't disrupt my concentration."
An old voice. An old, old voice. It matched the man before them: nearly bald, his heavy eyebrows turned white with age. His task done, he looked down at them with quizzical detachment. Old yes: but still tall and straight.
"He's a mage!" Jowan whispered in excitement.
"Really?" Carver snorted. "You think?"
Cathair remarked, in all seriousness. "The robes and staff would indicate that Jowan is correct."
"He's not just a mage," murmured Anders. "He's that mage. That mage we saw. Avernus. Only a bit longer in the tooth, so to speak."
Avernus, after a brief assessment, spoke to Bronwyn, whose armor was unquestionably the grandest, and who, besides, was standing in front of everyone else.
"Even now the demons seek to replenish their numbers. Are you to thank for this welcome if temporary imbalance?"
"We've been killing the demons and the undead we have found here, yes." Rather astonished, she took a breath and plunged on. "You are the Grey Warden Avernus? Alive? After two hundred years?"
"I am indeed Avernus," the mage replied. "And I am alive, though only just. My magic can do only so much. Over the past year I have been plagued with dreams and visions. My end cannot be far off."
"Perhaps it is the Blight you dream of," Bronwyn said. "We dream of it, too."
Avernus's surprise was manifest. "Blight? There is a Blight in Thedas?"
"There is a Blight in Ferelden," said Bronwyn. "It began in the south, when the darkspawn began swarming up at Ostagar. We fought them there, and brought the invasion to a halt; but we expect it to break out again, somewhere else, and even more furiously. We have come to reclaim Soldier's Peak for the Wardens."
"An admirable goal," Avernus approved. "So the Grey Wardens have returned to favor in Ferelden? That is good to hear. You command this detachment?"
"Forgive me," Bronwyn said, remembering her manners. "I am Bronwyn Cousland, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. With me," she pointed to each in turn, "are Wardens Anders, Jowan, Leliana, Aveline, Cathair, Hakan, Soren, Toliver, and our friends Morrigan and Zevran. You will assist us in exorcizing the castle. then?"
"Cousland, eh? Extraordinary! But yes, of course, I have lived for this hour. To cut the demons off forever, I shall unravel the summoning circles I made so long ago. While I do so, waves of demons will come through the Veil. You must dispatch them."
"About those summoning circles..." Anders drawled. "Was there some reason you thought summoning demons was a good idea?"
Avernus sighed, setting his papers in order. "I did so at the commander's behest—"
"Sophia Dryden?" Levi squeaked out.
The old mage glanced at the trader and raised a brow. "Yes. At Sophia's command. We were desperate. Only twenty of us remained, and the King's army was breaking down the door. It was a last hope, but a false one, as I am sure you know. Those of us who survived the king's soldiers fell prey to the demons who turned on us. Sophia herself was taken by the demons. I alone survived."
"We will speak more of this later," said Bronwyn. "Right now we must cleanse the castle."
"Very true," agreed Avernus. He stepped quickly down from the dais, and set off towards the door to the bridge, surprisingly spry. Bronwyn joined him, her thoughts in awed confusion. The stories this man had to tell!'
"But how is he still alive?" Toliver whispered to Aveline. "It's been two hundred years!"
"There's only one way," Anders muttered, looking suspiciously around the room. "Blood Magic."
The back of Jowan's neck turned delicately pink.
Wave after wave of demons emerged from the summoning circles: Rage Demons, Hunger Demons, Ash Wraiths. Avernus intoned the incantations, and the rest of the Wardens destroyed the invaders from the Fade. Having some idea of what would happen, Bronwyn had carefully positioned her people so that the archers and mages would have a clear field of fire before the others closed with the demons. The mages watched Avernus, very impressed—in Anders' case, reluctantly—with the old man's abilities. The last of the demons was the most powerful: a purple-fleshed Desire Demon. She fell at last, and then followed a last incantation and a curious sucking sound as the Veil was securely sealed. The arcane symbols etched in the floor vanished.
"Well!" Carver spoke up. "That was bracing! Do we get lunch now, or what?"
"I'm starving!" Leliana agreed.
"All right," Bronwyn said, "Since you brought it up, Carver, I want you to go down to the wagon with Levi, and bring back some provisions. We can eat in that little place down the steps over there. I didn't see any bones. Toliver and Aveline, go help them. Keep your eyes open for anything strange. Morrigan and Anders, please clear the chimney and get a fire going." She turned to Avernus. "You and I need to talk, but after something to eat. You are, of course, most welcome to join us."
"My dear Commander," said the old man, "it is too long since I subsisted on anything other than Strengthening Potions. Real food might well kill me, but I thank you for the invitation. I shall be at your service in my workroom whenever you are at leisure, and will be happy to answer all your questions. I have made many discoveries in my long life, and I think some of them will be of interest to the Wardens and of use to you." He strode away, staff in hand.
So, lounging on dusty chairs and stools, they consumed bread and hunks of smoked mutton in front of the cheerful fire. There was much speculation about the total amount of the gold in the iron chest, and Hakan began a betting pool for the one whose guess came closest.
"Listen to me," Bronwyn said. "This is all very well amongst ourselves, but I want each one of you to swear an oath you will not tell anyone about this treasure. That means anyone: fellow Wardens, Chantry priests taking a confession, blood relatives. Anyone. No exceptions," she said, with a hard look for Leliana and then for Jowan. "If word got out about this treasure, we'd have bandits down on us, and noblemen refusing to pay their tithes. That gold is going to refurbish this castle and pay your wages. And maybe give us some extras."
"I wish we could buy a griffon," muttered Carver.
"A pair of griffons would be better, mate," Toliver advised. Carver nodded thoughtfully.
"If only we could," Bronwyn sighed.
"Are you going to tell Teyrn Loghain?" Morrigan asked pertly.
"No," Bronwyn said instantly. She raised her right hand. "It's Warden business. I, Bronwyn Cousland, so swear."
She made each of them swear individually. Morrigan and Zevran would probably keep the secret, but Bronwyn's eyes fixed on Levi Dryden, and she wondered how much it would realistically take to buy the man's silence and keep it bought. He had not found what he sought: exoneration for Sophia Dryden. If anything, he had confirmed her treason, and worse, had learned that she was complicit in Blood Magic and sorcery. He looked very disgruntled.
After they were fed and rested, it was time to apportion tasks.
"There's not all that much we can do today," she considered. "But for decency's sake we should take Aveline and Cathair's words to heart and collect all the remains we can find. Leliana, I'm putting you in charge of that. I want you to find some place on the grounds that's suitable for a memorial someday. Pile up the bones there and we'll gather later for the fire. Any gear or good armor, like that set on Sophia, I want you strip and store in a single place. Morrigan," she turned to the witch, who looked disgusted at the thought of searching for remains, "would you please work in the remains of the library? Shelve the books lying about—except for that damaged chronicle—and try to get some idea of what's in them, and how the shelves are arranged—if they are."
Morrigan was considerably mollified by the assignment.
"And the horses and oxen need to be taken somewhere to graze. Later we'll count the gold. We'll want an exact tally, and we'll need to write it down. At sunset we'll have the funeral fire. I'm going to talk to Avernus now—" Bronwyn began.
"But not alone," Anders said instantly. "I'm going with you."
Jowan grimaced. "He's right, Bronwyn. We don't really know Avernus, other than that he's a really powerful Blood Mage. He could do things to you that you wouldn't know about. Anders and I should be there."
"Besides," Anders added. "We're your magical advisers, so I think we should be there to advise you if the old man talks about magic."
That was true enough.
Carver sniped. "You just want to get out of picking up bones."
"That, too," Anders agreed equably.
"A Cousland?" mused Avernus. "It is rare for someone from one of the great families to join the Wardens."
"I was conscripted," Bronwyn told him. "I was conscripted because of the Blight. I certainly never volunteered to be a Warden, but here I am. Most of the Wardens were killed in the Bloomingtide Battle against the darkspawn, including Warden-Commander Duncan. Only one other junior Warden and I were left, and we have been trying to rebuild the order ever since. For that matter, the Grey Wardens were only readmitted to Ferelden twenty years ago, during the reign of King Maric."
"King Maric," Avernus repeated the name. "I take it from the way you speak of him that he is the late King Maric. Who is king now?"
"Well..." Anders snarked. "That's a long story..."
Bronwyn flicked him a repressive look. She did not want to talk politics right now. "Maric's son, King Cailan, was killed last month in the Battle of King's Mountain. He left no heir. The kingdom is currently under the regency of his wife, Queen Anora, until a Landsmeet is held. That is scheduled for the sixth of Haring. Meanwhile, the Blight continues. The Archdemon seems to have left the south through the Deep Roads, and we do not know where the bulk of the horde is. I have sent patrols to the known Deep Roads entrances to see if they can detect any activity. We were ourselves going to Drake's Fall tomorrow."
"That is the entrance we used for our Callings, yes," said Avernus. "I cannot say that I know of any activity in the north, but Soldier's Peak is built on a granite foundation, and thus is secure from the darkspawn."
Jowan found that interesting. "Is that why the site was chosen in the first place?"
Avernus was pleased with him. "Indeed it was. That, and it was considered desirable to have a base by the sea for communication and for importation of fine weapons and arms, which were not exactly much in evidence in Ferelden in those days."
"So..." Bronwyn nodded. "A secure base, and very well preserved. You cast those spells, I take it."
"Most of them," he admitted. "The demons also did their share, for their own reasons. I did not want the Peak to fall to pieces over my head, after all! If nothing else, I was resolved to preserve it for the future—if there was one." He sat back in his chair, looking at her. "You no doubt have questions of your own."
"Many," Bronwyn agreed. "Our companion, the trader Levi Dryden, brought us here, hoping we would find evidence that his ancestor, Sophia Dryden, was innocent of the charge of treason that sullied the family name. However, it's clear that she did indeed defy the king. Can you tell us something of what happened?"
"So much for our grand rebellion," sighed the old mage. "It seemed so pressing then, but the kingdom lives on and has forgotten us. Arland ruled with fear and poison. Sophia's noble friends begged for her help, so we met with Teyrn Cousland. With him on our side we had a chance of success. A truce was declared, and the parties met, but it was not to be. He was killed, and we were undone."
"Cousland!" Bronwyn exclaimed. "My ancestor...er..." She ticked off the family genealogy in her mind, hearing Aldous' voice reciting the tale of years. "Kurgan Cousland. There is no record indicating that he was killed in battle."
"Not in battle," said Avernus, with an ironic smile. "Why in battle, when a waiting axe behind a door would serve as well? I last saw Teyrn Cousland's decapitated head on the meeting table with an apple in his mouth. You lost many family members that day. Arland's butchers slaughtered enough to make them—pliable. And that was the end of that. The Wardens stood alone, and perished."
A long silence, as they digested the sad tale of old wrongs.
"So," Jowan spoke, a little uncertain. "You've been alone all these years, but it looks like you've been doing research."
"I have," Avernus granted him a little wintry smile. "And I have learned much. With trial and error, my experiments have yielded results beyond my dreams."
Bronwyn looked about the vast workroom. "What was the purpose of your experiments?"
"To stop the demonic tide, of course, but originally to make the Warden's even more powerful. Our joining ritual is crude. The darkspawn taint has power, yet all it is used for is to sense the creatures. Much more is possible."
"Blood magic?" Anders asked, his voice rich with disgust.
"Come, my young brother Warden. The very Joining itself is the darkest of Blood Magic. There is great strength in blood. Disregard the Chantry's lies for the children's tales they are. They know nothing, and invent rubbish to conceal their ignorance. Nothing is forbidden the Wardens. Honorable surrender is not an option when fighting darkspawn."
Anders did not look convinced, but Bronwyn held up her hand to quiet him. "To make the Wardens more powerful in what way?"
"Why, in every way. To make us stronger, faster, more dextrous. To improve our stamina, self-healing, and concentration. To reduce the chance of death in the Joining—I believe by a large measure. The physical toll on the Wardens was to be ameliorated. You will have noticed, obviously, that I have not experienced a Calling. That, too, was one of my goals—and Sophia's."
Bronwyn sat up and stared at the man. The Calling was a burden so dreadful, so unspeakable, that anyone who could prevent it had her instant and undivided attention. Jowan gave her a quick, excited glance. Anders was frowning, but he was listening, all the same.
"I certainly do not deny," Bronwyn said, "that the Calling seems a particularly horrible rite, as practiced by the Grey Wardens. To die alone in the dark of the Deep Roads, overwhelmed by darkspawn... And to experience worse than death, if one is a woman. In fact, it seems absolute madness, after what we have seen of Broodmothers, to deliberately send women to replenish the darkspawn."
Avernus was intrigued. "You have seen a Broodmother? With your own eyes?"
Anders looked away with a sigh, not liking that particularly memory. Bronwyn did not flinch from it. She pointed first at the scar on her cheek, and then at her unnaturally green eyes.
"I received this—and these—during an encounter with a Broodmother. They spit poison. Anders saved my vision, but the color remained."
"Fascinating," murmured Avernus, leaning in for a closer look. "It seems that I, too, have many things to learn."
Bronwyn's mind was already on his research. "Tell me, Avernus... this improved Joining potion of yours... It apparently works on those who have already taken the standard formula?"
"As you see."
"And does it relieve other problems? For example, we are given to understand that Wardens are infertile. Does the potion—"
"—Remove that obstacle to conception? Yes, I am certain that it does. While the Wardens in general look upon their infertility as a convenience, Sophia found it irksome. She hoped to have more children after she had deposed King Arland."
Anders and Jowan were looking at Bronwyn, and even without the aid of Blood Magic, she could read their minds.
"Can you make this potion for us?" she asked. "For all of us? I have forty-two Wardens under my command."
Avernus smiled again. "Forty-three, I believe, counting me, Commander. But yes, I can make all you want with sufficient ingredients. I have four sample doses, but require more supplies to distill it in quantity. There is a supply of Archdemon blood in here in the castle. I have some here in the workroom, and there is more secreted—"
"We found that," Bronwyn assured him. "The need of it brought me here in the first place."
"Indeed? I shall also need some fresh darkspawn blood, and—this might be a sticking point—a good measure of the blood of a Warden."
Bronwyn did not hesitate. "I would gladly shed my blood to save myself and the other Wardens from the Calling."
"My blood," Anders interrupted. "Not yours, Bronwyn. My blood."
"Or mine," Jowan offered. He smiled weakly at Avernus. "You don't need it all, do you?'
Avernus shrugged, "There was a time... but no, I shall need no more than you can safely spare."
"You did experiments on Wardens, didn't you?" Anders asked, full of suspicion.
"I did, and I do not apologize for it. Where did you think the Wardens came from in the first place? The comforting fairy tales would tell you it was a band of heroic volunteers, daring all for the salvation of Thedas. The ugly reality, I believe, is closer to this: a band of Tevinter mages, desperately trying to undo the disasters wrought by their fellows, sacrificing thousands of slaves in thousands of horrifically failed experiments. Through their efforts, they finally created the weapon—the superwarrior—known as a Grey Warden. The truth can be an terrible thing, but it is not as terrible as a Thedas overrun by darkspawn."
By the end of their conversation, Bronwyn asked Avernus to make out a list of things he needed, and gave him a conditional promise to get a relief party up to him before Firstfall. Then there was the matter of the improved potion. She was willing to take it herself, and immediately, but once again, Anders and Jowan restrained her.
"I'll try it," said Jowan. "I'll take it now, and we'll see how I perform on it, all right? All right?" he asked, turning to Avernus. "That's reasonable, isn't it, to have a field trial?"
"Quite sensible," Avernus allowed. "Record your impressions for me. I shall add them to the research notes."
A vial was presented, and Bronwyn and Anders watched, tense with worry, as Jowan downed it. He winced, and bent nearly double. Bronwyn came forward to support him, horrified that he might be killed. Instead, after a moment, he straightened and took a deep breath.
"Not so bad," he said. "Not so bad as my Joining. I feel... different."
"Different?" Avernus scoffed. "That is rather vague, isn't it? In what way different? Be precise."
Jowan looked up at the ceiling, thinking. "I feel very energized. I feel ready for anything. My mind is very clear...very alert... very sensitive to all impressions. I don't know if my vision is improved, or I'm just noticing things. I can feel my magic in a much more present way...like I could shape it with only my fingers."
Avernus was nodding, pleased. and took up parchment and a quill. He asked Jowan to cast some shielding and healing spells. Anders seemed impressed. There was some technical discussion that went completely over Bronwyn's head. Jowan did not seem about to drop dead.
In short, when Bronwyn left the old mage's workroom, her head was spinning with possibilities.
"Why were you so determined that I not contribute my blood to Avernus for his experiments?" she asked her companions.
Anders exchanged an uneasy glance with Jowan.
"For the same reason we didn't want you to meet with him alone. Bronwyn, we don't know this man, Warden or not. He's a dodgy old blood mage. If he had your blood, he could use it to control you, and as you are a Very Important Person—and likely going to be more Important yet—that seemed a supremely bad idea."
"Ah, so it is no myth that blood mages really can control minds?"
Jowan looked pained. "It's not quite as simple as that. A lot of it depends on the subject's own will, and the willpower of the mage. He might not be able to put ideas in your head, but he might be able to give you a nudge to feel certain ways about ideas that were presented to you. Anyway, you should be careful of your blood. Even..." he blushed, "your moon blood."
"That's true," Anders agreed, unembarrassed. "I've heard of laundresses being paid for ladies' linens by ill-wishers. Queens should watch out for that."
Faintly alarmed, Bronwyn said, "I'll pass that bit of advice on to Anora."
Her people had been quite diligent in her absence. It was remarkable how the removal of scattered, decaying human remains improved the appearance and general ambiance of the Peak.
"Bones were everywhere!" Leliana told her. "We have had such a time, finding all the little pieces!" She made a face. "And all the brooms are dirty!"
"We used some of the empty crates," Aveline told Bronwyn briskly. "Filled them up and pushed them along. Put them on timbers to carry them between us. It went quickly once we got into the rhythm of it."
"You've done well."
Carver said, "I hobbled the horses and left them and oxen out on the high meadow not far from here. We'd better herd them into the old stables for the night after we have the funeral."
"Good thinking."
"Can we count the gold now, Bronwyn?" Anders pleaded, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "Can we?"
"Yes, we can. We should."
Each bag appeared to contain a hundred pieces of gold. Teams were arranged and assigned bags to make absolutely sure. There was swearing as people lost count and started again. Jowan found some dirty parchment and dug out a lead pencil he always carried. He set about making a tally.
Altogether there were fifty-four bags of gold. Fifty-three contained one hundred sovereigns each, of somewhat varying purity and weight. The fifty-fourth bag was the odd one, with only thirty-two pieces of gold in it. There was also a bag of gems and jewelry, which included a heavy gold seal ring embossed with a double griffon. Soren won the betting pool.
"All right," Bronwyn decreed. "Five thousand, three hundred thirty-two sovereigns. We can maintain the order, fight the blight, and restore Soldier's Peak. A good day's work. In celebration of our success, I grant each of you present a reward of twenty sovereigns, payable right now."
This decision was a popular one. The coin was paid out, and the final tally of the Wardens' treasure noted down as five thousand ninety-two sovereigns. Everyone seemed perfectly pleased, with the exception of Levi Dryden. Twenty sovereigns was insufficient compensation for the loss of his lifelong dream of exoneration for a revered ancestor. Bronwyn resolved to talk to him privately when they were back in Denerim.
"Why isn't there any silver?" Carver wondered.
Zevran gestured at the number of chests, some of them empty and open, in the room. "Much was likely spent just before the siege in an effort to buy up supplies. The rest was not sealed away, and anything resembling coin was snatched. We found some silver on the bodies, remember, and we have certainly not found all the bodies of those who died...or retreated with the king's army."
"And on that note," said Bronwyn, "Let us give the dead we found to the fire."
That was done, with decent respect. An attractive spot had been chosen, in a place that might once have been the castle garden. The sunset splendor of the mountains was a fitting setting for the last rites of Sophia Dryden and her Wardens. Leliana recited the Chant of Light, and sang The Ballad of Ayesleigh.
It was windy in the twilight, and the mages watched the fire carefully, lest it catch the grass and trees alight. Bronwyn asked for some bottles of wine from their supplies, and these were passed around. The Grey Wardens and their friends drank deeply, the firelight turning their faces to gold.
"Anyone have anything to say?" Bronwyn asked.
To her surprise, Carver Hawke spoke up.
"You know what this means, don't you?"
"No... I don't," Bronwyn said, wondering what he was getting at. He was clearly a bit drunk. "What does what mean?"
"Really," Carver insisted, waving his wine bottle. "This is big. They need to rewrite all the history books. We won."
"Carver, who won?" Leliana asked, bewildered.
"The Grey Wardens totally won the Battle of Soldier's Peak! We did. We won. We did not lose. We remained masters of the field."
Hakan and Soren looked at each other, squinted, and then nodded agreement. "He's right," said Hakan.
"Just how do you reckon that?" Toliver asked, bewildered. "I mean, you did see the dead bodies everywhere, didn't you?"
Bronwyn began to see Carver's logic, and chuckled almost against her will. She took the offered bottle from Jowan, and downed a long swallow, trying not to choke.
"All the laws of war," Carver pointed out, "say that whoever is last on the field is the winner. The 'Last Man Standing' rule. The king's troops left. Avernus was still here and still alive. Masters of the field, that is."
"And they didn't get the treasure, either," said Jowan, with a slow, delighted grin.
"That's right!" Carver lifted his bottle to the crackling fire in salute, smugly triumphant. "Totally masters of the field. Not sacked. No serious booty taken. Grey Wardens won. We won! Yes! Grey Wardens!"
Thanks to my reviewers: Chandagnac, anon, Zute, JackOfBladesX, Rexiselic, Kira Kyuu, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, KnighOHolyLight, truthrowan, Jenna53, Shakespira, Nemrut, Jyggilag, Phygmalion, Have Travel, Psyche Sinclair, darksky01, Rake1810, Oleander's One, kirbster676, JOdel, EpitomyofShyness, Mike3207, almostinsane, Girl-chama, Josie Lange, and mille libri.
No, Bronwyn and company did not have the chance to read Avernus' notes. Thus they do not know about the Wardens he killed in his experiments. Avernus prudently tidied up before they came for their chat. No, they did not find Asturian's cache. Someone might find that later.
I have used quite a bit of canon material here. Thank you, Bioware. I have also reused or refashioned some material from my other story, The Keening Blade, which also features an exploration of Soldier's Peak. The visions, of course, are identical. Some of the individuals' histories, ditto. What differs are the responses of different people to the same basic situation.
I am always frustrated by the failure of Dragon Age exteriors to match the interiors, and sometimes the interiors do not seem entirely sensible or functional. Soldier's Peak in game give us four bunkbeds in total for a full complement of a hundred Wardens. Even Sophia's room is without a bed. And the second floor is indeed entirely wasted space. There must have been somewhere for them to sleep. Since there is that unusable door down from the kitchens, and since there is clearly a lower level on the east side of the building, I have placed the barracks there. Of course, the mages' tower is very large, and no doubt has lots of living space. Still, there had to be cellars, workrooms, and even a lockup for recalcitrant Wardens. Even if they had servants, and the servants lived in the outbuildings, the Wardens themselves needed facilities we don't see in the course of the game.