Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 103: Under the Waning Moon

Loghain force-marched Maric's Shield, bringing them through the Deep Roads at a fierce pace. It had been a hard march westward, even mostly underground. There were delays and problems at every halt.

Other troops followed in his wake. Nathaniel, in command of the men of Amaranthine as well as shepherding the baggage train, came through in due course. His own experience in the Deep Roads heartened his men. Behind him were Arl Wulffe's troops on their way to the Neck, accompanied by the South Reach contingent, which had been slowed by their reaction to the death of their Arl. The presence of Corbus had done a great deal of good for morale. As far as experience was concerned, he was green as grass; but he was a useful figurehead for officers and rankers to rally around.

Adam Hawke had turned north to Amaranthine early on. Loghain had sent a message to Amaranthine with Hawke that their new little fleet was to sail past the Narrows and take a position off Jader, watching for an Orlesian fleet. When sighted, they were to destroy every ship they possibly could.

He had not sent only a message, however, but fifteen mages as well. Every one of them could cast a fireball. Loghain did not just want the Orlesian fleet stopped: he wanted it destroyed, down to the last splinter of the last lifeboat. Uldred had assured him that the mages could create a mist that would shroud their ships from easy view until they were ready to attack. In addition to fireballs, there were other spells that could destroy ships at sea: there were smashing blows of raw energy that could breach hulls; bolts of lightning that could destroy masts; small storms of ice or fire that could drive ships off course or even incinerate them.

Loghain heard him out, and his message to the ships' captains was explicit. They were to make the best possible use of the mages, and after what Jowan had done on their last voyage, he expected that they would be very interested in heeding his commands. It was a pity Loghain would not be there to see it, but he could only be in one place at a time.

Some mages had also been put on the handful of warships in Denerim, and told to leave for Amaranthine at once. If the ships in Amaranthine had already left for Jader, the rest were to follow and join with the rest of the fleet as soon as possible. Some of the smaller ships would patrol the Narrows and shelter at Kilda: the waters there were too shallow for an Orlesian warship to pursue them. The best way to defeat an Orlesian invasion was to see that it never happened in the first place.

Fergus and Anora, with the Highever troops, headed for the surface at Kal'Hirol, and took the North Road until they could reached the fork toward Highever. Within three days, they arrived at the castle where Fergus had been born, had grown up; and where his parents, wife and child had perished. It was a bittersweet homecoming in some ways, and yet he arrived full of hope for the future.

Anora had visited Castle Highever years before, and remembered some of it. It was a very old place and needed modern improvements, but it was Fergus' home and he loved it. Despite a great deal of work by willing hands, some of the scars left by Howe's attack remained. Anora considered what could be done to erase them entirely. They walked over every inch of the castle, and Anora listened, amused and tender, to the stories Fergus told about it all. Their own chamber was large and comfortable, and the great hall brought back memories of happier times. The view of the Waking Sea from the tower walk was ravishing. The wind was still cold, but Anora enjoyed leaning into her husband's enticing warmth as he pointed out the sights.

"Look!" Fergus gestured toward the city. "They've made good progress on the harbor wall. Most of the debris from the Alienage is cleared away. Howe was apparently going to build a new, modern keep there, but I can't see spending the money on it."

"I quite agree. Are any elves left at all?" Anora asked.

"A handful of survivors. They've gone to Denerim, I understand, to join the people there. Decimated at the Denerim Alienage is, they'll be glad of them. It's sad, really; they were a part of Highever that's gone forever."

Anora sympathized, but considered that the old Alienage real estate could be put to good use. New housing was needed in Highever, and she agreed with Bronwyn's view that it should be sound, and not hastily-constructed wattle-and-daub shacks that would blaze like a torch if there were fire in the city. She had some money of her own, and had enjoyed Nathaniel Howe's description of Nevarra, Cumberland, and Kirkwall. A court of terraced houses, made of stone and roofed with slate, would provide handsome, sturdy, and fire-proof shelter. Such housing would attract prosperous merchants and minor nobles. She would make some sketches, and then turn them over to a reputable builder. Renting them would bring needed coin into the Highever treasury...

"Sank it with a fireball?"

"So they said, Highness."

"Well done, by the Maker!"

Word had come to Cumberland about the adventures of their new Fereldan allies. Warden Jowan, the mage, had sunk an Orlesian warship that had pursued the embassy. It was the talk of Kirkwall, and an enterprising woman mercenary and her band made a quick journey along the coast to Cumberland to inform the Crown Prince of Nevarra.

Prince Tylus rewarded them better than they hoped, and then considered their news. Warden Jowan had not struck him as a mighty warrior, but he was a mage, and a mage's powers were not a matter of brawn. Two fireballs had sunk an Orlesian vessel and driven away the rest. He had received intelligence that the Orlesians were building and equipping an invasion fleet in Val Royeaux. Jader was expanding its docks. The fleet was no doubt intended for Ferelden, but its power could just as easily be turned against Nevarra.

Being young, brave, high-spirited, and wealthy, Prince Tylus was not so much worried by the news as excited by the opportunity. The Cumberland Circle of mages, home to the Grand Enchanter, was here in his own city. Perhaps it was time for the Circle to earn its keep. A raid here, a strike there; they could pick off the stragglers, and go for the big transports...

When he finally reached West Hill on the twentieth, Loghain found the fortress unprepared and the bannorn in confusion. Frandarel had sent some last minute orders that conflicted with his own. Loghain wasted no time, but summoned the people and made his shocking announcement. Frandarel's commands were now without force, for the man himself was no more.

"Bann Frandarel is dead: executed as a traitor to Ferelden. His bannorn of West Hill is henceforth a royal desmesne. We have reason to believe that the Orlesians, with whom Frandarel was in correspondence, have planned an invasion. We will stop them. Afterwards, we will restore the lands of those honest freeholders unjustly driven from their homes. Stand with me, and we can defeat all who threaten us!"

The effects of Loghain's pronouncement in the wide courtyard of the outer keep at West Hill were both long-term and short-term. People were thunderstruck; not just to hear that their former liege lord was a traitor, but at the idea that the Orlesians, who had savaged this part of Ferelden thirty years before, might be coming back to do it again. Most pledged themselves to support their king, and were comforted and emboldened by his confidence and his legend.

A few people quietly began packing up, determined to flee before the Orlesians were upon them. Some would go south. A group of them decided to travel east to Highever and find a ship to take them to the Free Marches. Among them were some of Frandarel's henchmen: the bailiff, the tax-collector, and one of the under-stewards. They had been complicit in Frandarel's evictions, and knew their days here were numbered. Loghain was busy defending the coast, but in time his eyes would turn in their direction.

Loghain hoped he could put this place in order as soon as possible, since he wanted to head for the border. He had left Bronwyn there, in the cheerless gloom of Gherlen's Halt, dealing with the crisis, watching the Orlesians like a cat at a mousehole. Or, he thought sourly, more like the mouse peering out of her hole, hoping that the cat was not coming her way. Loghain felt that he should be with her. He missed her, anyway.

And two days after his arrival, the weather changed. Loghain took note of the warming air and the melting slow, fading away into the earth. The ice around the shore was cracking and shrinking. Bronwyn thought that the darkspawn would rise with the spring. If spring came early, Ferelden would find itself with two enemies rather than one. They must be ready. The defenses he was putting in place at West Hill would serve against either foe.

Cauthrien was invaluable, as always; organizing the sappers and setting to work instantly on strengthening the fortress. Previous scouting had revealed where landings were possible, and lookouts were posted. Loghain had mages under his own command, notably Uldred himself, and they would show an attacker no mercy.

Along this stretch of coast, all seemed under control, but Loghain had not forgotten that there was one possible pocket of resistance. Before he left to join Bronwyn, he would have to deal with the nest of Templars—possibly hostile, possibly not—at the Aeonar.

Nathaniel emerged from the Deep Roads into weather that was almost spring-like. While it was pleasant not to slog through heavy snows, he was well aware that others might also travel more easily during the thaw. All the more reason to get to West Hill and get to work.

Callista looked at the huge, rambling fortress in the distance, and repressed her sigh.

"It's... big."

"And quite old," Nathaniel told her, doing his best to be cheerful about it. "Parts of it were built by the Tevinters; parts were built by the Alemarri. It's nearly derelict in places, but the king is determined to restore it. We can do our part by fixing up our quarters until they're fit to live in!"

Decrepit as West Hill was, it was a roof over the heads of the troops who came through. Wulffe, his elder son, and Corbus Bryland arrived two days later. The young arl was trying to be brave, though he was suffering from the loss of his father and his separation from his brother. He was homesick, in short, and ashamed of it. Fortunately, he had Killer; and his companions were compassionate men, and understood what it was for a young boy to be away from home for the first time in his life, and in such circumstances.

The nobles took council together, including the boy, though Corbus had the sense to listen quietly.

"There's a little keep at Stonehaven we can use as our headquarters," said Wulffe. "At least it's on the maps."

"It's still there," Loghain assured him. "My scouts found it. It's not large, but there are barns, boathouses, and cottages in the area. And there's quite a large structure not too distant that we might turn to our own use."

Briefly, he confided in them about the location of the Aeonar.

Corbus' eyes widened. The Aeonar! Wasn't it... haunted? Rothgar, in fact, said that aloud.

Loghain had no time for legends. "It's full of Templars, from all accounts, and so anything haunting the place should have been trounced long ago. Given the attitude of much of the Chantry, we might want to be certain that we're not permitting vipers to breed here in the north. Get your men rested, and then we should have a look at the place in a few days."

First they had to scout and scour that section of the coast, looking for weak points. This was labor-intensive work, for the coast here was rippling with little coves and inlets. Nathaniel led some of his soldiers over to some of the nearby islands as well. Meanwhile, Callista made the best of the drafty old fortress. It was interesting as a history lesson, if nothing else. She was very glad she had brought her own sheets.

The twenty-sixth of Guardian was a busy day for the Wardens. As night fell, they began settling down to sleep, with another busy day before them.

Tara was camped in the Deep Roads, two days from West Hill. They had been over this stretch often enough to have found a little side-tunnel, fairly clean; with a crystal-clear pool nearby. The darkness and silence closed in on them, but there were worse places to sleep. Brosca and Sigrun whispered and giggled, and there quieted down at a look from Tara.

"Some people are trying to sleep," Jowan mumbled, his voice thick, turning on his side away from them, his arm around his tired puppy. He had been crying.

Tara felt for him, but knew he needed time to himself after what she had told him about Lily. Finding out that the girl he loved was an agent of the Chantry, looking to trap a blood mage, had hurt him cruelly. He very likely might never have used blood magic, had he not been seduced by Lily's dreams of escape. Tara had forced herself to tell him everything. Being surprised by the real Lily, face to face, would be even crueler than to imagine her suffering or dead.

Awkwardly, she reached out to pat his back. A muffled sniffle was his only response.

At the same moment, Danith and her people were snugly settled in the hunting lodge perched in the hills. The wind blew across the shutters, making them rattle; the fire crackled as soothingly as an old song. Their supper had been particularly good. Geese did not usually fly south so early.

A distant howling made Niall sit up abruptly.

"Only wolves," murmured Maeve. "No problem…"

"Wish I had a mabari," Quinn muttered, half-asleep.

Bronwyn and the bulk of the Wardens spent a hard day helping the sappers bolster the defenses at the mouth of Gherlen's Pass. Afterwards, there were calls for baths all around, followed by a hearty supper. Most of them were tired, but oddly restless. Bronwyn lingered over a chess game with Alistair; knowing she needed sleep, but reluctant to go to bed. Leliana and Aeron played duets, quietly, but with real pleasure. When they could put it off no longer, they trooped off to their various quarters. Adaia had claimed the red velvet fainting sofa in Brosca's absence.

"It's so pretty," she murmured, nestling down under her silks and furs. "So pretty…"

Siofranni was lying alone in the ruins of a little shrine just off the Green Springs Road, resting her weary feet. A light rain trickled through the bare branches, and down through the stones, but Siofranni had arranged her blanket on a dry spot. She sang softly to herself until sleep took her.

"vir sulahn'nehn
vir dirthera
vir samahl la numin
vir 'lath sa'vunin...'"

Her voice tailed off into the sighing of the night wind.

Astrid was holding court among the leaders of her new house in Amgarrack, admiring how well her thaigs were coming together. More casteless had come to her. Word was getting out about the opportunities underground, and the Paragon's lack of prejudice. There was talk that surfacers would find their way to her, in time.

Also satisfactory were her personal quarters. In some ways they closely resembled her old apartments in the Royal Palace of Orzammar. Just today, a mine supervisor had presented her with a remarkably large and beautiful geode, filled with amethyst crystals. A pretty ornament. Her father had given her one very similar on her twelfth birthday. Astrid set it on a shelf where she would see it last when she fell asleep and first thing on awakening. The glow stones were dimmed, and their low light glittered on the crystals in a hypnotizing way.

"Almost like home…"

The Warden compound in Jader was extensive and formed a rough square: barracks and stables on each side, a gated wall protecting the front, and at the far end a tall building containing a refectory, a council chamber, training rooms, and offices. In one office, a candle still burned. Riordan paced back and forth, unable to find any solution to his dilemmas. The Warden-Command in Montsimmard was intransigent: totally in agreement with the First Warden. Riordan's shadow followed along the wall, like a poor petitioner trying to win a hearing. He paused, a unnamed fear scraping along his nerves. He peered out through the window, wondering if Bronwyn, Queen and Warden-Commander of Ferelden, was as troubled as he. At length he decided to turn in, even if he had to drink poppy juice to help him to sleep. It would hardly be the first time he'd needed it.

A thin crescent moon rose long after midnight. With the exception of a handful on guard duty, the Wardens of Thedas were sound asleep when the earth opened to vomit up the Taint.

The world was black, silhouetted in red. Flames and screams rose together; roofs crumbled; towers toppled. Gibbering darkspawn filled the streets, hacking and trampling bewildered, sleepy merchants and craftsmen. Inside the houses, children were already shrieking. The light of blue crystal shown down on a broad avenue overrun with blighted monsters. Towering over the rest, ogres smashed open doors and windows and shattered makeshift barricades.

A pair of capering, excited genlocks dragged a horrified young woman along, each holding her by an ankle. Her thin linen shift rode up to her throat, exposing white breasts to the indifferent moon. The skin was torn from her back by cobbles and rubble and broken pots. Her mouth was open in a unheard scream, drowned out by the pandemonium swelling the doomed city. Her head struck the corner of a building house and she went limp, her bloody arms trailing over her head.

Head armored in a great horned helmet, a big hurlock bellowed a command. Darkspawn surged forward, a gate crumpling before them like parchment. They rushed in, shrugging off arrows and spears, scrambling over their dying kin. Another bellow, and an inner door gave way. With a hoarse shout, the darkspawn rushed up marble stairways, hacking at desperate figures in silver armor. The defenders were brave, but hopelessly outnumbered, One was thrown over a gilded balustrade, a brief meteor of courage. Door after door was broken down, silk carpets were dyed crimson with the blood of the slaughtered. More females were surprised; some naked in the act of love, some in innocent sleep, some still wearing jeweled masks and feathered headdresses. They too were dragged away, most precious of all the plunder. A nest would be established in the bowels of the vast edifice. Laundresses and ladies; whores and priests: all were of equal value, since only one thing about them was of any value at all to the darkspawn.

Above them, the Archdemon soared, triumphant. Everything was under her eye. She forged on through the clouds, admiring the work of her minions. The tallest of the towers, a white spire piercing the heavens, might be a focus of resistance. That could not be permitted.

A deep, graceful dive, and a gout of purple flame. The top of the spire exploded into shards, raining down on the shocked defenders. Tiny figures pointed up, squeaking impotently. Another soaring pass, and more of the spire gave way. The mages inside would not be given the opportunity to fight. Alighting on the ruined stump of the spire, talons dug into the masonry, and another jet of flame erupted down into the interior of the structure, setting everything flammable alight: furniture, clothing, flesh. A quick leap from the crumbling stones, and the thermals caught under powerful wings. The free, ecstatic flight continued, this time to another tall building, highly recognizable despite one of the two great towers lying in ruins. Why should one stand when the other had already fallen?

Nightmare visions shattered into thousands of individual vignettes, an aggregate of horror. Fire leaped from street to street, houses collapsed in towers of sparks. The slaughter rolled on, penetrating quiet courts and wealthy avenues, from humble lodgings to splendid palaces.

Darkspawn burst into a lofty sanctum, fragrant with incense. A knot of priests knelt, sobbing out prayers before a golden image. Between them and the charging darkspawn, a band of determined Templars stood shoulder to shoulder, knowing that they were on their way to the Maker's side. What followed was beyond bearing. The Templars hardly had room to swing a blade, as the mob of darkspawn pressed them back. An ogre shouldered his way inside and knocked the combatants aside. Once a Templar was down, he vanished under a pack of darkspawn. Helmets were knocked away, and daggers sawed at exposed throats. An ogre grabbed one of the Templars and threw him against the wall. Then the gloating darkspawn bounded after the fleeing priests.

"Oh, help me, ser!" screamed one of the women, her habit half torn off. "Don't let them take me!" She clung frantically to a dying Templar, who with his last breath, plunged his sword into her heart.

The darkspawn spread throughout the building, chasing running figures, dragging old women from under their beds, pouncing gleefully on the school children hiding on the other side of the cloister garden.

Another vision superimposed itself: a heavy wooden gate splintering under the blows of an ogre. Darkspawn flooded into a vile slum, packing to bursting with elves. Ten thousand souls dwelt there; ten thousand in a place no bigger than the Denerim Alienage. Decrepit tenements leaned crazily, sometimes touching each other from either side of dirty lanes. It took only a few torches until everything was alight and bright as bright as day. The Alienage's spreading vhenendhal tree crackled like a funeral pyre. Screaming elves rushed out of their burning homes to death from darkspawn blades; other leaped from fifth or sixth story windows, their shabby clothes aflame.

Elsewhere, darkspawn sensed Grey Wardens and pursued them to their compound, drawn by their shared Taint. Here they did not have everything their own way. The Wardens awakened quickly to their peril, organized themselves, and fought back fiercely. Their gates were strong; their defenses well-built. Three riders escaped through a concealed postern, dispersing and riding full-out through the city. Two were run down and slain, but one got away, past the city wall, out into the dark plains, galloping hard to the south along the Imperial Highway. Other refugees were already fleeing the dying city, scattered in frantic ones and twos, clutching a pitiful bundle or a wailing child.

Others fled to the docks, just ahead of the darkspawn. Frantic people waved coin and jewels at terrified sailors, who were already casting off, putting distance between themselves and the monstrous menace charging down on them. A few brave souls leaped into the frigid waters and tried to swim for the retreating vessels. Smaller boats were in danger of being swamped, and in one a boatswain wielded his truncheon, smashing at desperate, groping hands.

Others showed more compassion, and once beyond the darkspawn's ability to leap, ropes and ladders were lowered. A few seamen broke out their bows and fired back at the genlock archers. Heads bobbed in the dark water. Some sank beneath the waves, some were transfixed by darkspawn arrows. One ship could not cast off in time and was overrun by darkspawn. Fire blazed up, and the ship drifted through the harbor, a hazard to every other vessel, as every creature on board perished.

Before long the dockyards were entirely clogged with raging, cackling darkspawn, surging at the water's edge, firing in vain at the disappearing ships. In the crush, many darkspawn were pushed into the water and drowned, for no darkspawn could swim, and none present was capable of reaching out a hand of charity to another.

Too engaged in the sport of destruction to care about a few boats, the Archdemon landed in a broad courtyard, and amused itself by smashing at the greatest of the palaces with its massive tail. Bored with this after a time, it took to the skies again, flaming along streets filled with those trying to reach the gates. It directed its thoughts at the leaders of the Vanguard.

One of them had found a glorious room within the great palace. On a golden throne sat a beautiful woman. The darkspawn seized on her with a roar of lust, and then dropped her, uninterested, when it apparent that she was already dead, the poisoned wine she had drunk still moist on her rouged lips.

Struggling to awaken from the nightmare, the Wardens' panicked cries echoed through the Deep Roads.

"I hate the fucking Fade," Brosca snarled, clutching her dagger.

Sigrun nodded, shivering. "That was real, wasn't it?"

Ulfa staggered over to the little pool and splashed water on her head. Soren remained huddled under his blanket.

"Sod this," he grunted.

"Maker!" whispered Catriona. "Those poor people!"

"Well, the darkspawn are back," Tara managed shakily, hoping she could hold down her supper. There was bile in her mouth.

Jowan stared at her. "Where was that?" Lily sensed his distress and licked his face.

"Wasn't Jader," said Brosca. "I've seen Jader. If the darkspawn are coming, should we go back to Bronwyn?"

Tara thought about it.

"No," she finally said. "If that wasn't Jader—and it wasn't anywhere in Ferelden, I'm sure—then we should go ahead and find Loghain. He doesn't know anything about it, and he needs to."

Astrid awakened from the nightmare and reached immediately for the White Shear on the table by the bed. She took a deep swallow, and pulled herself together.

Sod it! She thought she had more time before the darkspawn crawled out of hiding. What city was that? Minrathous? That would be too good to be true, unfortunately. Better for all of them if the rest of the Blight were to play out far, far away. But weren't the Tevinter priests male?

She took another shot of spirits, drew a deep breath, and slipped on a heavy velvet and leather gown, still thinking. A big, rich city. Richer than Denerim, which was the best Ferelden could boast. On the ocean. Cumberland? Kirkwall? Val Royeaux? Jader?

A grimace. She hoped it wasn't Jader. That would be very inconvenient, if the Blight were still to be on their doorstep. Unpleasantly close to Orzammar. Word had come that the engineers had made good progress on the new barrier doors, but not that they were actually done.

She must look through the new books she had ordered. There were volumes on travel and geography. Some were illustrated. She must see if she recognized anything, and she must do it before the memories faded.

Voices sounded outside her door. Velanna was shrill with stress, as always. Ailill's smooth tenor was rougher than usual. Where were Askil and Falkor. Ah—she heard them now. She must meet with them, and calm them. And then, they would take counsel together.

Leliana's scream split the quiet darkness of the Imperial Suite. Hers was not the only cry. The Grey Wardens fought their way out of the Fade, and knew that their visions were real.

"Maker! Oh, Maker, no! Have mercy!"

Bronwyn fought out of the nightmare, trembling, in a cold sweat. Her own fear threatened to choke her. Beside Leliana, Aveline thrashed wildly, and hit out with her fists. Petra was frantic; Asa frozen with horror, her jaw hanging. Adaia's hysterical shrieks pierced like knives.

"They're all dead! They're all dead!"

A tremendous pounding racketed against the door.

"Your Majesty!" shouted a guard. "Are you under attack?"

Bronwyn struggled to untangle herself from the bed, and fell to the floor, forgetting how high up she was. She hissed with the pain of her twisted ankle, but was grateful to it, for it was bringing her back to reality like a slap to the face or a dousing of cold water. She limped over to Adaia, wailing on the sofa, and yelled, "Wake up!" and then "I'm coming!" to the door. Then she belatedly realized she was only wearing a shift, and snatched up a dressing gown.

Another crash at the door.

Dear Maker, they're trying to break it down.

"Stop!" she yelled. "It's only a nightmare. Don't knock down the door, I'm just behind it!"

Clutching her gown around her, she flung open the door. The guards were wide-eyed and had their weapons unsheathed. Bronwyn forced a smile—a rather sickly one—and tried to calm the situation. It was difficult, since some of her friends were only now emerging from the grip of the nightmare, and sounded like they were being tortured.

"A nightmare," she explained to the guards. "Grey Wardens are subject to horrible nightmares about darkspawn. This last one hit us rather hard, I'm afraid. Send word down to the kitchens to bring us some hot mulled wine. I certainly need it."

Two of the guards exchanged worried looks. Not all soldiers were idiots, and some had put the facts and speculation together.

"Your Majesty," one of them ventured. "This nightmare…or vision… well…are the darkspawn coming?"

Bronwyn blinked. "The darkspawn we saw are far away, in another country. The city we saw them attacking is not in Ferelden."

That she was sure of. She had not recognized the city—a very large rich place, much greater than Denerim—but she had read books and seen many pictures, and so believed she knew what had happened. And Leliana was crying.

More noise was coming from down the corridor. Anders' wild shout of alarm, sleepy moans of distress from the room some of the men were sharing.

"The wine?" she reminded the guards. "And bring plenty of it."

Siofranni awakened, fingers scrabbling at the stones of her shelter. She curled up on herself, her heart pounding.

Only a dream…

Of course it wasn't. Some great shemlen city was burning. Not Denerim, nor any place she knew. Even the poor flat-ears had been slaughtered.

The darkspawn had risen. Her errand was more urgent than ever.

In the hunting lodge in the Jader Bay Hills, the sleeping Wardens had no idea who the people were, but they witnessed their deaths with shock and horror. Maeve nearly choked on her vomit. Quinn staggered up from his blanket, and drew his sword, flailing about until the point stuck in the low wooden rafters. Trying to pull it free brought him more to himself. Danith was sitting up, her eyes fixed on the fading vision.

"Darkspawn!"

The Avvars stationed with them were immediately alarmed, and reached for their weapons.

Danith shouted, "Not here! A distant vision!"

Nuala shook Steren out of his unquiet, groaning sleep.

"Then where?" demanded Bustrum.

"I do not know. A great city was in flames."

Niall shook violently, wracked by conflicting emotions. He had hated his share of Templars, but no one should die like that.

"We have to tell Bronwyn!"

Danith dismissed that impatiently. "She already knows. Every Warden in Thedas must know. What place was that? Is it Jader?"

"I don't think so," said Maeve, scrubbing at her face. "It didn't sound like Brosca's descriptions."

"Still, perhaps one of them might recognize something. Quinn, find Bronwyn tomorrow morning."

"I don't want to go back to sleep," murmured Nuala.

"None of us do, lethallan. Come. Let us sit by the fire."

Bronwyn was relieved that their three wounded comrades were back among the Wardens, and not in the infirmary when those nightmares struck them. Darach was looking sick, and Hakan very pale. Sten was back among them too, still not at full strength, but more comfortably quartered, with a huge bed big enough even for a Qunari. He, of course, had not shared the dream, and had been rather taken aback at the storm that shook the others.

Zevran, too, was unaffected, and was watching everyone, tense and eager to understand what had happened. Morrigan looked about the room with a peculiar glitter in her eye.

At the head of the table in the parlor, Bronwyn watched them all. Some were more affected than others. Fenris sat by Carver, his handsome elven face puzzled and uneasy. Carver had quietly told Bronwyn some of his background, and that the Tevinter warrior had issues with magic and mages. He would have to deal with it, because magic was simply too useful to forego. As to her Wardens, the dwarves did not feel the peculiar horror that some experienced in the despoiling of a Chantry. Nor had they seen many dwarves killed. Surely that great city had a dwarven quarter. Either they had been attacked before the Wardens turned in for the night, or there were not a great many dwarves in the city; or their quarter was distant from the origin of the attack, and they had heard the sounds of battle and prudently taken to their heels ahead of the advancing horde.

The elves, of course, were deeply horrified at the fate of those thousands of unfortunates in the Alienage. They had been trapped, without a means of escape. And such a huge Alienage, too...

Leliana was still quite distraught. She had said little since awakening, but had drunk the wine Bronwyn gave her, dressed with less than her usual care, and had followed her to this meeting. Bronwyn would give her a little time, but clearly she knew something.

"The darkspawn have risen," Bronwyn said. "We knew it was only a matter of time. For the sake of our companions who are not Wardens, I will say that we saw a great city under attack. Thousands were slain by the darkspawn. The people seemed taken entirely by surprise. There was a Wardens' Compound, and they fought well, but were attacked by overwhelming numbers. How the darkspawn were able to surprise them so completely is a question yet to be answered. They were not delayed or their presence betrayed, it seems, by a delay getting past the city walls."

Alistair cleared his throat. He looked quite awful. "They must have dug under the walls, the way they got into the Tower of Ishal through the lower levels. If they were far from the Wardens' Compound, the Wardens wouldn't have sensed them. It was a really big city, after all."

"Right," agreed Emrys. "They must have been tunneling for months while it was too cold to attack above ground."

Oghren grunted, and poured himself a stiff drink, slopping it on the table. "So... the big question is: where are the buggers?"

Leliana whispered something. Petra, sitting next to her, looked very startled.

"Really?"

Leliana, her eyes hollow with grief, spoke louder.

"Val Royeaux. They have destroyed the Grand Cathedral. So many priests... so many Templars... all dead."

A silence. Anders and Petra looked at each other, consumed with a wicked, vengeful glee. Morrigan noticed it and smiled slyly. She was fortunately sitting on the same side of the table as Leliana and thus not visible to her. Aveline did see it, and scowled a rebuke. Morrigan merely raised her brows, entirely unintimidated.

Brosca asked, "How far away is that?"

Then everyone began talking at once. Bronwyn put up her hand.

"Did you recognize anyone?"

Leliana nodded. Tears trickled down her face.

Bronwyn persisted, trying to control her impatience. "The woman on the throne was the Empress?"

Another nod.

"And you must have recognized some of the other people as well. I am very sorry if some of them were dear to you."

Leliana's distress restrained the people who otherwise would have been drinking to demise of a hated enemy. It restrained Bronwyn, for that matter, who had to consider how the death of the Empress and the destruction of Val Royeaux would change their situation.

As soon as word of the Empress' death was public, the surviving nobles would fight for power. What about the advancing army, coming east? Had it left Val Royeaux? Had it been destroyed? Had the immediate threat to Ferelden been sidetracked by the darkspawn?

Would an Orlais, torn by civil war, breaking up into petty kingdoms, be a good thing for Ferelden? How would the Orlesians fight the threat of the Archdemon? Could they?

There were the Wardens, of course. The headquarters of the order in Orlais was at Montsimmard, which was as distant from Val Royeaux as Gwaren from Denerim. They must already be preparing to defend their country.

What about the Wardens of Jader, the third Warden base in Orlais? Riordan would certain do his duty. She wished she could speak to him, but very likely he would be gone, even if she were so reckless as to gallop to the city herself.

She continued speaking. "I must ask every one of you to keep quiet about the death of the Empress. It will not help the fight against the darkspawn if every noble in Orlais is busily trying to grab the Imperial crown for himself. Furthermore, while everyone seems to know we see darkspawn in the Fade, allowing people to know the extent of the details might betray Warden secrets."

"We have all dreamed of darkspawn," said Cathair. "This was different. It was... vivid."

"Could it be..." Petra groped for words to express her thought. "Could it be that the Archdemon wanted us to see all that?"

"Perhaps as a challenge? A threat? A way to put us in fear? That makes sense," agreed Aveline.

Bronwyn felt they were on to something. "The Archdemon certainly has no particular modesty. It no doubt actually regards itself as a god. All the more reason to be discreet about everything we have seen. Its intentions are malicious. It showed us those dreadful visions to wound us. Why wound others in our turn?"

Everyone was nodding seriously, while Bronwyn's mind moved on to three very good claimants to the Orlesian throne, not far away in Chateau Solidor. No one must be allowed to get their hands on them but Bronwyn herself. Once people knew the Empress was dead, they would be the target of a thousand ambitious nobles.

"But we are going to fight the darkspawn, aren't we?" Alistair asked, his face deeply earnest. "It's our duty to fight them wherever they are."

Aeron snorted, "What do we owe the Orlesians? All they've done so far is put a spoke in our wheel."

"That was the Empress," said Adaia. She shrugged, glancing in apology at Leliana, "and some of the Chantry. Those elves in the Alienage didn't do us any harm, nor the poor humans. They're the ones who suffered most."

Her words had some effect on Bronwyn, who felt that the vain, vicious courtiers of Val Royeaux had got a well-deserved comeuppance.

"That's true, Adaia," Bronwyn considered. "But we're now in the same position that Riordan was in when he wanted to help us. If we cross the border to go to the Orlesians' aid, a lot of people will regard that as an invasion. And there are troops in Jader who would come out and challenge us, or at least enough of them to harass our supply lines."

"Maybe we can make the people in Jader understand that we're there to help them!" Alistair suggested.

Bronwyn smiled at his naïveté, and then reconsidered.

"Let me think about it..."

Riordan saw more of the vision than most. Deep in his poppy-sleep, he watched the horror playing out endlessly until one of his Wardens physically beat him awake. He opened his eyes to a ring of his people ranged around his narrow bed. Fiona was at his side, white-faced but resolute.

"We must go."

There was no question of it whatever. The day was spent in quick preparation, and they were ready to depart just after noon. Riordan himself met with the Marquis' steward and with the Captain of the City Guard.

"Darkspawn have attacked Val Royeaux. There has been a great slaughter. We Wardens are leaving today for Montsimmard, to join with the rest of our order."

Riordan was well-respected in Jader, or they would have laughed him to scorn. They had received no such message. Still, Wardens had their ways of knowing things.

"None of you will stay in the Compound?" the steward asked.

"No. We must all go. Everyone is needed. And we are not the only Grey Wardens in Thedas. If we fall, there are others to continue the fight."

They were shaken already. Riordan saw no point in adding to their fears or creating a panic. He decided not to tell them that the Empress was already dead.

Tara and her party arrived in West Hill two days later, hollowed-eyed and grim. They were recognized at once, and the guards knew that Loghain would want to see them right away.

"Grey Wardens!"

"Brosca and I can handle the report," Tara told the rest. "Go find something to eat."

Loghain was sparring with Cauthrien when he heard them announced. Cauthrien lowered her sword, blowing out a deep breath, and wiped her face. A servant handed Loghain a towel.

Once the sweat was out of his eyes, he saw that the Wardens were Tara and Brosca, whom he particularly liked. He was even about to smile when he saw the looks on their faces.

"What news?"

Neither of them was much for courtly ceremony, and they scandalized nearly everyone present, first by not bowing, and then by addressing the king by his name.

"Plenty of news, Loghain. Some good… some not so good. Is there somewhere we can go?"

"And we're hungry," Brosca grunted. Tara turned to scowl at her and the dwarf shrugged.

"What? Well, we are."

"Actually, we are," Tara admitted. "Really hungry."

Loghain snorted. "Follow me." He jerked his head at Cauthrien, and she took the hint, walking along with them to the chamber he had taken over as his temporary office.

He and his second were a bit peckish themselves after their workout, so they joined the Wardens as they gobbled bread and cheese and slurped mutton broth. For a brief time, there was no place for lesser concerns. Loghain and Cauthrien were finished long before the Warden, and watched them with some degree of amusement.

Brosca burped her thanks, and said, "Tell him about the darkspawn first, and then give him the good news last."

"Darkspawn?" His attention was instantly riveted.

"No place close," Tara assured him, reluctant to speak of it. "We saw them in the Fade… you know…" She glanced uneasily at Cauthrien.

"Yes," Loghain said impatiently. "I've awakened my own wife from those visions often enough. Grey Wardens can see darkspawn when in the Fade. What did you see? Have they risen?"

"Have they ever!" Brosca exclaimed. "Two nights ago."

"Where?"

Tara shook her head. "We're not sure, but it can't be anywhere in Ferelden, unless you've got this huge city hidden somewhere that we've never seen."

Loghain visibly relaxed. "They were attacking a city? Any guesses which one?"

"Well, it's not Orzammar, not Denerim—"

"—and not Jader," Brosca put in. "I've been to Jader. This was even fancier."

Loghain's heart leaped with hope. Tara saw it in his face and frowned.

"Wherever it was, a lot of innocent people were killed—poor people, old people, little children, humans, and dwarves and elves— and lot of helpless women were carried off to be raped and made into Broodmothers," she said, her voice hard. "So it would really upset me a lot if anybody made a big show of being glad about it."

Brosca raised her brows at Loghain, and said. "You got any pictures of different cities? We know it's by the sea, because people were swimming to boats to get away…"

Tara said abruptly, "Anybody got a picture of the Empress of Orlais?" She looked up at Loghain. "We're just simple Wardens, and we've never traveled much—"

Brosca protested, "—I've traveled! I've been to Jader!"

"—But maybe we might recognize some people. We saw a really big Chantry, too."

Cauthrien asked, "Did it have two towers?"

"Hard to tell." Brosca shrugged, shoving her empty bowl away. "It was pretty wrecked. That sodding Archdemon is big."

"I think I have some books for you to look at." Loghain got up and searched through a bookshelf behind him. He thumbed briefly through a few, and then opened one and laid it out on his desk, displaying a woodcut of the Grand Cathedral.

He asked, "Does this look familiar?"

"Maybe," Tara ventured, "but it was the dead of night and everything was on fire and all… messed up."

"You got a picture of a tall white tower?" Brosca asked. "Kind of pointy?"

Cauthrien looked at Loghain, "The White Spire?" she wondered aloud.

The White Spire was the home of the Orlesian Circle of Mages. It was a unique, distinctive building.

Loghain advanced a few pages. "Is this what you saw?"

"Yeah," Brosca agreed. "That's it, but it's a lot shorter now."

Cauthrien blew out a breath. "The darkspawn attacked Val Royeaux…"

Tara shook her head. "The darkspawn own Val Royeaux." She lowered her voice. "You wouldn't believe what they did in the Alienage…"

Cauthrien quickly went through the diplomatic archives, and pulled out a flat, rectangular object. It was the official portrait of the Empress, painted some five years before.

"That's her," Brosca said flatly. "She's bought the mine."

Loghain scowled his incomprehension.

"Kacked it, snuffed it, bit the dust, embraced the Stone, cashed in her chips, bid the long goodbye, bedded down for the Big Sleep—"

Tara elbowed her. "Don't!" She said to Loghain. "—Gone to the right hand of the Maker. Maybe. She didn't let the darkspawn get her. She put on her crown, sat on her throne, and drank poison. I've seen worse. She was smart."

Loghain sat back in his chair, trying to control his face. That bitch Celene was dead! That thorn in his side, that mortal enemy of everything he held dear... He wanted to cheer, but did not. Naturally the sight of darkspawn ravaging a city would be traumatic to these decent young women. Well…decent young woman. Tara was decent, anyway. Brosca was too tough to be traumatized by anything short of ingestion by the Archdemon. They were loyal, brave girls, and he would not wound them by making light of horrors.

On the other hand, he felt like dancing on the Empress' tomb. Not, it seemed, that she would have one. He quizzed them at length about everything they had dreamed.

"We can't tell you everything that happened," Tara said. "We can only tell you what the darkspawn saw. Probably only what the Archdemon wanted us to see. We don't know about people who succeeded in hiding or running away. Surely there must be people in cellars or attics or secret rooms. There are always survivors, even in the worst massacres."

"Not always," Loghain contradicted. "Usually, though, I grant you. Bronwyn was with you at the time? She couldn't recognize the city?"

"No. We were in the Deep Roads at the time. We did get the news about Arl Bryland from Carver and Jowan before we set out to find you. Bronwyn wanted us to bring you her news."

"And to smackdown the Aeonar," Brosca put in. "She wants that done."

Their report of their findings from their brief raid on the Aeonar were concise but disturbing. Loghain agreed that the Chantry could not be permitted to "experiment" on Fereldan subjects. The place must be cleared out and the clergy sent on their way... or eliminated. Once empty, Wulffe's men could use it. Maybe more of the troops. They would have to determine just how deep it went.

Yes, the darkspawn were a concern, but they were far away, and this nearby threat must be dealt with at once.

"And how is the Queen?" asked Loghain, his voice softening almost imperceptibly.

Tara was unsure if Bronwyn had written about the miscarriage, and felt uneasy about telling Loghain something so personal without her friend's permission.

"Working really hard. She went through kind of a rough patch last month, but of course she's pretty pumped now, since she took the Rock."

"She took... what?"

"Roc du Chevalier. She gobbled it right up on the twentieth. Anders and Morrigan had completed scouted it out, and we climbed up one of the towers after midnight—well, I didn't climb—Bronwyn strapped me onto Ostap's back—"

"Sissy," Brosca muttered, grinning.

"—anyway, we climbed up and we got the gate open, and Alistair and the rest charged in and it's ours. Hers. Yours."

A silence.

"Whoa, big guy!" Brosca laughed. "You should see the look on your face!"

Thanks to my reviewers: Ie-maru, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Serena R. Snape, KnightOfHolyLight, Vibrolux61, AD Lewis, Tirion I, sizuka2, Alex, Robbie the Phoenix, Nemrut, Aeonir, darksky01, Guest, Mike3207, Girl-chama, Phygmalion, Rexiselic, Jenna53, RB23G, Halm Vendrela, Blidned in a bolthole, EpitomyofShyness, JackOfBladesX, Ravus, trevalyan, Konous the grey, dargonmactir, jnybot, DjinniGenie, Persephone Chiara, anon, Herebedragons66, MsBarrows, mille libri, and Josie Lange.

To anon: Your point about the Dalish and their concept of political economy is a reasonable one. They apparently use a tribal barter system. I don't think Danith has really considered economic issues of a possible Dalish homeland at all. It would be reasonable to suppose that Arlathan and the Dales did have a national economy of some sort, but that's another lost piece of their culture.

To Ravus: Bronwyn never thought of Caridin as a golem. He was a person inside a golem, since unlike all the others she had met up to that time, he could speak and new his name and past.