Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 101: With Fire and Sword
Tara, Brosca, and company arrived the next morning, dripping wet, and full of excited indignation about their adventures. Tara wanted reinforcements, and to be allowed to go back north and destroy the Templar stronghold. After hearing the report, Bronwyn was sympathetic, but unmoved. Tara persisted.
"Yes, I would like to clean out the Aeonar," Bronwyn finally said, exasperated. "But no, I can't right now!"
"I could do it with fifty soldiers!" Tara protested.
"Thirty," Brosca disagreed. "We only need thirty. They've got great stuff there, Boss."
"I daresay," Bronwyn said, sorting through the oddities spread out on her writing table. "What are these?"
"Sending stones, for sending messages."
"Do they work?"
"Er... no. Not really," Tara admitted. "I think they need some special elven magic... or something. If I had time to study them..."
"Time!" Bronwyn thumped one of the stones down. "Time is just what we don't have! Maybe you've noticed that the snow is melting. Tara. An Orlesian army will be in Jader in less than ten days! The darkspawn could rise at any minute! However vile and despicable these Chantry folk are, they are not a priority. Besides," she blew out a breath. "Do you really want to start a war between the Wardens and the Chantry?"
Tara just looked at her. Brosca unsuccessfully tried to hide a grin.
"I'll take that as a yes," Bronwyn said dryly. "Not really a good plan at the moment. We have the darkspawn and the Imperial army to fight. I don't want every Templar in Ferelden feeling obligated to stab us in the back."
"They're torturing people, Bronwyn! They're experimenting with the Rite of Tranquility! They want to make perfect slaves!"
"And we'll stop them," Bronwyn said. "But later. Yes, I'm concerned about this, though it appears to me that this is not the Chantry per se, but a radical faction. I don't think that the Divine—or whoever is speaking for her these days—really wants to take on the dwarves."
For that was what the Tranquility experiments seemed to be directed toward: lyrium mining. In order to have a large labor force at their command, the Chantry would need to make Tranquil miners of non-mages, for there were simply not enough mages to make a go of the project. With sufficient miners, the Chantry could go into mining for themselves and cut out the dwarves entirely. Without the expense of purchasing lyrium from Orzammar, the Chantry would keep thousands—no, possibly millions—in gold for themselves. Their power, already vast, would become irresistible. From the records, it looked like a number of important clergy were implicated to some degree, some of them thinking it was all for the greater good. Criminals, heretics, heathens would be made Tranquil. Instead of being executed, this "merciful alternative" would be instituted, and huge numbers of Tranquil would contribute to the glory of Andraste and her holy Chantry.
"At least you didn't kill anyone," said Bronwyn. "It's even possible they'll just regard it as Warden curiosity when faced with a suspicious hole in the ground."
"Maybe." Brosca was very amused. "Except that Tara made it sort of personal with Jowan's old girlfriend."
"Jowan's what?"
Tara shrugged. "There was this girl name Lily. She was an intitiate at the Circle. She was the reason—well, part of the reason—that Jowan wanted to get away. She said she didn't want to be a priest. She was all 'Oh, Jowan, take me away from all this!' She and Jowan were going to go live on a farm."
"Oh, really?"
"Well, that's what he said at the time. And then he panicked and used blood magic, and then she was all, 'Ewwww! Evil blood mage! Go away!' And Greagoir said she was going to the Aeonar, which makes me think that Greagoir was in on some of this, and I hope not the Tranquility bit. No. Probably not that. He's an old fart with a greatsword up his butt, but I don't think he'd go for Tranquilizing non-mages. I do think, though, that he knew that Lily was a Chantry agent. Had to. She admitted she was trying to uncover a blood mage coven."
"Catriona slapped her face," Brosca said cheerily. "It was beautiful. We told her that Jowan had a new girl who was crazy about him." She saw Bronwyn's expression, and waved her hands. "Hey, Boss, it's true! That little dog he named after his old girlfriend is crazy about him. And she's a lot cuter than Chantry Girl."
Bronwyn laughed, "No doubt! Look, We can't go wandering off at the moment. The darkspawn may pop out of the ground anytime, anywhere. We've got to be ready to respond. The Orlesians are on their way, and the weather is going to speed their journey. Let me tell you about some plans I've been working on. I don't think the Aeonar is going anywhere anytime soon. We'll deal with them, I promise you, but later. If we live through this."
Tara made a face. "They're horrible people."
"How does that makes them different from everyone else we're fighting? Come here." Bronwyn took her friends by their shoulders and made them look out the window. "See the melting snow?"
"We walked through it the whole way, Boss," Brosca pointed out.
"Then you know that whatever is going to happen, will happen soon. Now this is what we're going to do..."
Other eyes noted the sudden change in the weather. It was early in the year, of course, and there would no doubt be frost and snows, but perhaps the thaw would last long enough to allow a window of opportunity. The Empress gave commands: events were set in motion rather earlier than originally planned.
There was a great deal of activity in the Val Royeaux dockyard. While cautious and captains advised against it, the Imperial Grand Admiral moved up the sailing date of his great fleet—and then had to revise it twice. Not having ever actually been a sailor himself, and owing his position to his noble birth, he was not fully aware of the effect of tides and currents on his ships, even when planning a comparatively short voyage, such as the one to Jader. Institutional inertia prevented hasty movement, but the Empress was so eager to launch her campaign that an advance of even a day pleased her.
It proved equally difficult to change the date of the army's departure. The Marquis Bohémond de Mauvoisin-en-Fermin, Lord of Jader, would march a day earlier, and was instructed to begin making his move through Gherlen's Pass as soon as he arrived in his city. He carried instructions for de Guesclin, the commander of Roc du Chevalier, and also for the Comtesse Coquelicot, the gouvernante of the Imperial Princesses at Chateau Solidor. The young ladies were to be moved east to Val Firmin, and from there to Mont-de-Glace, on the frigid shores of the Sundered Sea to the far south. Too many nobles would be on the Imperial Highway; too many who might want to abduct a princess with a claim to the throne.
A spectacular ball celebrated the commencement of Empress Celene's Grand Campaign against the Barbarians. The fairest and bravest from all parts of the empire gathered: bejeweled, bemasked, and bedight in white and gold, the Empress' personal colors. Fountains of wine played; hot-house rose petals drifted down on the company from silken nets attached to the ceiling. An orchestra of lutes, flutes, hautboys, harps, and drums played; the Imperial Choir, of young boys and girls chosen for beauty of voice and person, sang with ethereal delicacy throughout the event. During the midnight supper, professional dancers portrayed the great events of Orlesian history in exquisite mime.
No sight was more glorious than that of the Empress herself. Her hair was covered with a vast, silvery wig of finest shining spidersilk and surmounted by a fantastic diamond crown. Her skin was powdered into shimmering iridescence with mother-of pearl. She watched the entertainment, she dined, she danced, looking more like the image of a goddess than a living woman.
Near her sat her younger cousin, the Imperial Prince Florestan, as handsome as he was stupid. Regrettably, it appeared to Celene that she really might have to marry the buffoon herself. Making him her successor was tantamount to flushing the empire down a sewer, since he had no more political sense than a splendid horse. Her other successors were those odious daughters of her least favorite uncle, and Celene found the thought of any of them succeeding her distasteful. It appeared that she really might have to produce an infant herself. It was all very awkward and uncivilized, but so it was. Her only other option was to breed Florestan to one of the princesses, keep them locked up, and take possession of any subsequent children herself. Hmmm. Not a bad idea.
Florestan was a biddable lad of pure blood. He was still pouting a little about the loss of Prince Cousland's daughter. The silly boy had actually believed that the rumored union was real. Celene had sent him a consolation gift, which was even now on his lap: a little white pouf of a dog, whose collar spelled out the name "Blanchefleur." Obviously, no Imperial Princess could have be known by such a barbarous name as "Bronwyn." Had the girl actually come to Orlais, she would have been renamed as well as retrained. What an escape! Celene shuddered at the idea of such a person lumbering about her exquisite ball. Florestan apparently followed the Dragonslayer's career with interest, and made sentimental remarks to his most trusted friends, who of course reported them all to Celene.
Dragonslayer? Andraste's Champion? Celene would put paid to such nonsense, and quickly, too. The Divine was entirely of her mind—of course—after reading the absolute drivel sent to them by the doddering fool known as the Grand Cleric of Ferelden. At the ceremonial blessing of the troops tomorrow, certain individuals would be named anathema to the Chantry. The Grand Cleric was only one of many who would be so condemned. Both she and the usurper Bronwyn would be burned in effigy in the square of the Grand Cathedral, a solemn symbol of their ultimate fate. Others would be pronounced anathema as well: the so-called King Loghain, the Arl of South Reach, and all the clergy and Templars present at the scandalous and impious Denerim conclave. The entire Fereldan Chantry would have to be purged and replaced. The Fereldan Circle of Magi, which had colluded in their actions, would be Annulled. Priests and Templars would march with the army to effect this. It was an Exalted March in substance, though it had been concluded that to declare it in so many words might be a political error.
The music swelled, unbearably rapturous. The Empress surveyed the grandeur of her event, her heart swelling with the music, but unable to smile or frown, lest she crack her painted façade.
Certain unfortunates were not invited to share in the splendor of the evening. Duke Prosper de Montfort, in disgrace since his return from Dog Land, was one such. He was packing for what promised to be an extended journey abroad.
"I'll take the books, too," he told his steward. "Yes. All of them. And all the honeywine of the year 18 vintage. If I must live in exile, it shall be a comfortable exile."
The thaw was welcome. If he was swift, he could be gone from Val Royeaux on the next tide, on his way to his little pied-à-terre on the edge of the Vimmark Mountains: Chateau Haine. If he remained too long, the Empress was likely to change her mind; and instead of being forbidden to take part in her glorious campaign, he would be ordered to lead the vanguard, with those behind him ordered to see that he fell in service to the Empire.
The transcript of the Conclave he had brought with him had deeply offended the Empress. It had thus also deeply offended the Divine, who was quite beyond anything but repeating what the Empress told her to say. As for himself, he believed most of it, having met the redoubtable Dragon Queen for himself.
It was, unfortunately, quite impossible to say anything favorable about Queen Bronwyn to Her Imperial Majesty. Queen Bronwyn had committed the unforgivable affront of living when the Empress wanted her dead; of succeeding when the Empress wished her to fail. And now the girl was married to Loghain Mac Tir, whom the Empress detested even more than the King of Nevarra.
Prosper accepted that for the foreseeable future, he was persona non grata in Orlais.
He would leave tomorrow, on the evening tide. In the afternoon, there was a spectacle that he could not bear to miss. The Empress meant to make a gala entertainment of her enemies. Prosper would not have a place in the seats of honor, but for once he could stand with the rabble. He might even have a better view that way…
The weather that following noon was a disappointment to the organizers of the event. While it continued unseasonably warm, the sky was grey with clouds. Melting snow and ice filled the streets and courts with filthy puddles. The Empress had hoped for blazing sun: a proper omen when her army should march down the Avenue of the Sun, through the Sun Gates, and on to victory.
Well, they would have to make do with what they had. In the broad square in front of the Grand Cathedral, anathema would be pronounced on the enemies of Orlais and the Chantry. A procession was already wending through the streets, with the effigies of the criminals carried on litters. From the distance came the clangor of trumpets and drums heralding their passage, accompanied by ranks of priests bearing censers and Templars bearing swords. Everything proclaimed the solemnity of the occasion. From the sounds, the procession was ascending the hill from the Market District, and approaching the gates piercing the walls of the sprawling cathedral compound.
Up on the steps of the Cathedral, framed by the soaring twin bell ltowers, sat the Empress and the Divine, each on a golden throne. Behind them was the Cathedral Choir, in full warble. Before them were the stakes and piles of wood for the ritual burning. Ranged around the square were the favored chevaliers and units of the Imperial Guard. The surging, excited mob permitted to witness this event—and they must witness it, in order to spread the word— would prove no danger to her, protected as she was.
Duke Prosper was disguised by a plain hooded cloak and an old, unfashionable mask that had been his maternal grandfather's. He was not the only masked figure among the crowd. Poor nobles, well-to-do merchants and their women, and servants masked in the livery of their masters were among the people today. There were also, no doubt, foreign spies, bards, and cutpurses. Prosper himself had been cautious. Anyone trying to take his coin would have to cut all the way through his clothes to the heavy leather belt around his waist. And for that matter, the coins were on the inside.
Ah! Here were the effigies, the high litters holding them aloft for all to see. The Grand Cleric Muirin's effigy was more generic: a stuffed woman with grey hair and a priest's habit, covered with the loose yellow robe and pointed yellow hat of the condemned heretic. Her name and a list of her crimes was written on a placard, and hung around her neck.
Queen Bronwyn's effigy was far more interesting, and owed quite a bit to his own eye-witness reports. It was dressed in a curious imitation of her red Dragon Armor, the fame of which had spread even into Orlais. Fastened to her right hand was a wooden sword, painted silver. The arm swung free, in a mockery of swordplay. Her eyes were huge and painted a bright, bright green, giving her a demonic aspect. She too, was wrapped in the loose yellow robe of the condemned, and a yellow pointed hat of shame was pinned to the long dark hair. On the litter was the effigy of her dog, which would be burned with her.
The music reached a climax and ended with a crash, as the procession filed into position in front of the enthroned figures on high. The people cheered the entertainment. The Divine was too feeble to perform the next part of the ceremony, and so that was delegated to the Grand Cleric of Orlais, a fairly young woman, who bowed low to the thrones, and then stepped forward, ready to read from a long beribboned scroll.
A gust of wind flickered across the square, catching the trailing parchment and twisting it almost out of the priest's grasp. Another priest came forward to straighten the document. After some fumbling, the woman began reading.
"Your Perfection, Your Imperial Majesty, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen, brothers and sisters of the Chantry, and all the faithful of Andraste, hear me!
"On this twenty-second day of Pluitanis, in the thirty-first year of the Dragon Age, let the will of the Maker be known! The Chantry, with loving sorrow, today cuts off sinful members from the body of the faithful.
"The so-called Queen of Ferelden, by name Bronwyn Cousland, and the former Grand Cleric of Ferelden, by name Muirin, are declared heretics in thought, word, and deed, for they have conspired with maleficar, and led the foolish and ignorant into grave error. They are proclaimed anathema, by the inspired command of Her Perfection, Beatrix III."
The wind picked up. The lengthy parchment flapped noisily. A few onlookers pulled their cloaks closer about them. In the southwest, dark clouds boiled up from the horizon. Prosper thought he smelled rain. The Grand Cleric raised her voice, shouting in her attempt to make herself heard.
"And thus, by her authority, granted unto her by the Maker himself, by our Blessed Lady Andraste, and by all the holy disciples that followed her in times past, we excommunicate and anathematize them from the faithful congregation of the Maker's Chantry. We condemn them, that they may be tormented, disposed, and delivered over to the righteous punishment deserved by the apostate, the heretic, and the maleficar. May they be cursed, even to the Void, and let them wander the edges of the outer darkness both now and forever more.
"May they be cursed wherever they may be, whether in the house or in the alley, in the woods or in the water, or in the Chantry!
The priests and Templars shouted out the response.
"May they be cursed!"
The priest continued, "May they be cursed in living and dying! May they be cursed in eating and drinking, in being hungry, in being thirsty, in fasting and sleeping, in slumbering, and in sitting, in living, in working, in resting, in praying, and in war."
"May they be cursed!"
"May they be cursed in all the faculties of their bodies! May they be cursed inwardly and outwardly! May he be damned in their mouths, in their breasts, in their hearts, and in all their appurtenances, down to their very bowels!"
"May they be cursed!"
A brief whirlwind swept through the courtyard, catching at hoods and veils. A silk scarf of bright scarlet was snatched from a noblewoman, and flew through the air like a gout of blood. The effigies rocked on their supports. Queen Bronwyn's sword arm rose and fell, the wooden sword laying about her with a a furious clatter. A few drops began sprinkling down on the assemblage. The Divine winced as the wind tugged at her sparkling headdress. The Grand Cleric was nearly screaming now.
"And may the Maker, with all his power, rise up against them, and crush them utterly!"
"May they be cursed!"
"And let none of the faithful offer them friendship or succor, nor offer them shelter or sustenance, for to do so will be to suffer anathema in their turn!"
"May they be cursed!"
The chorus of priests and Templars had become a bit ragged. The censers were creating a great deal of smoke, and people were coughing, covering their mouths and noses.
Prosper glanced at the Empress and saw that something was wrong. She was blinking rapidly, and had actually put her hand up to her face. If she were not careful, she would smudge her cosmetics. Perhaps something—a bit of grit or dust had got into her eye. The rain was increasing, dampening the plumes of the chevaliers. The Grand Cleric's voice cracked. She cleared it, and shouted the more.
"Let it be known that to slay them is no sin, but rather an act of worship pleasing to the Maker, for he who slays a heretic gains great reward!"
"May they be cursed!"
Definitely ragged now. Even the priests were looking up uneasily at the sky. Flashes in the approaching black clouds portended a great storm. The Grand Cleric lost control of her scroll, and a pair of initiates had to chase after it, and then laboriously roll it up and find the right place again. The crowd grew restless, thinking about wine and hot soup at home. The troops were grim, profoundly displeased at the prospect of marching out of the city in the rain.
"So let it be, in the name of the Maker and our most holy Andraste, this day. And let these simulacrums be destroyed in the eyes of the righteous, as the heretics will be destroyed in both body and soul in the eyes of the Maker!"
Then she began reading a long list of those condemned for conduct "counter to the teachings and spirit of our Maker and his holy Chantry," which began with "Loghain Mac Tir, so-called King of Ferelden,Knight-Commander Greagoir, Anora the Dowager Queen," and which went on for some time, listing most of the Fereldan nobility and clergy. As a less serious crime, it did not carry a penalty of death, but only loss of all titles, confiscation of all property, and relegation to a monastery or convent of the Divine's choice for life. The list of names went on and on, and the crowd grew restless and bored. Some began slipping away. The Grand Cleric noted that she was losing the people's interest, and sped up her reading, wanting to get to the most colorful event. She finally read off the last names: Sisters Rose and Justine of the Denerim Chantry, and signaled for a trumpet call. That earned her renewed attention.
"Executioners! Do your duty!" she ordered.
The executioners set about untying the effigies from the litters, so they could be taken down and fastened to the stakes. Wind tugged at the figures, and the yellow pointed hats tore loose from their pins and whirled away. One was deposited at the feet of the Divine. Her attendants hastily gathered it up. There was a stir and a rising murmur. An executioner was buffeted by a blow from Queen Bronwyn's wooden sword, and knocked down.
Prosper grimaced with disgust, glad he was not a heathen of old, for if he had cared for omens, he might have advised the Empress that this day was unlucky, and they should all think again. For that matter, he was very, very glad that he was not the courtier who had planned this fiasco.
The wind ripped off the flimsy penitent's robes. and wafted them across the square all the way to the walls, leaving the images of a priest in holy garments and a queen in her armor. Some Templars came forward and lent their aid, clumsily lashing the effigies to the stakes in the teeth of a gale.
"Stop! Stop this!"
Prosper could have sworn he heard someone shout this. In a moment he was certain, for others were taking up the cry, frightened at the manifest displeasure of the heavens.
"Stop! Stop!"
The Empress did not frown—because Celene knew that made wrinkles. However, she gave a quick, peremptory gesture to hurry the the process. One of the executioners lifted a torch fueled with pitch and swamp oil, and prepared to set alight the artistically constructed pile of wood at the feet of Muirin's effigy. A low rumble of thunder echoed off the stones, alarming the crowd. More flashes illuminated the storm clouds.
The wind changed direction; the executioner turned his head to evade the smoke and flames of his own torch. He set fire to the oily-soaked tinder, and it blazed up luridly, fanned by the wind. Bits of burning straw flew into the screaming crowd, or swept up into the darkening sky in a dance of glittering sparks.
The other executioner thrust his own torch into the pile under the effigy of Queen Bronwyn.
And the heavens replied.
The bolt of lightning that struck the Grand Cathedral's east tower was so sudden and brilliant that people did not see it so much as they were momentarily struck blind. The simultaneous crack of thunder, coupled with the roar of the splintered stones as they tumbled, had people clutching their ears against the excruciating pain.
Broken masonry rained down, and was followed immediately by the skies opening, and releasing a downpour that only added to the rising panic. Twelve members of the Cathedral Choir were killed by falling masonry. The Duke and Duchess of Lydes and their servants were crushed by the great bell, bigger than an ogre, which crashed to the pavement and rolled down the Cathedral steps, tolling the doom of those in its path. Other bells, smaller and high-pitched, fell in its wake, bouncing along the walls, ringing out a sweet and terrible music.
A few kept their heads. A pair of quick-witted chevaliers shepherded the Empress and some of her ladies to the safety of the convent on the west side of the compound. Templars made a cordon around the dumbstruck Divine, and one bold man carried her in his arms into the Chapel of the Disciple Havard.
The terrified crowd rushed the gates of the walled compound, the strong trampling the weak. Mothers with babes in arms were knocked down; the old were slammed to the stones or battered against the walls. The gates were too narrow for the press, and a frenzied din rose up, as some officers vainly tried to create order out of chaos. Shrieks, curses, wails, groans, the screams of horses: the noise was beyond belief, and spilled blood spread out on the pavement, mixed with the pitiless rain.
Duke Prosper had the sense not to try for the gates. Instead, he had dodged back, and managed to squeeze past the mob and onto one of the staircases leading up to the guards' walkway at the top of the compound wall.
He was not the only one who had that idea, but they were few enough to succeed. The guards' were too shocked themselves to challenge the presence of those who stood with them in the awful onslaught of the storm, watching the disaster unfold.
The east tower was so compromised that it was crumbling piecemeal, huge stones and great statues collapsing and shattering as they struck the ground below. Huddled, sodden shapes lay still in the wide square, or twitched in agony. Some people darted out, trying to help the injured; others to steal their valuables. A lady, pinned under masonry, had her gold earrings ripped from her ears and her jeweled mask torn from her face. Children wandered aimlessly, crying for their parents.
Another bolt of lightning struck the Cathedral, this time hitting the gilded sunburst above the huge double doors at the front. It toppled, taking the image of Archon Hessarian with it.
Brooding over the courtyard, the effigies, too drenched to burn, were unharmed, even as the oil pooled at the bottom of the wood was consumed in a sullen haze.
And just as suddenly as the downpour had begun, it ended, leaving the survivors to deal with the consequences. The black clouds passed overhead on their way north, spitting spikes of lightning as they departed. The darkness lifted somewhat, but that did not improve the prospect. People pointed at the horror at the gates. Some pressed their hands over their mouths; some wept. Prosper was not going waste time in useless pity. He glanced briefly at the piled, twisted bodies, and then turned his eyes away.
Instead, he reached under his cloak, hiked up his doublet, and retrieved enough gold for the guards to oblige him by lowering him from the walls in a supply basket attached to pulleys and a rope. Others pleaded to be allowed to go with him, but the basket was small. He closed his ears to misery, and stumbled out of the basket, tripping unceremoniously in a mud puddle. Picking himself up, he counted himself lucky. If his ship was still afloat, he was leaving as soon he as reached the harbor. The Empress would be looking for someone to blame for spoiling her gala entertainment, even though it was clearly an act of the Maker himself.
"We can't wait for the Orlesians to attack, Your Majesty," Ser Norrel growled. "You let them have the first move, and they're likely to crush us! Why let them dictate the terms of battle? Hit them first and hit them hard!"
There were grunts of agreement around the table. Bronwyn smiled thinly, wondering if Ser Norrel had given exactly this advice to Rendon Howe when he was planning to attack Highever. Probably. It rather prejudiced Bronwyn against him, though in her heart she knew he was making perfect sense.
Bronwyn decided she must take them into her confidence, and quickly. She looked around the table, knowing that in the end that any decision would be her responsibility. Alistair, of course, sat in council with them as a nobleman, a Warden, and a trusted friend. Unfortunately, his response was always to express perfect faith in Bronwyn's judgment.
"Whatever you decide is fine with me!"
Not very helpful, though well meant, she sighed to herself.
Ser Blayne liked and trusted Ser Norrel, and furthermore felt obligated to him for saving the day back in Harvestmere when the Orlesians attacked under the guise of a mercenary band. It had been an opportunistic probe; one that could well have resulted in the seizure of this vital outpost. He, too, was very much in favor of a preemptive strike.
Ser Norrel had more to say.
"I know you want to do the right thing, Your Majesty. I know you'd like the Orlesians to plainly put themselves in the wrong by attacking first. But by the Maker! They already have, even though by stealth and in disguise. I've fought them since I was a boy, and I learned that Orlesians have no shame. They have no shame," he repeated. "They don't care what anyone thinks of them, because they think we're all dogs under their feet. No offense," he rumbled, with a respectful nod at Scout. "But the truth's the truth. And for that matter, what do we ourselves care what anybody thinks? The Nevarrans are likely to thank us. The Marchers won't care if we kill a hundred thousand Orlesians—any more than they'd care if the Orlesians killed a hundred thousand Fereldans. Did anybody come to our aid back in the Blessed Age? No. To the Void with them, I say! Your only duty is to do what's right for your own kingdom."
He irritated her almost beyond bearing, but that did not mean that what he said was wrong.
She ran her fingers lightly over the rough wood of the desk, thinking.
"It's true," she said, feeling her way through her words. "It's true that the Orlesians are coming. It's also true that we should do something to knock them off balance. I've already set some things in motion to give them a surprise. However, I don't want to reveal my hand too soon. If we fire the dockyards, the invasion fleet will simply go somewhere else where we are not so well prepared."
"All right, then!" said Ser Norrel, relieved that he was getting somewhere with the girl. He hated having to deal with high-minded sorts. Their ideals only got their soldiers killed. "It's not so much a matter of 'if,' as 'when.' By all means, let the fleet sail into port and burn the ships and the docks together."
"You've already made plans?" Ser Blayne asked.
"Yes," Bronwyn answered. "I have people who will be in a position to destroy the Orlesian fleet—or that part of it that arrives in Jader. I agree that we cannot delay. It would be better if we had a great fleet of our own to set fire to the ships at sea and sink them with the troops they carry, but there is no such fleet. We must let the Orlesians dock, which means that much of what they carry will unload. That is why we will also have to fire the barracks the same night."
Ser Norrel eyes lit up like a child's at Satinalia. "What can my men do to help?"
"You will distract the Orlesians," she said. "They will be so concerned about what is happening here in Gherlen's Pass that they will not be expecting an attack on Jader itself."
Rendon Howe's man, for the first time, was feeling very pleased about his change of commanders.
"Distract them? How?"
"We are going to take the Rock."
The moon had shrunk down to the last waning crescent, and its light would not betray them. The advance party moved quickly from the west through the hills, out of the Deep Roads opening near Solidor. They came, knowing every inch of the fortress ahead; every postern, every sally port, every guard watch. They knew the location of the commander's office and personal quarters; they knew the location of the guard posts and the armory. All this had been scouted out over the past month by the best spies any army could have: spies who could not be detected. A few of the Avvars knew about Morrigan and Anders' shape-shifting abilities, but they were loyal and close-mouthed, and most soldiers would have put such talk down to heathen superstitions, anyway. And the Avvars were going in with the advance party.
The dwarves were a delicate problem. They were allies of the Wardens, not of the Ferelden Crown; and King Bhelen was not in a state of war with either Orlais or the Chantry. Indeed, the Chantry was possibly Orzammar's most important trading partner. Thus, the dwarves were posted in the Deep Roads for the duration of the operation against Roc du Chevalier. She needed, for the sake of decency, to send some Wardens with them. She had decided on Leliana, who might have scruples about making war on a country she loved, and with her sent Shale, Asa, and Ulfa as support.
No one else at the Halt was so particular. The Dalish were allies of the Wardens, true; but it was Queen Bronwyn, as sovereign of Ferelden, who had granted them a homeland. And they were perfectly happy to fight both Orlais and the Chantry, as long as there was any chance of winning and living through it. Old grievances ran deep in Dalish blood.
The attack's strategy had been planned meticulously. Tactically, however, it was going to be executed very quickly, to avoid losing the element of surprise. The troops were marshaled or deployed on various pretexts, and would be formed up in the dark after supper. The infiltrators must seize the inner keep and the armory, and they must open the gates. Bronwyn and her people would head for the inner keep; Tara would lead the force against the gates. When the gates were theirs, she would signal—two fireballs into the sky in quick succession— and the main assault would dash across the empty no-man's land, led by Alistair and the knights. The inner defenses of the Rock were formidable, but if key places were invested, it would all be over but the slaughter. The Rock was indeed nearly impregnable against a conventional assault. What Bronwyn had planned was far from ordinary. The Rock had no real defenses against magical attack, because no army—except the Tevinters and the Qunari, both in the far north—used magic.
Nor were there Templars at the Rock. Anders had made sure there was no mistake about that. No one should be able to sense their magic until it was much too late. They knew the guard schedules. Morrigan had flown up and down repeatedly along the stretch of wall they would climb, memorizing it, and describing it to Bronwyn. There was a low turret to the southwest that was their target. A parapet would be accessible to good climbers. It was not exactly a blind spot, because the Rock was too well-designed to have a real blind spot, but the guard on the parapet would be dealt with first, and in the darkness, no guards posted elsewhere would be able to see them climbing up the wall.
Best of all, no one would hear the clatter of a grappling hook. Not when mages could shape shift into birds, and fly up to the parapet with lengths of strong, light spider-silk rope. Not when they could resume human form and tie the knotted ropes together and to the iron bars conveniently already in place. Bronwyn, a map of the fortress firmly in her head, planned to be up that rope, and surprising the Commander in his bed before the guards changed at midnight.
It was a dark, silent march through the hills. They passed Chateau Solidor, a pale complex of towers to the north. Weapons and armor were muffled to prevent tell-tale clanking. A few soldiers stumbled and fell. No one was hurt; and if they were, Anders was flitting along with them, ready to help as needed. A few wolves howled in the distance, but did not challenge the fifty picked troops moving toward the Rock.
Their destination lay ahead, its bulk silhouetted against the starlight. Eventually they reached the Imperial Highway, and crossed it by twos and threes, slipping into the welcome blackness of the north side. When they were all gathered once more, Bronwyn led them on until they reached the limits of cover.
The snowmelt was their friend. Instead of contrasting against white, they blended with the sodden earth. The only danger was the squelching when they stepped into thick mud. They slowed, pulling their feet up carefully, lest they be betrayed by the sucking noise.
A formidable ditch surrounded the Roc, but it had little water in it. Crossing it was a hazardous, chancy business, but this, too had been scouted. Once everyone was gathered at the base of the wall, it was time for their shape-shifters to do their part. Morrigan and Anders changed and fluttered up, disappearing from sight. After a dreadful wait, they returned, calm and unruffled.
"We took care of the guard," Anders whispered. "Now give us the ropes."
This took even more time, since while the rope itself was very light, the length involved made it too heavy for even large birds to carry up all at once. Metal clamps would hold sections of the ropes together. The birds carried their burdens up, once, twice, thrice. The rope snaked down to them, and the end was grabbed and clamped down.
Everything they dared leave was left there. Bronwyn deposited her helmet with the rest of the excess baggage, and gripped the rope.
Tara touched her arm, and whispered. "Are you sure about this?"
"Absolutely. Good luck."
Tara, of course, was simply not strong enough to make the climb herself, but her fighting skills and reliability were essential to the plan. Instead, Ostap would carry her on his back, fastened to him with a harness. For that matter, neither Niall nor Petra could have made the climb, either; and they weighted a great deal more than the slender little elf.
Climbing up a sheer wall was no joke, but it was also not the worst climb Bronwyn had ever undertaken. The ascent of the Tower of Ishal in a the midst of lightning and rain was forever her standard for misery. This still had its unpleasant moments: slick spots along the stones, where the sunlight had not yet melted the ice; getting over the parapet wall without making an unearthly racket; waiting for her brave companions to follow her. The dead guard was shoved to one side, making room for the living.
It seemed to take hours, since only five could be on the rope at a time. She watched the horizon anxiously, wishing that the moon might forget to rise tonight. When Tara and Ostap reached the parapet, Bronwyn and Bustrum leaned over to help haul them up and unfasten the harness.
No one fell. The worst injury was a pinched finger. Bronwyn fixed the plan of the Rock in her mind again, and opened the door to the staircase that would take them down to the main north-south hall of the Rock.
She drew her sword with a soft hiss of dragonbone, and went to pay a call on Berthold de Guesclin.
Two sentries were unfortunate enough to be on duty. They were mowed down, and shortly thereafter the invaders parted ways. Bronwyn continued on to the commander's quarters and the armory, and Tara to the main gate.
The gate was important; not just because it would admit the main body of the Fereldan soldiery, but because the great horn for the general alarm was located there in the outer courtyard. If they could secure the area, it would be extremely difficult to rouse the castle's defenders. Tara and Brosca, an stoppable team led the charge. They passed through some reception rooms and moved perpendicular to the quarters of some of the lower-ranking officers. Quiet as they were, they were still making noise.
One enterprising Orlesian opened his door, stared out, and then hastily tried to shut it again. A surging mass of people carrying edged weapons shoved the door open and there was a short, messy fight in the cramped chamber. The Orlesian lived long enough to shout for help, and within a few moment, the entire corridor was a battlefield, with half-naked Orlesians bursting through doors, swords in hands, ready to fight to the death. A bitter, ugly fight followed, with casualties on both sides.
One of the defenders tried to run, hoping to alert the commander. Brosca brought him down with a thrown dagger.
"Come on!" cried Tara. "We've got to get to the gates!"
They ran on, past the chapel, past the upper servants' quarters. A few people heard the noise of running soldiers, and dismissed it as normal. The corridor opened out and after a frightening moment of disorientation, Tara spotted the door that led to the walkway around the gatehouse. This was going to be rough. There were always guards in the outer courtyard.
They did not shout; they gave no warning. The door opened, and quite suddenly the guards saw soldiers running their way, whom, after a moment's bewilderment, they understood were not Orlesian. One man raised a shout.
"We are betrayed! Sound the alarm!"
Tara froze him in place, and Darach put an arrow through his eye. Screams rose up.
Brosca peeled off, heading to the long bronze horn at the angle of the walkway. Bustrum and Soren followed, spotting the Orlesians who were running toward the same goal. They crashed into each other, bodies flying. Bustrum grabbed one of the men, and flung him, headfirst, down into the courtyard. A wild yell was puncuated with a crunch.
Ostap, Quinn, and Maeve fought their way to the gate gears. Maeve tried to move the control lever and could not. She threw her whole weight into her push, and then shouted, "Quinn! Give me a hand!"
The boy bashed an Orlesian skull with the pommel of his greatsword, and then flung his weapon down to help Maeve. With a grinding, and a clanking, the bars began moving and the gate slowly cracked open.
Soldiers burst out of the courtyard barracks, bellowing curses. Archers fired down into the mass of them, but the Orlesians had archers, too; archers who sensibly sheltered behind doorways and targeted the figures up on the walkway. Tara, running for the parapet above the gate, was knocked backwards by Darach. She looked again, and saw that he had caught an arrow with his left hand—one that would have gone through her throat in another split second. She gave him a grin and ran on. The gate was rising more swiftly now: it was high enough.
Another arrow scraped her ear as it flashed by. Tara shrieked with the sting and the fright, but managed to shoot a blazing fireball up into the night sky. A roar, and she was struck from behind and slammed to the stones. A brawny, gauntleted arm was around her throat, trying to snap her neck. Feet trampled about, and one stepped on her hand. Darach was shouting above her, and the massive, sweat-stinking weight on her back went limp.
"Get him off me!" she wheezed. "I can't breathe!"
The corpse was dragged away and Tara rolled over. She grasped Spellweaver, and flat on her back she shot the second fireball skywards.
Aeron was perched on the gatehouse of Gherlen's Halt waiting for a signal, while the puzzled troops below fidgeted in their ranks. Only a few torches burned in the main courtyard, as the commanders watched and waited. Everyone knew by now that something big was about to happen. Adaia and Siofranni held hands in a moment of unity. Oghren fingered his axeblade, chuckling in anticipation. Sten was silent and impassive, rather looking forward to a battle on such a scale. It would be extremely interesting to see the inside of an Orlesian fortress. They had long been the power in southern Thedas. Such a structure would fall easily to Qunari cannon. These less civilized folk had no such weapons, but guile and audacity might well bring victory. That and very careful planning.
A fireball lit the sky over Roc du Chevalier. After a long moment, it was followed by another.
"The signal!" bellowed Aeron. "The signal!"
"Open the gates," shouted Ser Blayne. "No noise, men! No talking! Follow me— at the double!"
The crescent moon was about to rise. Golden light spilled over the horizon. There was no time to waste. Dark shapes flitted over the landscape like phantoms: running, running, running toward the Rock. In any other battle, they would have raised a rousing battle cry. Tonight they ran in silence, grimly purposeful. A human might not be as fast as a horse, but he—or she—could run far more quietly.
Alistair ran with them, a dog on either side. Scout, of course, could not climb stone walls, and so Bronwyn had ordered him to fight with Alistair and Scrapper. The older mabari was not pleased, but liked the human well enough. The pup was young for this, but Scout would teach him the ways of battle—no one better.
Niall and Petra had fallen a little behind. They were far more fit than they had been when they had traveled to Ostagar so many months ago, but they were not on the level of a trained warrior. Petra puffed a little, reflecting on how much regular exercise Grey Wardens got. She stumbled over the dark, uneven ground, and Emrys put out his hand to steady her. They ran on, the opening gate growing larger at every stride.
In the inner Keep, Bronwyn was determined to behead the command center as quickly as possible. She led the way through the maze of corridors, meeting any resistance with such ferocity that nothing long withstood her. At this hour of the night, few guards were up and about. None were outside the armory, which was locked. The key was in the Commander's possession, and with luck, would soon be in Bronwyn's.
They neared the Commander's door. Bronwyn peered around the corner and saw two drowsy guards posted in front of it. She turned to Anders and Morrigan and mouthed the word, "two," at them, illustrating with a gesture. The two mages nodded to each other and stepped silently out into the hall. Each paralyzed a guard into immobility. Bronwyn dashed out, Aveline at her side, ready to kill them, but the sight of the young Orlesians' terrified, helpless faces stayed her hand. Killing them was tantamount to killing unarmed men... to killing old people or children. She waved Ostap and Bustrum forward and murmured a command to take the guards away, bind them, and gag them.
Once the guards were out of the way, she tried the door. It was locked. She then knocked. Anders looked like he would burst out laughing. Morrigan merely raised her brows.
De Guesclin sounded sleepy. And angry.
"What is it?"
"Monseigneur," Bronwyn said respectfully, in her purest accent. "An important message."
A muttered curse. "Nonsense," said de Guesclin, as he turned the lock. "What message?"
Half-naked, and warm from his bed, he opened the door, and stared thunderstruck at the sight of Bronwyn. She slammed the hilt of her sword into his jaw.
"The Rock," she hissed, "is mine. That's the message."
De Guesclin fell back, grunting, but lashed out with a bare foot, trying to trip her. He failed, because Bronwyn was moving already. The Orlesian was frozen in mid-stumble, and then tied to his chair. Bronwyn was congratulating herself on an easy capture when a shrieking, naked elf girl burst out through the bed curtains onto her back, and tried to stab her with a tiny dagger.
The dagger could not penetrate Bronwyn's armor, but it certainly could have cut into unprotected skin. Luckily, Zevran grabbed the girl, and pulled her away, as she kicked and cursed. He laid his knife to her throat, and de Gueslin, shaking off his stupor, cried out, "No! Don't kill her!"
Zevran looked at Bronwyn, who shrugged.
"She'd better drop the dagger and sit down."
De Guesclin's face was a mask of distress. "Mariel! It is useless!"
The girl went slack in Zevran's arms, and promptly burst into tears. Zevran let her go, wary and watchful.
"Sit," Bronwyn ordered.
The girl grimaced, but did as she was bid.
Cathair looked down at her in deep disapproval. "You.. an elf... whore yourself to a shemlen?"
The girl made a quick, rude gesture. "What business is it of yours, painted savage? He is a better man than you!"
A chuckle ran around the room.
"I like her," Zevran remarked.
"So do I." Bronwyn laughed. "I'd make her a Warden, if I didn't think she'd try to knife us in our sleep. Tie her up."
"Here are the keys," said Aveline, rifling de Guesclin's desk.
"This is an act of war!" growled the Orlesian.
"—and the Empress will hear of this outrage," agreed Bronwyn, nodding. "And so forth. The Empress has been making war on me for months. It's time the tables were turned. We'll be back to see to the terms of your imprisonment later. Meanwhile, I have a fortress to secure."
The battle in the courtyard was hot and bloody. The Orlesians were holding their own until a wave of Fereldans crashed through the gateway, ready for a fight and eager for revenge.
Scout reared up, snapping in an Orlesian's face, knocking the man down for Alistair to stab. Seeing that humans had this situation in order, he headed off to find his Bronwyn. She was not far, but he needed to be with her. Scrapper yipped in confusion, but was ordered to stay with Alistair. Scout could do what needed to be done more easily without a puppy trailing behind him.
He trotted up a corridor, ahead of the battle. An Orlesian shouted at the sight of him and ran forward. Scout turned in the man's direction, considering.
A few minutes later, he was continuing on his way, licking the blood from his jaws.
The dog soon found himself in a room with a lot of strangers trying to hold a gate. A crowd of men were pushing timbers against the gates to bolster them. Bronwyn was on the other side, and her people were slamming something hard against the straining barrier. The situation was untenable. Without giving them a growl of warning, Scout leaped at the man at the back of the defenders. The man screamed as powerful jaws met in his thigh, and he dropped his end of the timber. Distracted, the rest of the men turned and saw their friend screaming and blood streaming from his torn leg. An axe smashed through the gate, and with a loud "Hurrah!" the gate gave way, with Bronwyn in the lead, her big sword cutting through enemy flesh. Scout barked happily, and released the current victim. There were many more to fight.
Once the two Fereldan forces met— once they surged throughout the fortress—once the surprised, sleepy, and outnumbered officers had surrendered—well, it was largely all over. Roc du Chevalier was theirs, but not without some loss.
Bronwyn stood in the courtyard in the thin light before dawn, her crimson armor dripping with the blood of unlucky foes, holding the Keening Blade on high, while they cheered her. It was a great moment for Ferelden: an historic moment. Roc du Chevalier had long been a symbol of the Orlesian threat, and now it was theirs... forever, perhaps, if they could hold it. The attack had been a brilliant success. The soldiers bellowed their "Hurrahs!" and a contingent of northerners raised the Highever salute.
"Highever Hail to Bronwyn, Queen of Ferelden!"
"Hail!"
"Hail!"
The repeated roars of love, of approval, of loyalty, lifted Bronwyn's spirits like wings—like the blood-red wings of a mighty dragon. Her friends surrounded her, glad in their turn, proud of their accomplishment, pleased at their own daring. Alistair was grinning at her, a more quietly pleased Emrys at his side. The mages were already bending over the hurt and injured. Adaia, beaming, reeking of explosive chemicals, was whispering to Danith. Oghren was draining the flask he always carried. Maeve and Quinn were hugging each other, glad to be alive. Zevran was kissing Tara's dirty hand. Bronwyn looked for each and every one of her Wardens. They were all alive, though some had been badly wounded.
She thought of Loghain's secret map; his cherished dream of Ferelden's proper borders, and she wondered if they might be more than a dream, one day.
Very likely they would never be so lucky again, for it was inevitable that word would leak out about how it had been accomplished. While the climbing force was sworn to secrecy about the way from the Deep Roads near Chateau Solidor, someone was bound to tell about their shape-shifters. The news might not spread quickly, but spread it would. She put the thought aside. This was a time for rejoicing.
"Now," she shouted, when the cheers died down. "Let's wash off the blood, see to the wounded, and have a good breakfast!"
Thanks to my reviewers: NPC200, RakeeshJ4, KnightOfHolyLight, Nemrut, Guest, mille libri, Chandagnac, Massgamer45, Mike3207, sizuka2, NIX'S WARDEN, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Anon, JakcOfBladesX, Slipfighter, Calliope Sol, Ie-maru, Kamikaze duck, Rexiselic, almostinsane, Phygmalion, Jenna53, AD Lewis, jnybot, brrt, Herebedragons66, Blinded in a bolthole, dragonmactir, amanda weber, RB23G, Psyche Sinclair, PhantomX0990, and Josie Lange.