Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 105: The Fleet That Had to Die

Those refugees who had escaped Val Royeaux by ship began landing up and down the coast within a day or two. Not all of them were alive. Plenty of boats capsized in the panic, spilling their burdens into the cruel sea.

The first of the bodies washed up the following morning: the remains of a beautiful young girl who floated in, breasts bared to the empty sky, while gulls screamed overheard. Soon bodies drifted to shore all along the coast, and were eagerly looted, both by the people of the local fishing villages and by the denizens of pirates' coves.

A number of heavily-laden boats reached the Port of Lydes by sunset of the following day, and the hideous news began to spread like a cancer on the land. By the next day, boats were landing in Val Chevin to the north. It took six days for the larger ships to put in at Cumberland, and the people aboard them were starving. Along the coast, news from the sea met news from the shattered army, and the panic grew steadily. A great many of the most powerful nobles had been at Court in Val Royeaux, and their vassals and stewards at home would eventually begin to consider how the world had changed.

A handful of mages had survived the destruction of the White Spire and managed to fight their way out of the city. They had not had time to dress in proper robes, and had picked up cloaks and valuables from the dead and dying. There were too many people crowding on the roads for anyone to care about a few more shabby fugitives. Enchanter Rhys tried to think about where they could go.

"We can go anywhere!" a red-haired girl burst out eagerly. "The Phylactery Chamber was destroyed! Nobody knows we're alive. Nobody knows we're mages."

"Wherever we go," Rhys said, "I suggest we get as far away from the darkspawn as possible."

They followed the coast north to Val Chevin, and then took the Northwest Highway. Maybe Andoral's Reach would be far enough. Maybe they would go even farther. Soon, all the Templars in Orlais would be hurrying in the other direction.

The Divine, Beatrix III, had actually survived the darkspawn attack, defended by faithful Templars, one of whom cast aside his weapons and carried her to safety on his brawny back. A great many brave men and women died to cover her flight through the Cathedral complex to the entrance to an escape tunnel that ran under the city. Most fortunately, it had not been discovered by the darkspawn. They emerged from the tunnel mouth near the River Royeaux at a considerable distance from the walls. Downriver, the night sky was orange and grey above the tortured city. It was raining; a sharp cold rain that penetrated the Divine's thin night shift and even the heavy cloak someone had wrapped her in. No one knew, until she was untied from the exhausted Templar, that during the terrors of their flight, her heart had quietly failed.

"What shall we do?" sobbed a young priest. "Revered Mother," she asked Mother Dorothea, "What shall we do?"

That sensible woman and experienced politician, Revered Mother Dorothea, was too weary for speech. It had been all she could do to round up the Divine and a few companions. As they were escaping, just ahead of the darkspawn, a pair of priests had run after them screaming, begging them not to shut the concealed door in their faces. If they had waited for those women, the darkspawn would have seen them and caught them all. Mother Dorothea had given the order to shut and bar the door, and now she could not stop seeing those women's faces; could not stop hearing their screams.

The ranking Templar, Ser Evangeline, stepped forward to lead them, young as she was. "We shall find the nearest shelter and rest," she said, calm and decisive. "Pursuit tonight is unlikely. The darkspawn have plenty to occupy them in Val Royeaux."

"What of Her Perfection?" asked a tearful lay brother.

"We shall wrap her in the blanket and take turns carrying her. We must give her a decent pyre when we can. Yes, we shall rest, and then follow the river north to Belle Fourche. The roads divide there. By then, a plan should have come to us."

"Someone must take up the mantle of the Divine," whispered Mother Dorothea's secretary. "Someone must speak for our Lady Andraste."

"That person must be properly elected by a duly assembled Sacred Conclave," Dorothea replied quietly.

"In these disordered times—" the secretary urged.

"Stop. I do not wish to hear it."

She had given the order that had killed her fellow priests, and at the moment, she hoped she would never be called upon to give any orders ever again.

Later that day, when two fleets met off Cape Gris Nez, three Orlesian warships were sunk outright in the first moments of the battle. Five transports joined them under the waves, and four more were soon burning. On the deck of the Emperor Drakon, the admiral's personal priest was instructed to pray. Indeed, she would have prayed, ordered or not, for they were in terrible danger.

The Nevarran vessels only numbered twelve, but they wreaked havoc, not by boarding and fighting like honest warriors, but by the foul and treacherous use of magic. Orlesians ships would try to come to grips with the enemy, but the Nevarrans evaded them, and the mages on board—who could be seen quite clearly, though they were out of bow range—continued to rain the wrath of the elements on the ships of the Empress.

There was no defense against the fireballs the Nevarrans launched at them. Not all of them struck their targets, of course. Some were timed badly, and exploded in the air as the ship dipped into the trough of a wave. Some struck the water and fizzled out. Some missed entirely.

"Pursue them!" shouted the Grand Admiral. "If we can get close enough, we can board them and slaughter them! We outnumber them ten to one!"

The flagship's captain stared at the admiral in disbelief. The man clearly had no clue about what was and was not possible in a sailing vessel. Emperor Drakon looked impressive, but the elaborate aftcastle had made it top-heavy and hard to handle. He had previously tried to talk to the Grand Admiral about dismantling some it once the problems manifested, but that suggestion had not exactly been well received.

Besides, the problem with pursuing the enemy was that a closer distance made the Nevarran mages' aim that much better. Some of the Orlesian captains understood this, and considered escape their own option. They raised more canvas and ran before the wind, their larger area of sail enabling them greater speed than the smaller Nevarran warships.

"Come back, you cowards!" the admiral sputtered. "You will be flayed for this betrayal!" He saw a Nevarran ship coming up on the port side, and shouted. "That one! Attack that one!"

"Monseigneur," the captain objected, " we cannot turn so quickly..."

"I decide what you can do! Turn and attack! Chase the coward!"

Under the captain's orders, the Emperor Drakon began a slow, ponderous maneuver that would eventually cause their course to intersect with that of the warship. In some ways, it was not a bad idea, since they would no longer present a broadside target to the enemy. However, the sea was thick with ships, and sudden changes of course by a few in the center of the fleet raised the prospect of collisions.

"Too slow! Too slow!" the admiral raged. "Turn faster!"

"Monseigneur, we cannot turn faster..."

"You!" The admiral pointed to a random sailor. "Obey me! Take the wheel and turn this ship!"

When the sailor glanced first at his captain for confirmation, the admiral lost his head completely, and ordered one of his own bodyguards to take the helm. The man-at-arms gripped the unfamiliar wheel uncertainly, but pushed it manfully in the direction the admiral indicated. The captain burst out into a stream of objections, and was knocked down by a chevalier for his impudence

A strong gust caught the sails. The ship rolled, then heeled. The Grand Admiral fell sprawling, and looked around stupidly, trying to understand what was happening. The priest wailed out appeals to the Maker.

There followed a sickening lurch, and waves splashed over the port side. The captain lunged at the wheel, and shoved the man-at-arms aside, trying desperately to save the ship.

"Ease the sails!" he shouted, hoping to spill some wind and right the dangerous tilt.

It was too late. Orlesians watched in horror and Nevarrans in delight as the flagship slowly rolled over, the massive weight of the aftcastle weighing it down. Sailors leaped into the water, swimming for their lives. Some of them were picked up by other Orlesian vessels. The chevaliers, the servants, and the horses were not so fortunate. None of the elven servants knew how to swim—though one quick-witted elf clung to a spar and survived— and the horses were locked in the hold, and perished miserably.

It had been hinted to the chevaliers that wearing plate armor at sea was not a particularly wise move, but such advice had been dismissed as poor-spirited. Now the chevaliers sank like stones. Once in the water, they vanished without a visible struggle, and were lost.

More ships were coming under attack, and they tried to break free of the attackers. They were not well positioned for it, because the admiral's orders that they hug the coast put them close to the lee shore, with the wind from the north pressing them ever closer to reefs, rocks, and the shifting sands. The Nevarran captains were perfectly aware of this, and showed no mercy. The ships that had fled most quickly were the survivors.

Others were burned or blown apart. Some ran aground, their keels mired on sandbars or broken on submerged rocks. On one of the grounded ships, an older chevalier had the sense to free the horses and let them swim to shore. He doffed his treasured armor and swam after his mount. Meanwhile, the sailors lowered the ship's two boats and there was a bitter struggle over who would occupy them. Most chevaliers could not bear to remove their armor, but the majority of the survivors did. In one of the boats, the chevaliers discovered that none of them knew how to row or steer. That boat capsized before it was halfway to the beach.

The sun set, and the wind rose. The Nevarrans withdrew, pleased with their success. They had sunk nine of the fifteen warships and thirteen of the transports. Nine more transports had been by wrecked by collisions or underwater hazards. Three of the transports had been heavily damaged and had surrendered. They were being towed back to Cumberland as prizes. Four transports had refused to surrender, and the Nevarrans did not want to waste time and lives in a hand-to-hand struggle. Instead, their masts and rudders destroyed, the ships were left to drift, helpless, toward whatever fate the Maker had in store for them.

The surviving Orlesian fleet of six warships and twenty-five transports was widely dispersed. Night was falling, and all of them felt the need to regroup. A number of them needed serious repairs. The logical move was to make for Jader and the port facilities there. They could still strike a serious blow against Ferelden, and they still outnumbered the pathetic Fereldan navy, but it might be wise to revisit the details of their mission. Their admiral was dead, and his second-in-command as well. Once it was clearer who had survived, they could establish a new chain of command.

The ruins of the Orlesian army faced the dawn, beginning to comprehend the extent of the disaster. Most of the chevaliers and senior officers were dead. Most of the soldiers had no idea what they ought to do. There were hundreds of wounded, many suffering burns. The Marquis and a few other nobles had brought their own personal mage healers. Most had also been killed in the attack, but a few survived. Some took the opportunity to run away. Others remained, doing their best to treated the injured. A mob of furious soldiers gathered, blaming the mages for the acts of the Archdemon. Stones were thrown, but by the time knives were drawn, a junior officer was able to calm the situation. That officer sent some reliable men to destroy all the army's remaining stores of strong drink. Ale and wine were necessities, but brandy would drive frightened men to madness.

Other leaders arose. A minor noble from Halamshiral won some of the more patriotic to his side, urging them to come with him to Montsimmard.

"We cannot run like children from the darkspawn. Let us put ourselves under the command of the Grey Wardens, and fight for our country!"

Much of the army split along regional lines and many men simply wanted to go home to their families. The soldiers who hailed from Val Royeaux did not want to go south to Montsimmard, but wanted to see if their loved ones had survived. A vigorous, charismatic sergeant mustered them into a company. They called themselves the Imperial Guard, which was absurd, since not one of them was well-born enough ever to have served in the actual Imperial Guard. However, they managed to organize and equip themselves decently, preparing to march north.

The degree of discipline varied widely, depending on the strength of the officers. Some attempted to capture and hang deserters, and were themselves hanged for their pains. Other officers were more respected, and were able to maintain order in the ranks. A large portion of the army remained at the camp at the River Orne, under the command of the junior officer, the Sieur de Flambard, who had quelled the riot. He sent out bands to requisition supplies from the locals, and assigned men to help care for the wounded, who of course all remained therein camp. There was talk that within a few days, they would have sufficient wagons to take the wounded along with them to Verchiel, the closest large city. The Sieur de Flambard meant well, but by degrees, the force was transforming into a gang of mercenaries, and he into a mercenary captain.

On the thirtieth of Guardian, the Wardens of Montsimmard came upon the camp, on their way to Val Royeaux. They were not alone, for Orlais had a second Circle of Mages, this one at Montsimmard itself, and it was entirely at the disposal of the Orlesian Warden-Commander. The quarrels and debate raged anew. Precious time was wasted in trying to resolve all the factional conflicts. The influx of mages both helped the wounded and fanned the flames of discord. In the end, the Wardens moved on, taking the "Imperial Guard" with them, and that portion of the army that was still loyal to the Empress. By that time, a good fourth of the survivors had deserted and melted away into the countryside. Shortly thereafter, the Sieur de Flambard withdrew with his troops to Verchiel. The city did not know until much too late that it should have shut its gates against them.

The Orlesian fleet limped toward Jader, gradually falling into something of a formation. Two more ships sank during the voyage, though one had sunk slowly enough that there was time to evacuate the humans onto another vessel. A skeleton crew remained aboard, and headed to land, hoping to beach their foundering ship and save the horses and elves aboard. At the very least, they hoped to sink close enough to land for most to swim or float to safety.

On the first of Drakonis, the rest of the ships sighted the Jader headland.

They also sighted another fleet arrayed against them: a fleet of ten warships of varying sizes, and two modified caravels. A fireball arced out ominously toward them, a portent of their coming destruction. Immediately upon realizing that these ships, too, carried mages, a number of transports turned south, preferring to offload their soldiers and horses rather than to lose them altogether. The Ferelden fleet moved in quickly, the wind with them. Nor were mages their only armament. Some ships moved in boldly, bearing strange machines that sprayed fire over the Orlesian ships in gouts of chemical flame.

They targeted the Orlesian warships, first. One of the modified caravels was particularly maneuverable, and captained by the clever and resourceful Isabela, it wreaked havoc on the enemy. She steered Siren's Call in between a pair of warships, enabling the mages to attack from both sides of her ship. Leaving devastation in her wake, she sailed on, cleaving the Orlesian fleet in two.

What followed was a slaughter. Ships were pummeled, were burned, were shattered. Hulls were breached, masts toppled, canvas went up in flame. In the end, there was little choice for the survivors but to surrender. Prize crews were assigned, and the crestfallen chevaliers imprisoned below decks. Isabela had three prizes of her own, and rather than take chevaliers for ransom, decided that she would rather pass them on to her colleagues—once utterly stripped of valuables—and take their horses instead, which would be worth a fortune in Ferelden or Kirkwall. When a frightened elven servant asked what she intended for them, the Rivainni only shrugged, and said she would drop them off somewhere safe after her voyage was over.

Only one of the smaller Orlesian transports managed to escape into Jader harbor. It was not, alas, one of the ships carrying an experienced harbor pilot. The ship staggered, its hull caught in the soft wet sand of the Horn. The tide was low, but already flowing back in. Looking toward Jader, much of the Horn was exposed: a long, wet stretch leading to the harbor. It bulged out in the middle, and narrowed down at the end by the harbor.

"Quickly!" shouted a young chevalier. "Unload the horses. We can ride down the sand to Jader!"

With frantic speed, gangplanks were lowered into the shallow water, and the horses were led down them, squealing and neighing. Their tack was thrown over the side, along with the elven grooms, who saddled and bridled the horses, up to their thighs in the surf.

Chevaliers desperately packed their belongings, reluctant to leave anything behind. Heavy trunks and chests were shoved into the elven servants' arms, with dire threats if they did not arrive safely at the barracks. Some were more sensible, and took off down the sandbar as soon as they could mount their horses. It was a quite a long way to the city, and the water was perceptibly rising. Men-at-arms leaped down, bags slung over their shoulders, and marched away, sloshing through the water, stumbling onto the heavy sand, following the first of the horsemen, and dodging the laggards, for the chevaliers had not the least scruple about riding down anyone in their way. The ship's boat was lowered, and the sailors piled in, sculling neatly toward the land.

Impatient, armed humans bellowed orders at the elves, demanding that their own horses be saddled first. It grew crowded and chaotic, as horses panicked and began swimming away. Cursing chevaliers ran after them. grabbing at their reins. More and more, as the water rose, men threw themselves onto their mounts bareback and galloped away. As the water rose, it flowed into the ship through the damaged hull, and the vessel shifted, leaning dangerously. The gangplanks collapsed, and the last of the horses fell into the water, eyes rolling white.

The narrow spit of sand was growing narrower by the moment as the water rose. A pair of elves, burdened by their master's impedimenta, looked at each other, threw the trunks aside, and began running.

Fourteen of the chevaliers made it to the harbor, riding hard. Twenty-five of the men-at-arms survived, though most had to swim the last third of the way. The ship's boat arrived, and was pulled up safely above the high-tide mark, while the captain told the shocking story of the defeat to the port commander, gesticulating wildly. Two of the elves—the ones who had run first— dog-paddled and splashed up onto the beach, and were beaten savagely by their master for losing his luggage.

The rest of the elves, the ones unable to swim, made it as far as the wide bulge in the Horn, but the water rose too rapidly for them to make it to shore. They were trapped, easily visible, on a shrinking little island. The port commander looked at their through his fine spyglass, shaking his head. He sent some of his guards down to help the human survivors as they emerged from the sea and to catch the frantic, riderless horses.

"I suppose we could send out a boat for the elves," he muttered.

The captain shrugged. "My men are too weary. Besides, they could never reach them in time, anyway."

So they watched, as quite a large crowd gathered, chattering about how someone should do something. The cries of the elves drifted on the breeze, high and desperate, as the water rose up and covered them.

Jader was uneasy. The Alienage was seething.

News had come a few days before that Roc du Chevalier had fallen to Queen Bronwyn the Dragonslayer. The people of Jader were familiar with the rumors that Orlais was to launch an invasion of the country to the east. They were not sure what to do with the news that said country had taken Orlesian territory instead. Jader was very close to the Rock. It was only a day away, in fact. They had never felt vulnerable like this: not in their entire history.

It was also known that the darkspawn had risen and attacked Val Royeaux. No one had expected that. When the Wardens marched out, it seemed like the world had been turned upside down. The great army they were expecting to house would almost certainly not be coming, because it would have other enemies—closer enemies— to fight.

And now the city learned that the invasion fleet, the dockyards for which they had spent thousands in taxes, had been destroyed. The enemy ships on the first day had been Nevarran, but the ships that had followed up the attack two days later had flown Ferelden colors. It was true, then: Nevarra and Ferelden had forged an alliance. That was ominous.

And the death of those elves out in the harbor had fired up the Alienage. Two of the elves had survived the shipwreck and a severe beating, and had run away, hiding among the elves of Jader. A patrol of city guards sent to retrieve the disobedient pair had been driven away with stones, and now the Alienage gates were shut. It was well known in the Alienage that Queen Bronwyn welcomed elves among her companions. Even the legendary Dalish elves had left their forest to follow her. She would not have left the elves to drown, surely.

The large dwarven population watched the situation unfold more objectively. The Marquis had never been popular among them, mainly because he never paid his bills. He was no friend to the dwarves. Queen Bronwyn, on the other hand, had not only fought in the Deep Roads as a Warden, but had traveled to Orzammar and settled the succession dispute in favor of the present king. The dwarves below had responded to her call to fight against the Blight. It made surface dwarves rather proud— in a distant, third-hand sort of way— to know that their cousins were doing their part.

The Queen's ships had just whipped a huge Orlesian fleet. There was talk that she used magic, but also some clever inventions that sounded dwarven in origin. The Queen might be a human, but she had the sense to value good dwarven engineering.

And the Queen had agents in Jader. Everyone knew about the dwarf girl who was involved in a scuffle a little while ago. If she was not one of the Jader Wardens, then she was one of the Queen's. And she was definitely not one of the Jader Wardens.

An Empress might ordinarily outrank a Queen, but things were different when the Empress and her army were far away and under attack by the darkspawn, and the Queen in question was only a day away—with her own army. It put things in perspective. From all reports, Queen Bronwyn did pay her bills. The tax rate was a lot lower in Ferelden, too.

Even among certain elements of the human population of Jader—the free-thinking, the idealistic, the lovers of adventure— the young Red Queen was a popular figure of romance. She was the Girl Warden, the Dragonslayer: she pushed back the darkspawn and fearlessly followed them into their lairs. She had gathered champions around her, like a Hero of old; she upheld chivalry and justice by right of arms.

The apostate mages in Jader were also talking, through an offshoot of the Mage Collective. It looked like Queen Bronwyn was turning toward Jader. She favored mages. She traveled with known apostates. The Revered Mother had denounced her in the Chantry for that. The enemy of their enemy was definitely their friend.

And then, a pair of hunters entered the city with the news that the Queen of Ferelden's host was at the gates of Chateau Solidor, which had opened to her.

Meanwhile, the Grey Wardens of Thedas considered the situation. As predicted, the initial attack by the darkspawn on faraway, insignificant Ferelden had been only a feint. No one had been taken in by it, and they congratulated themselves on their good judgment. The Wardens there had apparently dealt with it very commendably, although the acting commander was shockingly ignorant of tradition. However, that had been only a sideshow, and was now over. The real Blight had begun.

And it had begun with a very great catastrophe. A great city had been undermined and savaged, and hundreds, perhaps thousands of women had been taken, presumably to breed more darkspawn. Something must be done, and quickly.

The First Warden consulted the Chief Archivist for his analysis. He was grim, but pointed out that prompt action was the only acceptable strategy.

"It will take some time to turn all the women, because a proper nest must be established. We can hope that has not already been done. Then it takes, we believe, around ten days to turn a woman into a Broodmother. After that it takes yet more time for the tubes and pods to develop and then a month for the first darkspawn to gestate. Alas, many things are unknown to us: how many darkspawn an average Broodmother can produce; the average lifespan of a Broodmother. Obviously, it is neither feasible nor acceptable to allow one to develop in controlled conditions. We do know that many of the captured women will die: of shock, of injuries, by suicide, by accident. There is evidence that some women die during the process of spawning."

The First Warden grimaced. "Many will also live. If you can call it that."

"True. We can expect a great increase in the horde within the next two months. This time is critical. Even more than the Archdemon itself, we must raze Val Royeaux, find the nest or nests, and burn them out. Broodmothers are very hard to kill by conventional means. It is better to try to seal them in and use magic, poison, or fire. I suggest you form a task force of specialists to target this problem. The force will need serious defense, both by Wardens and by all allies we can command. And we must share this information with all the Warden-Commanders."

The First Warden listened, nodding sometimes, thinking through the best way to pursue the campaign. As he had predicted, the darkspawn had struck at an important target. Nonetheless, he must send word to that crazy barbarian girl in Ferelden as well as the official Warden-Commanders. He had recently received an abusive missive from her. She was arrogant and untutored in proper Warden protocol, but that was not entirely her fault. She had so far been quite effective, both in gathering allies and in fighting darkspawn. Killing the Architect was quite the accomplishment. Besides, she had the ear of the King of Orzammar. Yes, he would send some experienced Warden liaisons to her: adaptable, tactful people who would know how not to end up with their heads on pikes. If she was still alive after the Blight, the Wardens should attempt to persuade her to relinquish her command to someone who did not insist on holding a title. If he sent good people, perhaps they would spot some likely candidates, even among those savages. Ordinarily he would have chosen an Orlesian, since Ferelden was so conveniently close to Orlais and the two countries had long-standing ties. The Orlesians, however, would have their hands full for the foreseeable future.

The heads of state were informed of the danger, as was standard procedure. None opposed the order's wish to fight the Blight. It was their duty. A powerful darkspawn menace on the surface could ultimately threaten everyone. A few expressed anxiety about a multiple attack, and requested that some Wardens remain within their borders. That was not deemed unreasonable. Every post left a garrison, both to watch for new attacks and to recruit new Wardens, who might soon be needed.

It was also time to invoke the ancient treaties. The dwarves had already committed themselves. The Circles of Magi were sent messages, summoning them to battle against the enemies of all life on Thedas.

The Tevinter Circle, of course, the oldest, largest, and most powerful Circle in Thedas, was the seat of power in the Imperium, as it included not just those who had attained the rank of magister, but all the Imperial Senators and the Imperial Archon himself. They had vast resources to draw upon, and would send an impressive contingent. And they did not hesitate to use Blood Magic. Very likely, it would needed.

The First Warden contacted the Circle at Hossberg himself, sure, due to his influence in the Anderfels, of their complete cooperation. He was not disappointed. Aside from a few instructors who remained with the apprentices, everyone fit to travel would do so.

The reaction of the other Circles varied, depending on the relative power of the secular authorities versus the Chantry. In Rivain, the site of the last and final battle of the Fourth Blight, where Garahel fell, the response was strong.

The Nevarrans sent word to Cumberland. Prince Tylus was somewhat startled to learn that at the same time they had sent two dozen able enchanters to attack the Orlesian fleet, the darkspawn were attacking Val Royeaux. Nonetheless, he did not regret the raid, which had been very profitable. The fleet would have attacked their new ally, ignorant of events in their own country. The Grand Enchanter told him that the mages had enjoyed their adventure. More volunteered to join the Grey Wardens and the Nevarran auxiliaries. As for the Orlesian prisoners, he decided that rather than hold them for ransom—which might be long in coming—he would permit the Grey Wardens to inform them of the situation. To a man, they chose to march with the Wardens rather than rot in Nevarran dungeons.

In Antiva, there was some excitement at the news of a Blight, and a feeling that this was an exciting, historic adventure, worth experiencing. The Templars, hearing of the destruction of the Grand Cathedral, were eager to go and avenge the depredations of the false Old God. Their attitude enabled a very large number of mages to sail with them. The Wardens even experienced an influx of hopeful recruits, including a number of Crows, who wanted a change. The Crow Masters discussed this, and decided that as a Blight was an event that had not happened in four hundred years, permitting a few restless boys and girls to take part was in fact, good public relations.

The Warden post at Ansburg in the Free Marches received an excellent response from the Circle in their home city. The numbers they could muster from Markham and Starkhaven were less impressive. They traveled by riverboat down the Minanter to Wycome, where they took ship. At Ostwick, they docked, and the Warden-Commander made a personal appeal to the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander, with considerable success. A similar attempt in Kirkwall yielded not a single mage, for Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard forbade any mage or Templar of the Kirkwall Circle to leave.

"The Grey Wardens," she said coldly, "have ever been a refuge for criminals and apostates."

The Warden-Commander looked her in the eye, and left, making a note to deal with her later. The Grey Wardens would not forget such an insult.

Nonetheless, word got out, as word will do, and a number of Kirkwall's mages, both apostates and from the Circle itself, slipped away. A few managed to make it to the docks and offer their lives and magic to the Warden-Commander. Others braved the terrors of the Planascene Forest and its wyverns, or the desert lands of the Vimmark Pass. Some even survived, and found armies that were glad to take them.

From Tevinter, from Nevarra, and from Weisshaupt, a great army of Wardens, their griffon banners streaming in the wind, journeyed south on the Imperial Highway, moving toward the source of the Blight. The First Warden himself was in command, glad that he had lived to see this day. Border crossings were alerted to expect large numbers of Grey Wardens. The other Wardens, from Rivain and Antiva and the Free Marches, sailed to the great city of Cumberland, their rallying point, to fulfill the duty that could not be forsworn.

There was also the matter of the Dalish, who, like the Dwarves and the mages, were also bound by ancient treaties to support the Wardens. This was a far trickier matter. Historically, sometimes the Dalish came forth against the Blights. Sometimes they did not.

For one thing, one had to be able to find the Dalish. The Dalish did not conveniently live in an underground city or in a tower, but flitted through the forest, treading softly. Nor did they live in all the nations of Thedas. No sane Dalish elf would set foot within the borders of the Tevinter Imperium, since the practice there was to capture and enslave any "wild" elf.

There was also the delicate issue of the Blight having arisen in Orlais, which was another place that the Dalish tended to avoid—or at least which they traveled through as unobtrusively as possible. After all, the Dalish were named for the Dales of Orlais, their ancient homeland, granted to them for their loyal service to Andraste herself. However, after the Second Blight, relations had soured, and the Orlesians had roused the Divine to declare an Exalted March on the elves, ultimately resulting in the acquisition of territory that now amounted to a fourth of the Empire, composing its eastern portion from Montsimmard (once a border fortress) all the way to the Frostbacks. The Dalish elves were the survivors of the elven aristocracy: those who, unlike the commoners who had been herded into the Alienages, kept their independence at the price of a wandering life.

Would the Dalish fight to protect the Orlesians, against whom they must hold bitter rancor? The First Warden doubted it. As well ask them to fight for the Tevinters, were they invaded. Rumor had it that the girl in Ferelden had made contact with the Dalish, and that a number of them had joined her, but would they remain with her when she turned west?

The First Warden's doubts were well-founded. Attempts by the Wardens to enlist the Dalish yielded spotty results. Some Warden-Commanders had conscientiously tried to maintain relations with various clans, and a few of those gave vague promises of going south. More simply melted away into the forests. In the Free Marches, the Warden assigned the duty of contacting the elves was given a blunt refusal by one clan's Keeper.

"That treaty you speak of no longer has any validity. It was made between the Lords of the Dales and the Grey Wardens. The Dales were stolen from the elves by your Chantry, and the Grey Wardens did not aid us then. We shall not aid you now. If the darkspawn come, we shall fight them in our own way."

While the Wardens and their allies upheld—or not— their ancient duties, the various nations of Thedas considered how best to deal with other aspects the current crisis. The current Orlesian crisis. Some Wardens were more forthcoming than others. The Chief Archon of Tevinter and the King of Nevarra were on excellent terms with their respective Warden-Commanders, and they now knew that Orlais was currently without a ruler. They knew that the elite had been savaged by the attack, and that the empire would be in disarray for years, perhaps for decades. Possibly permanently. And everyone hated Orlais.

The Archons of Tevinter debated the matter, and within days, all the property of Orlesian nationals was confiscated, including their ships, their goods, their houses, and even their persons. As Orlais had made itself universally unloved, there was no outcry at the injustice, but rather a great deal of spiteful satisfaction. Other foreign merchants were pacified with new contracts without Orlesian competition. It was all a tremendous boon to the Imperium's coffers, and the Imperial Archon judiciously gave a considerable portion of the proceeds to the Grey Wardens, to further their valuable, nay, essential mission. Over a hundred fit and healthy Orlesians were offered the choice between slavery and induction into the Wardens. They would be sent south to fight as soon as a slave ship was refitted for the duty.

There were also Orlesian mages in Tevinter. Some had been sent there through official channels as students. Others were escaped apostates, making new lives in a land where the word "mage" was not an insult. It was decided that these individuals would be treated quite differently. They were approached, and also offered the chance to become Wardens, but the Joining was not forced upon them. However, in Tevinter, Grey Warden mages were deemed the elite of the order, and paid accordingly. A number of immigrants looked upon it as a good opportunity— excellent pay, free room and board, potential for advancement—which it was, if one survived the initiation.

King Baltus of Nevarra heard the news with grim joy, and began redrawing the maps. Not immediately, but eventually, all of northern Orlais would be Nevarra. They would not go all the way to Val Royeaux, because that would be Blighted, and unfit for habitation for generations, but from Arlesans to Andoral's Reach, they would have new, great cities to add to their realm. Due west held few charms: marshes, deserts, barren mountains. Let the Orlesians continue to claim those worthless territories. The prize plums would be his. He sent troops to support the Wardens. Their secondary duty would be to stem the tide of refugees—preferably by diverting them to the undesirable Western Approach.

The news filtered more slowly to other countries. The Crows of Antiva received it faster than the queen of that country, due to a contact within the Grey Wardens themselves. Their first response was to cancel the contracts on those already known to be dead, and to send no more assassins to Val Royeaux. Presumably the members of their cell within the city were either dead or fighting to survive. The various Masters then called a council to discuss the validity of contracts taken out by those deceased individuals, primarily those taken out by the Empress or her agents. The Empress had her own Shadows, of course, but the Crows had also been used, especially when she wished to deceive others with a false flag attack. While the Crows prided themselves on honoring their contracts as a general rule, there was no one who would hold them to account if these particular contracts were not fulfilled. They could keep the gold and protect their human and elven assets, who might otherwise be killed or injured. There were some other longstanding contracts, such as the one on Loghain Mac Tir, which were set aside as a separate issue. No one had dared to take up that contract in several years. However, a number of other people had also contracted for his death, and so a final decision was held in abeyance.

The contracts taken out by Rendon Howe on the young Queen of Ferelden and her brother were cancelled. Rendon Howe was no longer alive to complain, and the Fereldans were fighting the Blight, which was an advantage to them all, now that everyone was convinced that it was indeed a Blight. However, word had come that the contract taken out on the Howe family was incomplete. Signora Fortuny, that distinguished and important patron, had learned that the eldest son, now Arl of Amaranthine, had survived, and she was very angry. The Masters agreed that someone must be sent to tie up that unfortunate loose end.

Some members of the clergy also knew of the attack on Val Royeaux. The Black Divine in Minrathous had naturally been informed, and had kept his solemn countenance to an admirable degree, as he led prayers for those dead in the rival religious center to the south. The Grand Cleric of Nevarra knew that the Grand Cathedral had been destroyed and that many clergy had perished. No one could tell her the fate of the Divine.

Ser Silas Corthwaite had been following the Imperial Highway, day after day. His heart lifted at the longed-for sight of the Frostback Gates, the wide mountain pass that was the gateway to Orzammar, and further on, to Ferelden. Ultimately, the way narrowed, as it led through heavily fortified Gherlen's Pass, but that was another day away.

There was much on his mind. The Divine was totally under the control of the Reclamationist Party, who wanted to put Ferelden under Orlesian rule once more. The attack by the darkspawn at Ostagar was interpreted by them as a sign of the Maker's anger against the Fereldans, who had rebelled against their rightful rulers. The Empress had been cool to the Reclamationists for years, but the darkspawn attack had evidently seemed a fine opportunity to regain those fertile fields in the Bannorn. Orlais needed Ferelden to better prosecute its war with Nevarra.

People tended to forget that Silas was Ferelden-born-and-bred himself, and when reminded, they would condescend with silly compliments about how civilized and courteous he was, and how he was not at all like a Fereldan.

His usual response was, "I am a Fereldan. Therefore, I am exactly like one."

He did not like the Orlesians taking advantage of what the Grey Wardens regarded as a Blight, but there had been little he could do, until Revered Mother Dorothea had given him a direct order to warn Grand Cleric Muirin. Orlais was not a safe place for her. She should plead ill-health and stay in Denerim, no matter how pressing the "invitations" were.

He rode on, resting his horse frequently, since he had not had a change since Halamshiral. Perhaps he should turn off and head toward Jader, where he could get a fresh pair of horses and night's rest in a bed in the Templar barracks. That, however, might delay him. It was vital to keep ahead of the Imperial Army.

As a Templar, he could generally claim shelter most places, and considered the idea of stopping at Chateau Solidor instead. The castle drew closer as he rode, its towers blending into the rugged hills behind it. It was an Imperial fortress, and the captain there would almost certainly welcome him. As he approached, something nagged at him. Something was different here, and he tried to determine what it was.

And then he noticed the banner at the topmost tower. Silas was fairly sure that particular banner should not be there. He picked up the pace, squinting ahead, and then noticed all the activity surrounding the castle. Something had happened...

The soldiers had noticed him now, and were looking his way. It would cowardly and foolish to turn around and gallop off. He rode on, and presented himself to the nearest officer.

"Ser Silas Corthwaite of the Grand Cathedral. I am bearing a message for the Grand Cleric of Ferelden."

"Well— " The officer chuckled grimly. "That's way above my pay grade. Reckon you'll need to see the Queen. Follow me."

Silas dismounted and followed the officer. His horses were led away, with the officer's cheerful assurance that no one would steal them. Once they reached the gates of the castle proper, he was handed off to a different officer, this one with finer armor. Yes, it was perfectly plain that Fereldan troops occupied this castle. The Queen was actually here? What had happened? Had the Fereldans taken Jader, too?

Puzzling over the strange situation, he did not notice the pretty young woman coming down the stairs until she called out to him.

"Silas!"

"Leliana!"

Thanks to my reviewers: JTheClivaz, Rexiselic, Vibrolux61, DjinniGenie, KnightOfHolyLight, Guest, Tirion I, butterflygrrl, Highlord, trevalyan, MsBarrows, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Nemrut, Robbie the Phoenix, Ie-maru, JackOfBladesX, Mike3207, Lyssa Terald, Blinded in a bolthole, sizuka2, Phygmalion, Jenna53, Death Knight's Crowbar, kitza, Fastforwarmotion, RB23G, NPC200, AD Lewis, darksky01, jnybot, dragonmactir, Herebedragons66, Zute, and Josie Lange.

I changed my mind about Wynne's mage son being dead. Rhys did survive, but he and his friends are escaping to the northwest, and will play no further part in this story.

My list of Circles is from the Dragon Age Wiki. However, I have tossed out the Jainen Circle of Ferelden, which is only referenced in the Google+ and Facebook Game Dragon Age: Legends. It is not mentioned anywhere else, and since it had no role in Origins, I refuse to believe it actually exists. Why would Ferelden have two Circles of Magi a day apart in distance? The logical location would be the island south of Gwaren that in my other fanfic I call Salt Island. Or perhaps at a rebuilt Tower of Ishal at Ostagar. And why doesn't the PC Warden go there? So I am not using Jainen. I am using all the rest of them, however. Remember that while the Rivaini Circle was annulled, that was not until 9:39-40, and the Starkhaven Circle did not burn until around 9:31-32 (estimate). Thus, they still exist.

I've had to invent some towns. Obviously Thedas is grossly underpopulated based on the map. My thought is that (aside from Ferelden), the developers are only showing cities of ten thousand or more. There are all sorts of places that must have settlements around them: where roads fork, at the mouths of rivers, along rivers and lakes, along the ocean. Once of the most bizarre blanks is on the map of Orlais, where a road is indicated across the Waking Sea. I presume that indicates a crossing that is heavily used. There should be a town on either side of the sea. In the chapter I refer to "port of Lydes." The map also only shows a few major roads. Obviously there are many more, since we have cities with no roads leading to them. I think there must be a road along the Waking Sea coast, because traveling on the Imperial Highway all around Lake Celestine is ridiculous. And there are no towns at all in the Dales. Huh? there has got to be a town at the mouth of what I call the River Orne, which connects Lake Celestine to the Waking Sea. There would probably be a town AT Lake Celestine, too. In Ferelden, there should be a town built up around Vigil's Keep, which is at the mouth of the Hafter River.

For the fate of the Orlesian fleet, I was influenced by a dated but readable account of the destruction of the Imperial Russian Baltic fleet at the Battle of Tsushima during the Russo-Japanese War. (The Fleet That Had to Die, by Richard Hough). Among other reasons, the Russian defeat was primarily due to three factors: the deficiencies of the Russian warships and their crews, the poor leadership of their admiral, and the choice of the route.

Yes, the Qunari will become very interested in events, but not until they get word of this. Having no Wardens, they will be the last to know.