Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 114: Over the Hills and Far Away
With the Orlesian fleet destroyed, Isabela was eager to put to sea again. Partying in Highever was great fun, but nothing compared with a deck under her feet and the winds whipping through her hair. She had a little flotilla of her own now, and was a power to be reckoned with in these waters. And so, she stood at the helm of The Siren's Call, contemplating her options.
Obviously, she couldn't bite the hand that fed her, so to speak, so Fereldan ships were safe. Everyone else, however, was fair game …
There was Kirkwall shipping, and Ostwick shipping, and heaps of other wallowing merchantmen that would be ripe for plucking. There were also the rogue vessels of the Felicisima Armada, which were the enemies of all. They were harder nuts to crack, but always full of yummy golden goodness inside.
Theoretically, she was under orders to protect the Fereldan north coast, which now extended all the way to Jader, but that could be achieved perfectly well with some serious patrolling of this end of the Waking Sea. If she just happened to spot a desirable prize, it could be justified as necessary training for the lads to keep their hand in.
Her biggest prize, the Orlesian warship, Empress Area, was still in drydock being repaired. Isabela was going to rename it, of course, since she though the first Orlesian empress' name was terribly silly. It would be her flagship, eventually, with the loveliest, most luxurious stern cabin imaginable, and, in the right hands, the potential for maneuverability that would make an old salt weep. Isabela herself was the model for the figurehead at the bow.
"Hmmm. What's in a name?…Terror' is always nice, but maybe a little generic," she considered. "'Pearl of the Waking Sea'… 'The Black Pearl'… or just 'The Pearl'….hmmm… good times there. 'The Revenge?' 'Isabela's Revenge?' 'The Best Revenge?'… I rather like that one…Or maybe something patriotic? 'The Red Queen'… 'The Dragon Queen'… Not 'The Girl Warden!' That sounds too goody-goody for words. Nothing about dogs, and nothing about land battles. Boring. 'Red Queen' really isn't bad, and who's to say which queen I mean? I could commission red sails! That would be very impressive."
A mist fell at evening, cool and white. Visibility diminished to alm
ost nothing. The lookout aloft was alert for gathering storms and other vessels.
"To starboard!" he shouted. "Captain! I think it's a Qunari dreadnought!"
This created something of an alarm. The rest of the crew on deck rushed to the rail to see.
"Shit!" growled Isabela, forsaking all daydreams instantly. "Show me!"
Some big was moving fast off their starboard side. Something quite a bit bigger than the Siren's Call.
"Battlestations, Captain?"
"Oh, yes, but quietly."
"We're not going to try to take them on?" squeaked her nice new elven mage.
"I don't see how that could be a good idea, Sketch," she replied. "But if they put the moves on us, we'll bloody well fight back!"
But the big deadnought was not interested in engaging the bas. Its commander, called Karasten—for that was his rank as an infantry commander— was in the Waking Sea to investigate the report of the destruction of the city of Val Royeaux. He had been given a well-equipped force and a large dreadnought. His mission was to gather intelligence and determine if it was, in fact true. If so, was the land in such confusion that it might be ripe for the Qun?
There was another issue at stake. After the so-called "Exalted March," The Tome of Koslun had been kept by the bas in their city of Val Royeaux. The Llomeryn Accords, which had ended the war between the bas of the White Chantry and the Qunari, had decreed that the Tome of Koslun was to be returned to the Qunari. It was a foundational work by their greatest philosopher. The Orlesians had proved dilatory, and the book had not yet been returned. If necessary, Karasten was to determine the feasibility of an expedition to penetrate into the city and seize the volume. If opportunity came his way, he was to use his best judgment and attempt to recover it himself. It was believed to be kept in the Grand Cathedral.
Last in priority was to obtain information about the scouting party sent to Ferelden under a Sten of the Beresaad. The Sten's mission was to comprehend the nature of the Blight phenomenon and report to the Arishok, but no word had been heard of him. He was presumed dead, but those who knew him considered that particular Sten a resourceful soldier. Perhaps he was still gathering data, and had not yet found a way to return to Qunandar.
So Karasten and his dreadnought slipped past the Narrows, and entered the western portion of the Waking Sea. The ship was in good condition. They had watered first on the little island of Estwatch, and then again on the Wounded Coast, not far from Kirkwall. This had given Tallis, a member of the Ben-Hassrath traveling with them, the chance to make a brief reconnaissance of the city, for purposes she did not divulge. They had also undertaken some repairs there. Presumably there would be considerable traffic on the seas near Val Royeaux. Though the darkspawn were considered dangerous, they could not affect the ship in any way. According to intelligence, they could not even swim. The dreadnought would provide a secure base for their explorations.
Isabela followed the ship for some time, keeping her distance, hoping they would not take offense and come about for an attack. The dreadnought was hugging the northern coast, and appeared to be heading for Cumberland, so she turned aside at last, and followed a new heading to Jader, just to let the Powers That Be know that a Qunari vessel was in the neighborhood.
Karasten was informed that the pursuing vessel had dropped out of sight. He merely grunted. Only a fool would attack a Qunari dreadnought, armed as it was with twenty cannon on each side, each capable of firing a twenty-pound ball. Gaatlok was the great secret of the Qunari, and a defense against the bas. Once into the harbor of Val Royeaux, they could bombard the city prior to making a landing.
Their water tanks were deep, and Qunari could go without water for some time. Karasten had determined that they would make no more stops until they reached Val Royeaux. Surprise could be of paramount importance. They knew little about the darkspawn, but warning an enemy of one's arrival was never prudent.
In three days, they entered Val Royeaux's excellent harbor. It was at the mouth of the River Royeaux, and a superb deep water port. Karasten surveyed the area from a distance with some concern though his spyglass. It bore all the marks of a devastating sack. Smoke rose lazily from the upper city. It appeared that part of the dockyards had also suffered a major fire.
There were no ships afloat in harbor. There were some half-submerged hulks, however. He must be vigilant for underwater hazards. Something had sunk a great many ships in the harbor, and the worthless bas had not cleared the wreckage. To be just, it could well be that there were no bas available. There were no signs of movement visible. Just to be on safe side, he gave the order to ready the port cannons.
He was approached by his second-in-command, First Sten.
"Shall I ready a ship's boat for the scouting party, Karasten?"
"Do so. It is clear that we will not be able to go much further into the harbor with so much debris."
The Ben-Hassrath, Tallis, came forward. As she was of the elven race, she was a tiny figure among the huge, horned warriors; but she carried authority with her, and all treated her with respect.
"I shall lead the scouting part myself. Expect me back before dark. That's when the darkspawn become active."
"As you wish, Ben-Hassrath."
Soundings were taken, and lookouts leaned over the water to watch for hidden dangers. With careful maneuvering, they were able to get a little closer before they were forced to drop anchor and launch the boat. First Sten took the helm. Ten warriors joined him, and acted as oarsmen. One of the saarebas in the ship's complement was unchained from the rest and ordered into the boat. Tallis sat in the bow, scanning the ruined docks as the oarsmen brought them to a usable pier.
From the dreadnought, Karasten watched impassively, but his eyes missed nothing. In time, the landing party moved out of sight, making their way carefully through the ruins. Tallis had been provided with a reliable map of the city, though of course much would be altered with the manifest destruction before them. The darkspawn creatures appeared to be nothing if not thorough. Were they formidable opponents in themselves? That remained to be seen. He had read a book about the prior Blights during the voyage, but it seemed to be largely fictional. All of the myths and legends centered around creatures called Old Gods. It pointed up the primitive survivals of the cultures unenlightened by the Qun. According to the legends, then, these Blights were triggered by the release of an imprisoned Old God —a High Dragon— which was renamed an "Archdemon." This Archdemon led a horde of darkspawn to the surface for a lengthy rampage. There had been four such Blights, all ending when the Archdemon was slain. The last had ended two hundred years before the arrival of the Qunari.
Karasten had never seen a dragon himself, but he had read about them. Mature dragons were large and dangerous beasts, but were largely extinct, except on the border of Nevarra and Orlais. High Dragons had not been seen in many ages, though there were rumors that the young Queen of Ferelden had slain one. Bas —their undisciplined minds untethered to reality — always exaggerated their deeds. That the reputed Dragonslayer was a female made the Qunari even more certain that this was an invention, or a metaphor for some sort of religious rite.
Time passed; Karasten made certain that the gunners remained at their posts, and that the hands were alert. He sent a second watch up into the crow's nest, so that none would grow weary and inattentive. A quick meal was brought to those at their posts, including himself. Karasten would not have his men distracted by hunger.
There was still no sign of movement in the dockyard buildings. As Tallis had said, it was known that these darkspawn creatures disliked sunlight and were more active at night.
He glanced at his own map, estimating distances. By now, if not hampered by collapsed buildings, Tallis and First Sten should be nearly at the site of the Grand Cathedral. An elevation drawing of the city indicated that the twin towers of the cathedral should be visible from the waterfront, but Karasten could not make them out. Evidently, they had indeed fallen as reported.
That "report" was mysterious. It was utterly impossible that a messenger could have witnessed this event on the twenty-sixth of Guardian and reached Qunandar to report it. Yes, the report itself now appeared to be true, but how was the message sent? Rumor had it that the Grey Warden had seen this attack in the Fade, but that seemed fantastical and foolish. Prophecy was mere superstition. It could be that the legendary sending stones of the elves were used. If so, someone must have more of the stones somewhere in Rivain. Karasten believed that an expedition was underway there to uncover their location. The locals could be made to talk with the right incentives. The Grey Warden post in Dairsmuid might be vulnerable to a well-planned raid, since many of them had departed to fight the Blight.
The Grey Wardens, too... Secret societies had no place in an efficiently administered polity. They did not respond to qamek, and when encountered fought creditably. They were rarely captured, and then little information could be got from them. It was generally best to simply kill them. The rest of Thedas seemed to put considerable faith in the notion that the Grey Wardens were the ones to deal with this "Blight." Why could not well-trained, well-motivated Qunari warriors do likewise? Indeed, why could they not do better?
The sun was sinking in the western sky, and the landing party had not yet returned. Karasten did not allow himself to worry. There was still plenty of time. In the best case scenario, Tallis was even now returning with the Tome of Koslun in her hands.
"Karasten!" shouted the lookout in the crow's nest, pointing. "Karasten! Something in the sky! It is not a cloud!"
The sky? Odd. No danger save bad weather could come from the sky. A storm would be inconvenient. Karasten searched the skies, and then saw the curious little black dot. A bird?
He peered through the spyglass, and, involuntarily, he shuddered. No bird. A dragon, and apparently a large one. It was headed their way.
"Cannon crews stand by!" he shouted. Two points northwest, elevation forty-five degrees!"
The problem was, that the altitude was relative. As the dragon swooped closer, its position in the sky was revealed to be very far above them. With grim certainty, Karasten acknowledged that he was seeing a High Dragon, and that they were all in great danger.
"Karasten!" shouted a gunnery officer. "We cannot elevate the cannons any higher!"
"Weigh anchor!" Karasten shouted. "Hoist the mainsail!" The tide was coming out, which was in their favor. There was no lee wind to drive them aground. They might well need to stand out to sea. The dragon's flight toward them appeared to be deliberate.
Abruptly, it swooped to the ground, nearly disappearing for a moment, and then it soared almost vertically. Something was clutched in the front talons; something small and struggling that was carelessly released and fell a long way to the ground. Karasten looked through the spyglass again. He could not be sure, but wasn't that the saarebas? The dragon came on. Something on the ground was running toward the docks. The harness, the weapons! In front, the tiny figure! They were definitely three of the landing party!
"Archers! Make ready!" He commanded. "Give cover!"
It was useless. Behind the running Qunari were a mob of monstrous creatures. These, then, were darkspawn. At first Karasten took them for dwarves by their size, but the run was a curious bandy-legged waddle; awkward-looking, but terribly fast. The fleeing Qunari were dragged down, and disappeared under the darkspawn. One—Tallis— had escaped them, and sprinted ahead of them to the pier. She dove into the water, and began striking out strongly for the ship. The darkspawn crowded at the docks, jeering. It was impossible to send a boat out for her. She would survive or not, on her own.
"Fire on the docks!" he commanded.
A great booming noise, and smoke filled the air. Cannonballs whistled through the air and exploded. Several were aimed well enough to blast the big knot of darkspawn apart. They killed their fellow Qunari as well. Perhaps it was a mercy.
The Archdemon roared, executing a complex, graceful maneuver in midair. The long neck swiveled toward the ship.
"Helmsman!" shouted Karasten. "Get us out of this harbor!" In a sudden burst of inspiration, he ordered, "Unchain the Saarebas and bring them up on deck." Saarebas were used on land, and cannon at sea. but magic could do what science could not, and fire a curse straight overhead. An officer went below decks to carry out the order.
Slowly, painfully slowly, the ship began inching away from the shores of Val Royeaux. Too slowly. The Archdemon seemed to hover briefly, and then climbed for altitude. Abruptly, it dropped, coming up fast on their stern.
"Archers! Loose!"
The feeble arrows were no more than straws in the wind against the armored hide of the Archdemon. The stern canon fired, but the trajectory of the cannonballs was hopelessly shallow.
The dragon had all the advantage. Its jaws gaped wide, and purple flames bloomed, scorching the dreadnought from stern to bowsprit, roasting most of those on deck who did not leap into the sea. The two saarebas, chained together, did not have time to gather their power or realize the source of the danger clearly. They were knocked over the side, and drowned, weighed down by their chains and iron collars. The dragon passed on, and pulled up. Tilting into a turn, it came back for another run. The sails were already aflame. It came down low, bellowing. Another blast of flame, and whole port side was burning.
The lifeboats on the starboard side and the number two collapsible boat were still usable. It would not take long for these flames to reach the gaatlok magazine.
"Abandon ship!"
The boats were launched, and the ship was evacuated. The Archdemon, mildly amused, watched them, coming in now and then to pick them off in the water.
The explosion took it entirely by surprise. A white light, bright as dragonfire, burst forth suddenly, and then there were a thunderous succession of roars, so close together they seemed one. The deck of the ship seemed to detach, break up into a thousand piece, and fly up in the air. The shock wave caught the Archdemon in mid-flap before it was struck by a mass of debris. Wounded, it squealed in an earsplitting convulsion of pain, and sheered away, flying toward shore and its nest.
With immense effort, the collapsible boat was assembled and righted. Sharks took four of the men as they labored in the water. Burned and injured, fifteen survivors—including Karasten and the intrepid Tallis —rowed away from Val Royeaux in the sheltering darkness, heading south for the opposite coast of Orlais. Their destination was the mouth of the River Orne. Surely it was out of the flying range of the dragon.
The city of Halamshiral knew that the Red Queen was coming.
Specifically, the Vicomte de Brangelome, the ruler of the city in the absence of its lord Duke Enguerrand, knew that the Alliance against the Blight was headed in his direction. The latter nobleman had been in Val Royeaux, and was very likely dead, but no one could be certain of that. He might well make an appearance eventually, and the Vicomte would have to account for his conduct to him.
Duke Prosper sent him a message, advising him that it would be wise — very wise — to open his gates to the Allied army and give them every assistance in his power.
"Let me put it this way, my friend. If you open your gates, the Fereldans will be gone within a day or so, on their way to fight the Archdemon in the west, which is something we would all like very much. If you defy the army, and close your gates, they are likely to set up camp outside your walls and lay siege to the city. That will be unpleasant —for you— and it will delay our campaign. I speak with the authority of Empress Celandine, the rightful heiress by blood."
In the end, the Vicomte decided it was safer to open the gates than to hazard a siege. Halamshiral was packed with frightened refugees, and he had to keep the gates open, anyway, in order to keep the refugees flowing toward the Fereldan border.
As the army's path crossed with more refugees the stories grew wilder, more shocking, more violent. Some of the refugees were owning up to having been in the army the night it was destroyed by the Archdemon. One man was traveling with his brother, who was now blind from burns he had suffered. It was too late to cure his eyes, but the army mages could ease his pain. No one demanded that the two men somehow go back and fight. They had a little farm in the foothills of the Frostbacks, and were technically citizens of Ferelden now. Loghain sent a note with them to the castellan of Solidor to give them assistance, once he heard their whole story from beginning to end. The tale of the Archdemon's destruction of the Orlesian camp was an awful warning. He gave thought to how to keep watch for an airborne menace.
And in Halamshiral, they came across the first refugees who were obviously infected with Blight sickness. "Came across" was a mild, and thus inaccurate way to put it. Refugees, grey and blotchy with Taint, were discovered in the Market, and in a screaming panic, they were lynched and burned to death by a mob. Two guards were killed and three injured trying to stop the riot. The army stepped in, and it got very ugly very quickly.
Bronwyn eventually moved in with her Wardens, telling the people to stay in their homes, and that if anyone was infected with the Blight disease, to come to the Wardens. The disease, she said, could sometimes be cured by the Wardens, and the sooner they reported to them the better. A handful of people turned themselves in, and were seen no more by the citizens of Halamshiral. The Healers did what they could for them, but Bronwyn did not give much for the chances of any of them but one, a big, robust warrior, who might live long enough to face the darkspawn.
Prosper had also sent out an order of muster to the nobles of the Dales. It would take some time for it to reach many of them: the minor nobles at least, who were the backbone of the chevalier class. An audience was held, and some names were enrolled in the alliance. Some names were not, and Prosper noted those down for future retribution.
To say that Halamshiral left a bad taste in everyone's mouth was not overstating the matter. The Dalish found the city horrifying for complex historical reasons. This had been the actual elven capital of the Dales, founded by the free elves who had been Andraste's loyal allies. "The End of the Journey," they had called it in their tongue.
"But it wasn't, was it?" Tara said bitterly. "A brief intermission at best, and now you couldn't tell it from any other human city. It even has an Alienage! How sick is that?"
"Calm yourself, bella mia," Zevran soothed her. "The world is the world."
"They should at least have changed the name. It's gloating and horrible," she muttered.
The Dalish hated it, too, looking almost in vain for traces of Elven architecture. It was all gone: either razed completely, or faced over with fresh stone. Only in the arches for the gates there remained some of the ancient grace, and there the inscriptions had been chiseled away, and replaced by terra cotta friezes of triumphant chevaliers.
"I hate this," Siofranni whispered to Danith, as they took their turns standing guard. The locals came to stare at them, talking loudly, as if the elves were deaf, or did not understand common speech.
"I hate it too, lethallan," Danith murmured back, "but we must bear it a little longer." In truth, it felt like they were miscreants, held up for the scorn of shemlen. It as just the sort of thing that made her question why she was risking her life for these awful people. She was not sure she could make Bronwyn understand, but she must try. Too much time in a place like this would shatter the allegiance of the Dalish. There was too much history here; too much terrible history and too much present humiliation.
She went with some other elves—Adaia, Siofranni, and Cathair — to the Halamshiral Alienage. It was large and old—possibly the oldest Alienage in Thedas, since it was here that the first captive elves were rounded up after the fall of the Dales, and here that they were told that they were to serve their human masters thenceforth.
Some of the Jader elves came with them. Danith was far more accustomed to city elves now, and so was able to sense that these elves were more like Adaia Tabris than the usual run of 'flat ears.' They were outspoken and aggressive. They had had enough, but were not sure what their options were.
"One thing is sure," Adaia declared forcefully, in her low, croaking voice. "Bronwyn is the best friend the elves have had in ages... or that we're ever likely to have. Now's the time for change. The Orlesians are all running around in confusion. The elves are going to do their part by fighting against the Blight. But for those who can't fight, I'd advise moving out and going east. They're plenty of room in the new elven land in Fereldan. It would be safer, too."
"Some have talked about leaving the Alienage," the local hahren confessed. "The question always is: where would be better? Where could we go?"
Siofranni said, "It's better in the Elven Village. It's getting built up now, there in the land Bronwyn gave us. A real elven town, with no shemlen to tell us what to do! We can give you a map. The Fereldan soldiers have been ordered not to mistreat elves. This may be the safest time ever for elves to travel."
"Yes," agreed Danith. "This is the time. Either the Blight will continue and the darkspawn will spread and the world will become more dangerous; or we will defeat the Blight, and a new shemlen ruler will take command here in Orlais. They will want to establish their authority, and they will tighten their grip on the elves."
The hahren could well see this. Once any rebuilding started, elves would be in demand for their cheap labor. If the shems feared losing such labor, travel would restricted, as it often was. Right now, there were no restrictions, and the Vicomte had other things on his mind than the elves. In fact, he was glad for the refugees to be on their way. The hahren furrowed his brow in thought, making plans. The visitors could not know that he had long and bitter personal grievances against the rulers of Halamshiral, and would be glad to shake the dust of it from his feet.
"We can't all go at once. We'd be noticed. Groups can go, though; mixing in the rest of the refugees."
A Jader elf said, "And some of your young people should come with us! We're going to fight! We've sworn to follow Queen Bronwyn, and when she goes back to Ferelden, we'll be able to follow her there with the army. We could use more fighters."
"I'll go with you," a young woman said. "I'd rather fight darkspawn for Queen Bronwyn than stay here. I hate this place."
Bronwyn disliked Halamshiral herself.
"We've got to move on," Bronwyn said to Loghain. "The elves are getting restless. Danith's come to talk to me. The local humans are treating them badly."
"Of course they're restless," Loghain agreed. He was restless himself. He was in a foreign city, and a foreign city not conquered by Ferelden. He was here as a guest, and being a guest of the Orlesians made him want to vomit up any and all comestibles they put before him. Everything felt wrong.
But they attended the Chantry service, where Bronwyn was made much of and Loghain glared at. That was bracing; that was something he could sink his teeth into. He didn't mind being hated himself, as long as the bloody Orlesians hated only him, and would leave his people alone.
They collected what supplies they could, though they were probably taking food out of the mouths of refugees. More came to the city with each new day.
The main thing was to keep their communications open. Loghain sent back regular messages. An important one involved the fleet. They needed to move. Now that the Orlesian threat was at the bottom of the sea, he wanted some ships available: a squadron at Jader, and two or three at the port of Lydes, in case they had people to evacuate that he did not wish to leave to the kindness of the Orlesians along the Imperial Highway.
More came to join the army, and one individual arrived who nearly caused the collapse of the alliance.
Boniface Clery was the grandson of a minor chevalier who had been killed at the Battle of River Dane, thirty-one years before. The death of Ser Laurence Clery had led to the subsequent impoverishment of the family, due to inheritance taxes and loss of patronage. Thirty years later, the son, the grandmother, the aunts and uncles and cousins were still sitting in the tiny unimproved manor left to them south of Halamshiral, not lifting a hand to better themselves –for that would mean soiling their hands and heritage with trade—but instead blaming the man they believed had ruined their lives. Their hatred for all things Fereldan was bitter and unrelenting. None of them had actually been to Ferelden or met a native of that country, but the word was synonymous with every evil under the sun.
When news came that their ancient enemy had dared to enter Orlais and put himself within reach of their revenge, every member of the family demanded that young Boniface uphold their honor by killing Loghain Mac Tir.
Did they not understand about the Blight? That was a question that was asked again and again later on. Had they not heard that the Empress was dead, killed by filthy darkspawn? Did they not grasp that their own lives could soon be in danger? If they did comprehend any of these things, apparently they had no importance in comparison with their personal feud with the King of Ferelden, who did not even know of their existence.
Did they understand the political ramifications of such an assassination? That was difficult to say. It was clear that they believed that their cherished heir could kill a Fereldan without consequences.
It was easy enough to get close. The young man came on the pretext of doing homage on behalf of his father for their manor. It was an amusing ceremony. Ser Boniface was doing homage by proxy to Duke Prosper, who was accepting it as a proxy for Empress Celandine.
Loghain and Bronwyn were on their chairs of state nearby, acting as witnesses. Boniface of course recognized Loghain, who was probably one of the most recognizable men in Thedas, even if he had not been daily described to him as the personal enemy of the Clerys.
He was a good-looking young man, even if his clothes and armor were old-fashioned and his horse was of questionable quality. His fellow Orlesians sneered at him, but the Fereldan monarchs did not; nor, to his credit, did Prosper, who clearly understood the importance of every sword in the campaign. The young man dropped gracefully to one knee to offer homage, and rose, suddenly pivoting to the side, his dagger in his hand, launched toward Loghain.
What happened next was both embarrassing and nearly fatal— for the would-be assassin.
Loghain was alert, because he constantly expected Orlesians to try to kill him. He was in armor, too; his trophy River Dane armor, not caring a particle if it hurt the Orlesians' feelings or not. He was surrounded by loyal retainers, and accompanied by two mabari. His wife, at his side, had killed dragons.
But it was Loghain himself who dealt with the attack, responding instantly, rising since he could not side-step, catching the young man's wrist in a steely grip.
With his left fist, he slammed hard into his attacker's elbow. There was too much armor there to succeed in breaking his arm, but the shock caused Boniface to drop the dagger. Instantly every Fereldan had drawn a weapon, and fallen in a protective circle around Loghain.
"You killed my grandfather!" Boniface shrieked, as Loghain forced him to his knees. "You ruined my family!"
Loghain stared at him, nonplussed, and then snorted a laugh and punched the boy out.
"'Killed his grandfather?' That's a new one." He glared at Prosper. "So, Duke? This was your scheme all along?"
"Of course not!"
It could have been quite the disaster. Since the Fereldans were drawing their weapons, the Orlesians went for theirs. Prosper stepped out in front and called for order.
"Hear me! Hear me! We shall not fight each other!"
Very visibly, he dropped his sword,
And his belt knife, And his boot knife. And the other boot knife. And even the dirk hidden up his left sleeve.
"All right," said Bronwyn, "We'll all drop our weapons on three. One... two..."
An awful pause.
"... three."
She cast the Keening Blade down with a clang. With some hesitation, the blades were lowered, and sheathed, and an uneasy peace was restored. Loghain had not bothered to draw his sword at all.
Then there was the difficulty about what to do with the assassin. It was obviously undesirable for Fereldans to kill Orlesian nobles out of hand. Prosper had his own men seize him and take him away.
"I shall have to make an example of him," he sighed. "Stupid boy. I don't suppose you would care to conscript him?"
Bronwyn frowned, and glanced at Loghain. He shrugged.
"Give me some time to consider it," she said." I have to think about how my people would react to it, and if it would be perceived as a reward. That's unacceptable. On the other hand, so much reckless anger deserves a proper outlet."
Prosper met with the local nobles and upper clergy in private. There he stated his firm conviction that Bronwyn was indeed Andraste's True Champion, and specially favored by the Maker. He read sections from his bound copy of the Conclave's minutes. The burning in effigy in Val Royeaux was brought up, and abruptly slapped down with Prosper's eyewitness account and the grim facts of what happened immediately after.
"Opposing her is clearly offensive to the Maker," Prosper concluded. "Whatever you may think of Loghain Mac Tir, the man is her husband, the King of Ferelden, and a tactician without peer. We must face this darkspawn threat immediately and with great resolve, and we must be grateful for the allies that the Maker has sent our way."
The Revered Mother of Halamshiral was pious and a bit doddering, but was deeply impressed. Most of the nobles were likewise convinced, and those who were not were convinced by Prosper's pragmatic arguments about the wisdom of letting the Fereldans lead in the fight against the Blight. Other nobles cherished a secret passion for the Red Queen, and hoped to win her notice by brave deeds. Then, too, they needed a leader of their own. Empress Celandine sounded promising, and offered a more secure future than an Orlais fractured into a hundred little principalities.
Prosper gave the same lecture, only with rather less courtesy, to Boniface Clery in the Halamshiral dungeons, and explained that though he was being given the great and undeserved opportunity of becoming a Grey Warden to expiate his cowardly and shameful attack on a guest, he would also have to suffer a public punishment for such an attack.
So, instead of a public beheading, Boniface Clery was given twenty lashes in the Market; not before a distinguished group of nobles, but before the mob of the city, who found the plight of a young nobleman in difficulties irresistibly funny. Afterwards, he was turned over to the Grey Warden Aveline Valen, whom Bronwyn thought was the best choice to make him shape up. As for the boy's family, they were a matter for Prosper de Montfort's justice, and Bronwyn did not envy them.
They departed soon after, with more elves joining the band from Jader. Loghain found their red banners rather ridiculous. Prosper thought them ominous.
Civil society had collapsed in Lydes.
Bronwyn knew that things were bad there, based on the stories she's heard from refugees running away from the city. As they approached, it obvious that the situation had deteriorated rapidly. Smoke rose in the distance, and they feared the darkspawn had attacked.
It was not darkspawn. Perhaps, in some ways, it was worse.
Off to the side of the road ahead of them, there was what appeared to be a battle, until they rode closer and saw it was a massacre. One side had weapons of glittering steel; their victims were unarmed, huddled together kneeling, hands raised in submission, mouths screaming for mercy. Corpses sprawled in the undergrowth. People were dragging out struggling figures and holding them over logs while a squad of men with axes and greatswords beheaded them. Some of the victims were very small. With each blow the frenzied mob cheered, as the triumphant headsmen displayed their bloody prizes.
"They're killing elves! They're killing children!" Tara cried. She loosed a fireball at the mob. It exploded among them, knocking the attackers down and burning some. Two, on fire, rushed shrieking into the underbrush.
Loghain swore, and ordered a company of pikemen forward. With shield and pikes, they could dominate a crowd better than most without engaging in talk, which was pointless with such a mob. As he came closer, he realized he could barely understand their jargon, anyway. Bronwyn, of course, was horrified at the slaughter, and had to know what was happening.
"Stop!" she shouted in Orlesian. "What are you doing, killing unarmed elves? You!" she pointed at a big man with an axe. "Tell me!"
"The elves are in league with the darkspawn!" the man sputtered. "The priest told us so! They summoned the creatures to attack Orlais!"
Shouts and cheers echoed this bizarre claim.
"What priest?" Bronwyn demanded, livid. "Point her out to me! I want to see this priest who thinks she knows more about darkspawn than a Grey Warden!"
There were hesitant murmurs of 'Mother Sidoine!" and scattered protests. Bronwyn ignored them.
"Well? Priest! Come out, you coward! Surely you're proud of your handiwork!"
"Oh, Bronwyn!" Leliana whispered, pleading. "Don't!"
A few worthy citizens tried to shield the woman, but most flinched away. The priest was young, with short-cropped hair and wild eyes. She stepped forward defiantly, her chin lifted.
"Je n'ai pas peur de toi, hérétique! Je suis la servante fidèle du Créateur!"
Beside herself with rage, Bronwyn jumped down from her horse and grabbed the woman by the throat.
"Liar! Menteuse! Lâche! Tu aimes tant le sang?! Alors bois-en!"
Bronwyn dragged her over to the pile of headless corpses and pushed her face into a child's gory throat, rubbing it in.
"Had your fill of blood yet? Maybe you want a little more!"
She dragged the woman up, showing the crowd the blood-smeared face, and then threw the priest to the ground in contempt.
"Here's your true enemy!" she raged in Orlesian. "Here's the one who summoned evil into your midst! This women made you pawns in her lust for cruelty. She lied to you about the darkspawn, about which she knows nothing!" She shouted, "The darkspawn acknowledge no allies! They are mindless monsters. To say that anyone: elf, human, or dwarf could be in league with them is a lie!"
The priest groaned, and tried to struggle to her feet. Bronwyn stamped on her back with a dragonbone boot.
"Ai-je dit que tu pouvais te lever?" In Fereldan, Bronwyn snarled, "Maker deliver me from troublesome priests!"
Ser Silas slid down from his mount, and walked up behind her, his Templar armor an ensign of authority, his hands up in a soothing gesture.
"La Reine Rouge a raison," he said, his voice pitched to persuade. "This priest is demented. She knows nothing of darkspawn. Her heart is full of fear, and she lashes out blindly. Your own Revered Mother cannot preach such wicked foolishness!"
Loghain watched the crowd with growing concern. They were cowed, but still dangerous, feeling strong in the anonymity of a mob. A group of Wardens rushed forward to help the survivors: a pitiful band of no more than a score. Most were children, protected by the bodies of their elders. Some were injured badly, and Anders and Niall instantly hurried to treat them, including a small, unconscious boy, his arm hanging by bloody shreds. At the sight of the arcane blue light, the crowd went berserk.
"Magie!" howled a woman. "Sorciers infâmes!"
A rock bounced off Bronwyn's helmet. Loghain had had enough.
"Pikemen! Move in! You Wardens, get those elves out of the way!"
Quite a few people ended up dead, and those dead were all citizens of Lydes. Prosper did not care, as they were commoners and of little use, other than the headsmen who had shown skill. They, alas, were dead, along with the rabble-rousing priest. Prosper did not like that sort, either. Priests ought to do as they were told by their rulers. Not many of the Orlesians had witnessed the confrontation, and those who had were only puzzled that the Red Queen had bothered to bandy words with peasants, rather than simply riding them down. She had a soft heart for children, apparently: even elven children. Some noblewoman were like that.
They discovered, as the survivors were helped into wagons, that these poor few represented the last of the Alienage of Lydes. There had been a series of purges, and those who could flee had been allowed through the gates. Not satisfied with killing most of the elves and driving the rest from their homes with nothing, a mob had pursued them, determined to exact vengeance for every imagined wrong.
Quite of bit of the army began setting up camp outside the walls. The Dalish, for obvious reasons, were not about to enter a city that had treated elves in such a way. It was unthinkable to take the elven survivors of the massacre back into Lydes. Prosper knew he must go and meet with the city officials, and he and Loghain preferred that Bronwyn stayed far from sights that would certainly enrage her. A group of Healers, including some Wardens, accompanied Prosper into Lydes.
And inside the city it was equally bad. No guards were at the gates. The strong force that entered Lydes discovered that the smoke was rising from burning bodies... not on pyres, but bound to stakes. These were accused mages, and over fifty people had been murdered in this way. Not only people: a cat had been burned along with one woman, for some insane reason. Some bodies were reduced to bone and ash, some were only charred in places, the naked dead bodies exposed, the faces contorted in their final expressions of mortal agony. Some of the dead bore the marks of shocking torture and mutilation.
"Where are the priests?" Prosper asked aloud. "Where are the Templars? Where are the city guards, for that matter?"
There were no signs of any such individuals. Looters were running unhindered about the city, but melted away at the sight of soldiers.
Unbelievably, the lynchings were still going on. Even as troops marched into the Chantry square, a battered twelve-year-old boy was being chained to a stake in front of the Chantry. All sorts of the things had been heaped together to fuel the flames: broken furniture, shop signs, house walls—even a spinning wheel. It was, of course, not necessary to reduce the suspected mage to ashes: only that he die of smoke inhalation or burns, preferably the latter.
Nearby, a fire had already caught, and flames were licking up, closer and closer to a young girl. Her scanty, bloody shift caught fire, and burned from the hem up, exposing her to the taunting, raucous crowd. The girl shrieked as her skin blistered, but her cries of agony were drowned by the roar of delight as her long hair burned like a torch.
By the time rescue reached her, she had been burned over most of her body. The mob had fled, terrified at the sight of soldiers, the strong among them trampling the weak.
Apparently, from the gabbling nonsense the soldiers could get out of the people they caught, these people tied to stakes were mages.
"That's ridiculous!" Niall protested. "The only way you could burn a mage at the stake is if you had Templars or other mages to suppress their magic. If you tried to bind a mage and set him on fire, he'd break free, and probably become an abomination."
There were manifestly no abominations in the Chantry square, so Prosper accepted that the dead were victims of hysteria. He paused, lip curling at the hideous sight of the burned girl.
"Will she live?"
"It's going to take a lot of work," Anders predicted, after the girl was put into a healing coma. "And she'll likely never be the same."
Some of the soldiers were sent to the Chantry, and found the doors barred and the lower windows boarded over. there had been an unsuccessful attempt to set the building on fire. After some pounding, and Prosper's declaration of who he was and that yes, he had a large force at his disposal, the doors were unbarred and some Templars poked their heads out. Prosper demanded an audience with the Revered Mother.
There had been an attempt to maintain order, he was told, but everything had fallen apart. People were frantic when Blight disease appeared in the city. The refugees were blamed, and many were killed. A young priest, Mother Sidoine, had defied the hierarchy and had taken to the streets, leading wild mobs against the "enemies of the Faithful." Mother Sidoine preached that Blight disease was an infallible sign of sin, telling her believers that striking out against evil magic would protect them. Elves were inferior creatures, prone to sin, and thus a source of disease. They were natural allies of the darkspawn, also creatures of sin. The Alienage, she declared, must be cleansed. So, too, must the mansions of the rich, who employed elves.
"Yes," Prosper said calmly, "I believe I have met the young woman. She will trouble you no more."
Relief was expressed at that, as under her instigation, the steward had been stoned to death on the steps of the palace, and Templars had been mobbed and killed in the streets when they attempted to protect suspected mages. The Chantry itself had been attacked, and at last there was nothing for it but to batten down for a siege. Now that a duly constituted authority was in the city, of course, the doors could be opened once more, and a service of thanksgiving be celebrated.
Prosper and his guard rode up to Lydes Palace to see the body of the steward hanging over the entrance. Inside it was in chaos, overrun by looters, bandits, charlatans, whores, and thugs. After a lengthy, nasty fight to gain control, they found some survivors, mostly servants. The Marquis of Lydes, his Marquise, and their two oldest children had been in Val Royeaux when it fell. Prosper knew them well. However, hiding under a bed was the youngest daughter, five years old. In the room were the bodies of her two older sisters, seven and ten, her governess, and four maidservants, human and elven, all of whom had been raped and slaughtered. The little girl was in shock, and had not yet spoken.
It was a drain on men and resources, but a strong garrison must be set up here under a reliable man, and order restored by draconian means. The mobs would be dispersed where they were found, and looters were to be hanged on the spot. He sent a message to Bronwyn and Loghain that the city was a mess, and that he must stay here a day or two to put down the disorder.
Little Lady Florette was a concern. Very likely she was now the rightful Marquise of Lydes, but she obviously could not be left in this place with no reputable women to care for her, and the situation so tense.
Bronwyn offered a rational, humane solution.
"Why can't she stay with the princesses? I think they would be very kind to her."
Thus it was settled. The child, well-guarded, would be taken to Jader, and would live with the Imperial Princesses as their little maid-of-honor. They would pet and pamper her, and perhaps she would heal somewhat from her horrible experiences. Prosper de Montfort was not completely heartless toward children, most especially if the child was pretty, extremely wellborn, and potentially a great heiress. It would be convenient if she was well-disposed toward him. His son Cyril might need a demesne of his own someday, especially if Montfort was lost.
Clovis, the Warden of Jader, approached Bronwyn with "private Warden business," and after hearing him out, she found it was one more thing to cause her worry.
"You know, of course, Commander, that the most essential task after killing the Archdemon is to preserve its blood. Without it, there will be no more Wardens for the next Blight."
Bronwyn had not thought of it at all, and was rather taken aback. Yes, she could see it was essential, but how to manage it? Or, at least, manage it discreetly? If a group of Warden mages started pumping Archdemon blood into kegs, the entire allied army would label them as Blood Mages before the next dawn —and rightly, too.
Everyone would want to see the Archdemon and probably take a poke at it with their sword, once is was safely dead. She would have to make up some ridiculous lie about 'infection,' perhaps, so they would back off until the blood was drained, preserved, and stored. What a bother. She met with the mages, and warned them. Then she sent a party into Lydes, and bought up every clean barrel in the city.
"How have the Wardens kept this secret all these years?" puzzled Tara. "What a giveway! 'Er... stand back while we drain the Tainted Old God completely of blood. Move along. Nothing to see here.'"
The army set out from Lydes, wondering what further horrors they would encounter in their march. The elves of Jader and Halamshiral were becoming militant and hostile toward their fellow Orlesians. Loghain hated Orlais the more he saw of it; and the longer they were here, the larger the Orlesian contingent grew.
Bronwyn had worries of her own.
"And now we have to deal with that fellow in Verchiel who hates Wardens!"
She was anxious to meet the darkspawn and get her new people joined. Many were quite ill. She suspected that Clery boy would survive, surly and sullen as he was, brooding over his realization that the world had played him for a fool. The Wardens closed ranks around him, backing up Aveline, his mentor, giving him no chance for further bad behavior. Minjonet helped too. Of the three Jader Wardens, she blended best into the Fereldan Grey Wardens, and had made friends rather quickly with Aveline and Leliana. She also seemed to like Nevin quite well. The new elves among them were finding their way, encouraged by Adaia not to take rubbish from anybody. Boniface discovered early that he could not bully his fellow recruits, whatever their race.
On the other hand, no one mocked him for his old-fashioned armor. His family was not hounding him, demanding that he right all their wrongs while they did nothing themselves. And he had a newer, better horse, courtesy of the Wardens.
As the army moved toward Verchiel, a new marching song rippled through the Fereldan ranks. Leliana laughed, and immediately took it up.
Here's forty coppers in your hand
For those who'll join our fearless band;
To list and fight the foe today
Over the hills and far away.
O'er the hills and o'er the way
We'll live to fight another day.
The Queen commands and we obey
Over the hills and far away.
When duty calls me, I must go
To stand and face another foe
but part of me will always stray
Over the hills and far away.
When evil stalks upon the land
I'll neither hold nor stay my hand
But fight to win a better day
Over the hills and far away.
O'er the hills and o'er the way
We'll live to fight another day.
The Queen commands and we obey
Over the hills and far away.
Thanks to my reviewers: New Zealand 5, Guest, Fenrir666, Lyssa Terald, Josie Lange, Phygmalion, KnightOfHolyLight, AD Lewis, DjinniGenie, Girl-chama, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Rexiselic, Tirion I, Chiara Crawford, Nemrut, Mike3207, Ie-maru, Psyche Sinclair, Blinded in a bolthole, Chandagnac, Granoc, MsBarrows, Brenediction, LordCoake, JackOfBladesX, Ellyanah, MemoriesoftheForgottenGuardian, Robbie the Phoenix, PhantomX0990, sizuka2, darksky01, Guile, jnybot, imperial queen, dragonmactir, Guile, mille libri and lemonjay.
"Je n'ai pas peur de toi, hérétique! Je suis la servante fidèle du Créateur!"= "I am not afraid of you, heretic! I am a faithful handmaiden of the Maker!"
"Ai-je dit que tu pouvais lever?" = "Did I say you could get up?" Bronwyn is very angry, and is rudely using the familiar "tu" to the priest, instead of the polite "vous." But the priest was rude first.
Thanks to sizuka2 for the words and ideas about "Over the Hills and Far away." Go, Sharpe!
Here follows a rant about Tallis, the Ben-Hassrath, and how much I hate certain aspects of Qunari culture. This is optional reading.
Ben-Hassrath means "the Heart of the Many" in Qunari. Here is what the Dragon Age wiki says about them:
"The purpose of the Ben-Hassrath is protecting the faith and the innocents. Ben-Hassrath are considered priests. For Qunari they are leaders who maintain unity, which Qunari believe to be a strength."
Sounds nice, doesn't it? Awww, they protect the innocents...
"Ben-Hassrath primarily act as enforcers of religious law in the Qunari society who are responsible for policing the populace. and "re-educating" both the Qunari who do not follow the established norms and new converts."
Here, the truth comes out. They're the Gestapo. That word 're-education'... That's always the big giveaway that we're dealing with a merciless totalitarian society.
"They also act as spies and assassins for the Qunari as well as perform other clandestine missions."
And they're also the KGB! (Or that hated figure, the political officer) We already know that if you misbehave or fail to submit to reeducation among the Qunari, they'll fry your brain with qamek. The Ben-Hassrath also kill other people.
"Both genders can be Ben-Hassrath but they're separated by specialization: female Ben-Hassrath watch and re-educate adult females and children, while male Ben-Hassrath deal with adult males. Male Qunari can join the Ben-Hassrath despite the fact that they fall under the priesthood. Female Ben-Hassrath learn how to fight—but in a different manner from a soldier, and unlike the soldiers the Ben-Hassrath do not live by their blade."
So for all Sten's preaching about how woman cannot be warriors, the Qunari are fine with female assassins. This is splitting hairs to a ridiculous degree, and only an indoctrinated Qunari would be taken in by it. Tallis does in fact live by her blade. And by her lies, I'll grant you.
"In fact, it seems that the Ben-Hassrath prefer to use non-violent means to achieve their goals, as Tallis argues: 'There are other paths. They do not all need to lead to the same destination.'"
And she says this to people just as she's about the kill them. She gives them a choice between running away like a coward—and probably being executed as a traitor— and fighting her. In other words, it's the usual Qunari choice: "Do as I say, or I'll kill you." Then, after she kills them, Tallis always looks sorrowful and stuff. That's how you know she's really a good guy. Tallis enlists a band of four strong fighters to support her. That's a clear indication that she knows from the first that her mission will not be completed by 'non-violent' means.
"Most of the Ben-Hassrath are hornless, therefore Qunari consider a lack of horns to be very intimidating. The Qunari prefer Ben-Hassrath from races other than Qunari to be spies in foreign lands since they are better suited to this role."
Yes, because eight-foot-tall giants stand out. Sorry for the rant. I absolutely loathe the whole moral premise of Mark of the Assassin, and I find Tallis a horrid, prosing, hypocritical Mary-Sue. I hate her more than any other character in canon, including Rendon Howe. I find Hawke supporting her absolutely incredible to the point the plot breaks down. Why would he want to help conceal the existence of Qunari agents? The Qunari are enemies of Kirkwall!