Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 115: The Wild Swans of Highever
On the way out of Lydes, they were overtaken by a company of Fereldans who wished to serve at the front. It was a miscellany of freeholders, scouts, unemployed artisans, sprinkled with and officered by those who called themselves mercenaries, but were certainly bandits in lean times. They traveled light and moved fast, being only too skilled in living off the land and the people dwelling there.
Among the company were some friends of Brosca, who recognized them with a whoop.
"Bustrum! Ostap! Come on! Join us over here! Thorwald, you remember them, don't you?"
Thorwald managed a weak smile, remembered the intimidating chaperones who had loomed over his first meeting with Brosca.
Brosca, of course, was really glad to see the Avvars, and gave a shout to Bronwyn.
"Bronwyn! Look! It's Bustrum and Ostap!"
Some were shocked at her familiar tone, but Bronwyn turned to see what Brosca wanted. She was pleased to see the Avvar scouts herself, and waved them forward to speak to her.
The two men loped up the column to her, not the least weary after their forced march, and gave her the brisk nods that passed for bows among the Avvars.
"Well met, Avvar friends. I thought you were staying in the foothills by the Frostback Gates."
"There are great doings here in the west, Lady Queen," rumbled Bustrum. "Rumors of the great war of our time. We wish to see new lands in which to fight, for Korth the Mountain Father smiles on the willing warrior. There must be representatives of our people who will sing the tale in our villages one day. "
Bronwyn laughed. "I hope we're all around to sing of it then. Who is your captain?"
"You are, Lady, if you will have us."
"Did you wish to join the Wardens?"
The two men exchanged glances, and shrugged. Ostap answered, "If it comes to that, we would not object."
They were given a place among the Wardens, and marched on sturdily. Brosca remarked on their strength to Sigrun.
"If the oxen get tired, those two can pull the wagons."
By the time they were halfway to Verchiel, Bronwyn and Loghain had a much better grasp of their situation. A patrol had gone north to the port of Lydes, where they discovered that three Fereldan ships and their warriors had more or less taken control of the port. There had been multiple attempts to bribe each of the three captains by people desperate to flee Orlais. One enterprising fellow had gone in a fishing boat to Jader, and urged some shipmasters there to come to the port to take on passengers—some of whom would pay anything. The three Fereldan ships were very valuable where they were, in case they had wounded or refugees they did not trust to the hazards of the road back through Orlais.
Along the Imperial Highway they met more survivors, including a few former captains who had heard there was some sort of nobleman claiming to speak for the new Empress. Some of these were decent sorts, and willing to swear allegiance to Prosper as the Empress' proxy. Not all wanted to go west.
"Monseigneur, we're needed here, too!" one grizzled veteran protested. "We're the only ones keeping order in the Dales. The peasants have revolted in the south and are burning manors. There's talk of bands of apostate mages roaming the land. Down by Falais, some bandits haven taken over an entire village, and their leader calls himself a baron now!"
"If the darkspawn win," Prosper countered. "None of that will matter."
He saw the man's point, however, and allowed his company to act for the Imperial Crown in the countryside. As long as they spread the word about "Empress Celandine," they would have a degree of legitimacy.
As they went on, Bronwyn expected to see more refugees, but they did not. The theory was that anyone who could leave Verchiel had already left, and whoever was escaping the area around the mouth of the Orne was going south or west, or following the coast to the port of Lydes. It made sense. According to the Nevarran lore Jowan and Carver had picked up, dragons had a long flying range, and theoretically could cross the Waking Sea at Val Royeaux. It was an unpleasant thought.
They were also seeing more cases of Blight disease, and more Taint in the landscape. More dead, too. The game shot by hunters was carefully checked to make sure it was safe for consumption.
One of their hunters was attacked by a pack of desperate bandits. He managed to make it to safety, and a punitive party was sent to track them down. There was something of a scrap, since the bandits had taken over an abandoned farmhouse. Afterwards, it was clear that all of the bandits had been riddled with Taint. and the Wardens were hastily summoned.
"They'll all infected," Jowan told Bronwyn. "And all the victims the bandits kidnapped: women, girls, boys...It's bad. Most of them are already ghouls."
Bronwyn ordered the area cleared.
"This is Warden business."
The dead bandits were thrown in a ditch. The prisoners—grey-skinned, hollow-eyed, raving— were examined. At first glance, it appeared that all of them were beyond saving.
"The only thing we can give them now is peace," said Jowan.
Anders tensed. "Quick to give up on them, aren't you? Who's going to cut their throats? You?"
"I was thinking we'd give them all some Quiet Death..."
"I don't kill my patients!"
"Lower your voices!" Bronwyn hissed. "These people have suffered enough. What do you suggest, Anders? That we make that little girl over there undergo the Joining instead? That's a far worse way to die, and you know it!"
He looked sick and hunted. "I can't just kill them," he whispered. "Some of them might make it. They deserve a chance!"
"And what are we going to do with child Wardens?"
Anders threw up his hands in exasperation. "I don't know! They can carry messages! They can help Adaia! They can do anything but lie there and die!"
Jowan shook his head. "You're condemning them to a short life of nightmares and violence. How can they gather darkspawn blood? I thought we were holding off on the Joining for our new people until they could face the darkspawn."
"We'll give them a choice," said Bronwyn.
She knelt by one woman huddled in a corner, whimpering over her blighted hands.
"Your only chance is to become a Grey Warden. It might cure you. Would you like to try?"
Tears trickled from the greying eyes. The woman shook her head. "I just want it to be over! Over!"
Jowan gave her some Quiet Death to drink, and eased her back onto the floor as she died painlessly. Two of the women were beyond comprehending what was said to them. In the end, Bronwyn had the two of them, the three girls and two boys—the elder perhaps thirteen— taken into storeroom of the little house, and the Joining potion administered to them. None of them survived. It was ugly, but at least none of them were quite aware of what was happening.
"Let's not do that again," Bronwyn muttered, her throat thick.
"Bronwyn! There's another one!"
The little boy was hiding behind a kitchen cupboard. He screamed, fingers scrabbling on the dirty boards, as Brosca hauled him out. He stared wildly at Bronwyn with sunken eyes and sobbed in terror at the armored, bloody figures surrounding him.
"Don't kill me! Please don't kill me! I'll be good!" He clasped his hands and began babbling out the Chant.
"O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights
Steel my heart against..."
He paused, confused.
"Steel my heart against..." He sobbed, "I don't remember what I'm supposed to steel my heart against!"
Leliana stooped down by him and took him in her arms. "'Steel my heart against the temptation of the wicked.'" she quoted. "You were doing very well. Don't be frightened. We're here to help you." She looked up at Bronwyn, blue eyes imploring.
Bronwyn sighed. "All right. We have some medicine that may help you if you're brave and drink it right up."
He whimpered, "It's poison?"
"No," Bronwyn answered, feeling like the foulest liar in the world. "It tastes terrible, but I've drunk it and I'm still alive. Drink it down." She signaled to Anders, who looked thoroughly sick, but it had been his idea, after all.
Miraculously, they soon had a small Grey Warden. Alistair gently took the sleeping lad up with him on his horse. The bodies were burned, as was the farmhouse, the barns, and all the sheds. Anything that looked like Taint was set ablaze as well. They rode back to camp in silence.
A few hours later, they learned that the boy's name was Pepin, that he was ten years old, and that he was the son of one of the bandits. The father, they also learned, had not always been a bandit, but was a bookbinder by trade. Father and son had escaped from Val Royeaux, and on the road had fallen in with some other refugees. In the end, they had done what was necessary to survive, like so many others. He was told, and seemed to accept, that his father had been sick because of the darkspawn, and that had caused him to do wicked things that he would not have done otherwise. Quinn was assigned to be his mentor, much to the bigger boy's bewilderment.
"I didn't reckon I'd ever be in charge of anything," he mumbled.
Bronwyn said, "Well, you're in charge of Pepin. Make sure he eats, sleeps, washes, and doesn't get into trouble."
They had been forced to burn all his clothing. Of course they had no armor that would fit a scrawny ten-year-old. Some elven clothing was made to fit, and the smallest Grey Warden tunic was belted over all. Some of the other camp boys were quite jealous of what they deemed Pepin's splendid appearance, and no one outside of the Wardens and Loghain understood that the boy was really, himself, a Grey Warden.
"And he now has thirty years," Loghain remarked. "That will make him, what? Forty when he dies of Grey Warden old age?"
"It's better than dying of it at ten," Bronwyn maintained, hoping that it was. "And who's to say he'll make it that far? We have yet to meet the Archdemon."
There was some debate about where to go after Verchiel. Should they go to Montsimmard? It would be the easy route, lying as it did on the Imperial Highway. It might also not be the wisest route if Val Royeaux was their destination. The Imperial Highway looped all the way around Lake Celestine. That would be a ridiculous detour for the army, though Prosper worried about the situation in cities like Val Firmin and Val Celeste. Instead, some distance southwest of of Verchiel, a road —La Voie Verte—branched off from the Imperial Highway toward the River Orne and ultimately to Val Royeaux. Loghain persisted in calling it the Greenway, and it was so marked on his exquisitely detailed map of Orlais. That road, too, would not take them on a direct route the mouth of the River Orne, but a little upriver, the place where Emperor Drakon long ago decreed that the bridge would be built. After the bridge, two roads diverged again. One led west to Val Foret and the other traveled almost due north to Val Royeaux.
"The Imperial army camped on the west side of the river, the night it was attacked," Loghain mused over dinner in camp. "They intended to go south and cross the bridge... here. The other side of the river is marshy and difficult to cross, it seems."
Prosper agreed with that. "Quite impossible on horseback. Impossible for wagons, too. For that matter, the darkspawn may be there by now, but the marshes are treacherous and a bad place for a battle. If they are not Blighted, they are only good for shooting birds. There is good hunting there: ducks, geese, even swans. The Empress was very fond of roast swan, presented in its feathers." A touch of nostalgia colored his voice.
"Well, I certainly hope nobody tries to serve that to me," Bronwyn laughed. "Couslands can't eat swans."
Astrid, a few seats away, overheard her. She had never seen a real swan, but she had seen pictures of them in books. They were supposed to be remarkably graceful birds.
"What's the matter with swans?" she asked. "Are they poison?"
"Certainly not!" Prosper replied. "They are a royal dish, and only the Empress and those nobles she favored were permitted to eat them. They require careful preparation, but with the right sauce, they are quite magnificent. Is there also such a sumptuary law in Ferelden?"
"Not that I've heard of," Loghain shrugged. "I find them too oily and leathery to trouble with, and..." he found himself about to refer to Celia, and her impassioned pleas to spare the birds, and decided that would be impolitic. "Some people find them too beautiful to hunt. They'd rather see them swimming in an ornamental pond in their gardens than serve them at the table."
"And that's certainly the case in Highever," Bronwyn declared. "It's tradition. No Cousland can eat a swan. It's a crime to shoot them in Highever."
"Why?" asked Leliana. She smiled, and quickly swallowed a bite. "There's a story about it, isn't there? Do tell it, please, Your Majesty!"
"In order to add it to your collection?" Bronwyn teased.
"Story! Story!" demanded Carver, a bit tipsy. He turned pink as Loghain nailed him with an icy gaze. Gathering his courage. "We Wardens used to tell stories among ourselves. We haven't in ages."
"It's true," sighed Leliana, "We did. Even when it was just a few of us. I remember that Her Majesty told the very first story when she traveled only with Arl Alistair, Morrigan, Sten, and me. Just five of us, and how simple our mission seemed then."
"Our mission continues," said Sten, speaking up. "At the time, we were asked to participate in story telling, that our Commander might comprehend our natures more clearly. It is not illogical."
"I remember that story," Alistair said, waggling his brows at Bronwyn. "It was pretty gruesome."
"'Twas an excellent story, and a sensible warning against blind trust." Morrigan maintained.
"So tell us about the swans," Astrid said, settling back into her seat.
Voices around the trestle tables hushed, as word spread that the Queen would tell a story. The Fereldans were pleased, and the Orlesians charmed. Berthold de Guesclin watched her, heart burning oddly. He was not alone in his feelings. Old and young, from Arl Wulffe to Arl Corbus, waited in anticipation. Little Pepin could not quite stop eating — for he had never been so hungry— but munched more quietly, looking on in wonder, clinging to Quinn's side. The Avvars drank mead from their horns, glad they had chosen to be here among heroes, and hear the tales of old. Fenris hung on every word, his green eyes glittering in the torchlight.
Bronwyn saw there was no getting out of it. "If I must. This is an tale of the Couslands. It seems odd to share it in such a faraway land."
Bronwyn's story of The Wild Swans of Highever
There was once a daughter of the Teyrn of Highever, whom a jealous stepmother transformed into a swan.
Her father was filled with grief and rage. The false stepmother he slew, and he sent far away to the Circle of Magi to ask for help returning his daughter to her human form.
Meanwhile he put a chain of gold about the swan's neck, so all would know her as his daughter, and he and his huntsmen kept watch on her as she swam about the pond near the castle.
But the Circle was slow to respond, and the teyrn waited long for their aid. One day, as the breath of autumn chilled the air, a flight of swans passed overhead. One of the swans called out to the teyrn's daughter, and she spread her wings and flew away after them, far away over the Waking Sea.
The winter was long and sad, and the teyrn mourned his lost daughter. He kept a great mage at the castle, hoping against hope that someday his daughter would return and be delivered.
The spring came, and there was a flutter of white seen by the pond. The teyrn hastened there, followed by the great mage and the teyrn's huntsmen. They made their way through the tall reeds, and saw that up ahead a swan had made a nest. The teyrn saw a swan on the nest, and about her neck was a golden chain. He called out gladly, but suddenly there was a cry and a great blow, as the swan's mate rose up out of the reeds and attacked the teyrn with his mighty wings, and stabbed at him with his powerful beak.
The teyrn was angry, and called his huntsmen to shoot the swan, but the mage told him it was too late: his daughter had taken a mate, and as it is the swan's way to mate for life, there was nothing to be done. No longer was she a maiden in swan form, but a wild swan who was once the Teyrn of Highever's daughter.
So the teyrn went sadly away, grieving each day: grieving when he saw the two beautiful birds swimming together on the pond, twining their necks together in the way of swans; grieving at the sight of their cygnets following along behind. The wild swans left in the autumn, but returned for many a year, until one spring they did not, and the nest among the reeds stood empty; and the teyrn died soon after.
But from that time to this, it is a hanging offense to shoot a swan within the teyrnir of Highever, and no Cousland may harm one anywhere, lest he be named kinslayer. And that is the story of the Wild Swans of Highever.
"The Queen is wise," Ostap muttered to Bustrum. "the Lady of the Skies forbids the killing of swans!"
"I knew that Couslands didn't eat swans," Corbus told Wulffe. "But I didn't know why. I'll never eat a swan as long as I live!"
Wulffe snorted and slapped him on the back. For that matter, the Wulffes never ate swans either.
Prosper felt oddly like a cannibal, thinking back on magnificent feasts. Quite a charming story, though, if in the old style.
They saw grim sights as they neared Verchiel. Smoke rose on the horizon. At one point they came across the remains of some sort of skirmish. Astrid and Falkor got down and turned over some of the bodies.
Bronwyn rode up and looked over the repulsive, rotting remains, and shook her head. "Humans can be their own worst enemies." To Astrid she said, "And we haven't yet come across any Orlesian Wardens. Where are they?"
"Apparently they're all west of Verchiel by now. Do you think everyone from Montsimmard went north?"
"I can't believe that would be a sensible thing to do. The Orlesians must have left some sort of garrison at Montsimmard. I'm considering sending a courier there."
"Not a bad idea. It will have to be a Warden. Or two. Maybe three would be smarter. If there's anything to coordinate with, we should give it a try."
"Maybe we can spare one of the Jader Wardens. He's likely to be known to the Wardens in Montsimmard. Clovis irritates me, and he's got a good horse.. His questionable attitude won't matter, as long as I send sound people of our own. We might be delayed at Verchiel anyway."
"At least we've not yet seen darkspawn."
"There is that." Bronwyn thought about it. "I haven't sensed them either. It's almost like being blind…"
They both laughed, and a little later Anders and Morrigan were requested to fly ahead and see what there was to see in Verchiel.
Well, darkspawn were to be seen, first of all. The city was surrounded by the creatures, their numbers increasing daily, gibbering and shaking weapons at the defenders on the walls. It was not the horde, or if it was, it was only a small contingent. They were certainly enough to be dangerous. No one was traveling in or out of the city, and the nearby farms had been destroyed. So far, the archers on the walls were enough to keep the creatures at bay.
Flying into Verchiel proved fairly dangerous. That was not just because of what was outside the barred city gates, but because there was a great deal of tension inside, and there was one district in Verchiel in which a hawk or a raven looked positively tasty.
The mages in bird form learned that once the elves had done their part to build up the city's defenses, they were returned to the Alienage, which was then locked down. The elves were starving. De Flambard cared nothing about that. The Alienage was not near a curtain wall, and the elves were of no further use. He would have let them go their way, had it not been imperative to keep the gates shut. While the elves had no bows and arrows to shoot birds, they threw rocks very accurately, and some had slingshots to give them greater range. The birds fled away quickly, evading the snares, the missiles, and the bitter, hungry curses.
The rest of Verchiel was not particularly well-fed, either, but they were not yet starving. A great deal of food had been stored away, and it was being doled out sparingly in order to last as long as possible. There was much resentment about that, and a growing fear of the darkspawn. It was still advisable for Anders and Morrigan to be very careful. Flying through open windows and listening to conversations out of sight proved the safest mode of espionage.
Aside from the elves, it was clear that the Sieur de Flambard was not popular with the city, but admired by his soldiers. They thought he had shown remarkable foresight.
"Knows what he's doing, he does," a guard maintained. "He kept the sick out, so at least we don't have Blight Plague. If any cases are found, his lordship's given the order to shoot full of arrows from a distance!"
"That's a mercy," agreed his fellow. "We don't need the darkspawn plague here like it is out in the country!"
The Sieur de Flambard also enjoyed the support of the Chantry. Perhaps the Revered Mother was afraid of him, and perhaps not, but even the Templars were obeying his orders. He, for his part, was giving them a free hand with any mages found in the city. As it was impossible to transport them to a Circle, they were being quietly executed in the lower levels of the Chantry. Anders was so enraged by this piece of news that he nearly lost control of his shape.
Morrigan carefully penetrated a little deeper into the central Keep, where de Flambard had taken up residence. Eventually Anders followed her, wanting a look at the man.
He looked... like a normal person. An anxious, worried person. The worst part was that he thought he was doing his best. He was surrounded by captains and clerks, trying to hold the city together, trying to deal with the darkspawn noose tightening around the city's throat. He simply did not consider elves and mages to be citizens... or even people.
Morrigan studied the Orlesian more dispassionately. This was man who might need to die very soon. There was no time to bandy words with a fool.
They spent a little longer, eavesdropping out of sight in the halls of power. They listened to what the man's subordinates said behind his back. Then they listened to what was being said in the street. At last they flew high, high, high above the walls, and away from the city.
They returned to the column, keeping far beyond bowshot. They discreetly came down amid the trees ahead of Bronwyn and Loghain, and then walked out in human form. Loghain snorted at the sight of them, but was glad of their information.
"The darkspawn have reached Verchiel," Anders reported. "Not the horde itself, but some fairly strong bands. A few hundred all together, spread out on the plain. It's bad enough there that the city is locked down. The city archers are keeping the darkspawn back so far, but I suspect not for long."
Morrigan added, "The nobleman who commands the city is a masterful man, and not without some talent, but he dares not lead a sally out to crush the invaders, lest he be locked out himself. The people are angry with him and his men. The washerwomen whine that their children are hungry, and that their leader does nothing to drive the darkspawn away."
"Not all the city dislikes him." said Anders. "The Chantry thinks he's just the thing because he doesn't care if they execute every mage they find. The elves hate him, but they're locked up and starving, and soon won't be a problem."
Loghain was unimpressed by all of it. "So his strategy is to hide behind his walls and let the darkspawn take what they want. How long does he think that will work?"
"They're well supplied, and the food is being rationed. That's the reason that the people are angry. I don't know what he plans beyond that. Eventually they'll be swamped. He must know that. If more ogres show up, they could get past the arrows and batter down the gates."
Bronwyn felt a rush of anger. "He's probably planning to keep holding on until somebody else solves the problem for him. He has no intention of helping. Just clinging to what he has. And once the Blight is over, he'll congratulate himself for his cleverness."
They met briefly with their commanders, discussing the mage's report. Prosper looked at Anders and Morrigan, a bit puzzled, wondering how they could have gleaned so much information in such a short time. Did they see far-off events in a crystal? He had heard of such things, and wondered what he could offer these mages to change their allegiance. The man was a Warden, and spoken for, but the woman was beautiful and obviously highly intelligent. He had noticed her before at the Fereldan Court. She was quite the prize. He must find a pretext to give her an impressive gift.
"The Sieur de Flambard hates and fears Grey Wardens," said Bronwyn to the council assembled. "Therefore, Wardens will defeat the darkspawn force surrounding Verchiel. We'll attack at dawn, with the sun at our backs."
"Surely with some support," Loghain objected. "Your mage scouts indicate that there are between three to five hundred darkspawn— perhaps more under the cover of the forest."
Prosper observed the conversation without speaking; curious about how these two would conduct themselves when they did not agree. Bronwyn seemed very determined.
"Support in reserve only. I have a strong force of Wardens, including some auxiliaries and six golems. I have a large number of recruits: over eighty, in fact. I need to see how they conduct themselves against darkspawn for the first time. I'd also like to protect the rest of the army from possible infection as long as possible. I need to try out some new tactics against the darkspawn. Most of all, however, I want to rub in de Flambard's face the importance of the Grey Wardens."
She turned to Knight-Commander Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving with a smile. "And now I really must ask for the names of the recruits I previously requested. I believe it was ten mages and two Templars."
The two old men sighed. She had not forgotten about them after all. Grudgingly, Greagoir wrote out a list with Irving's input, and it was handed over. Bronwyn smiled on them.
"Send them to the Warden camp right away. They need to hear the briefing tonight and have a bit of time to settle in."
She then shared with them the tactical surprise she had planned for the darkspawn. There were gasps of shock all around—some admiring, like Prosper, and some very disapproving, like Greagoir. Corbus' face was a study in hopeless longing. The Fereldans were certainly surprised by the idea, but not as much so as the Orlesians, who thought the days of myth and legend were once again upon them. The Dwarves thought it a good joke on the darkspawn, and the Dalish considered it a very sound scheme, and secretly planned to use it themselves in future.
Loghain was not exactly shocked — and did not allow a flicker of amazement to appear on his stony face. If she could pull this off, it would change the prospects of the campaign. Was he jealous of the adventure? Maybe a little. It really was — what was the word Cailan had loved so much? — yes: it was glorious.
It seemed less glorious when various noblemen and chevaliers approached Bronwyn for her "favor." Loghain was just about to draw his sword, when he remembered hearing about some ridiculous Orlesian custom, in which a man requested a "favor"— a glove, a ribbon, or some such— from a lady he admired to carry into battle as a keepsake. Bronwyn looked a little taken aback herself.
She rallied, though, and smiled. "Only His Majesty the King may have my favor."
Loghain was quite pleased, though he wondered what kind of favor she meant. Knowing her, it could be a spare gauntlet or a boot knife. On further consideration, the boot knife was not at all a bad idea...
A sizable force indeed. Riordan had urged her to do some serious recruiting, and she had. Some of them were unwell, and her Healers would have do their best
She had eighteen mage recruits, and was fairly chuffed about that. Even if only half of them survived the battle and the Joining, she would have a significant magical force. Her current mages were spread too thin: ten Circle mage and eight apostates would be a tremendous help. She turned them over to her experienced mages for assessment. If there were quality Healers among them, they would be charged with that duty, and no other tomorrow.
Morrigan, Anders, and she had traced out a rough map of the country around Verchiel. The darkspawn were based in three crude camps, and were more active at night. With the dawn, they tended to settle down and seek the shade of the rocks and trees. The Grey Wardens would strike them hard, just as they were least prepared for it. Advance teams each would move out fast, to be supported by the rest. She read out the names of the advance teams, and explained just what that would mean. Fenris looked mildly horrified, but did not refuse outright.
Nor did the six mages, on whom the plan rested. Not even Morrigan objected. Bronwyn made her orders clear, especially what to do at certain crucial points.
Then there were the six golems, which, ironically Bronwyn put under Shale's command. Astrid laughed out loud, but agreed. She could not command the golems herself without forgoing the adventure of being in the advance party, and that was an experience not to be missed.
Bronwyn went on with her briefing: "All of you, including the golems, will be given a bag of grenades. Thank you, Adaia and Siofranni, for your tireless work. All of you who will be throwing: you have seen the damage radius of these weapons. Do your best not to hit your comrades," she said, lifting a brow. "The point of this battle is to kill darkspawn."
There were some wry chuckles. Soldiers were always injuring their own side in battle. It was regrettable, but inevitable.
Then it was time to address the recruits. Some of them looked grey and frail. Some looked desperate. Most looked at least willing. It was their only chance, after all.
"You have each been assigned to one of four parties, under the command of Wardens Aveline, Emrys, Oghren, or Clovis. You will obey your officer. Each of you will be given one of these."
She held up a little crystal vial.
"It is nearly unbreakable. In the aftermath of the battle, you are to collect a vial's worth of darkspawn blood. That is something expected of all Wardens, and is a proof of your participation in the struggle against the Blight. Keep the vial and present it to your officer when you are asked. That will not be until nightfall, when we have sorted out the situation around Verchiel."
Little Pepin whispered in Quinn's ear. The bigger boy shook his head, and Pepin tugged on his arm, dissatisfied.
"Is there a problem, Pepin?" Bronwyn asked.
The boy shrank away behind Quinn's broad shoulders. Quinn gave Bronwyn a grin.
"He just wanted to know if he was going to be in the battle."
The Wardens laughed— some of them not very kindly. Bronwyn gave those a look, and said, "Of course not, Pepin. You need more time to grow strong and well. You will remain here in camp with… " She thought about it. "With Arl Corbus. We need a Warden to represent us among the rest of the army."
She fixed the Wardens with a stern eye, calling them to attention."The four support parties will advance on foot." She saw the look in Boniface Clery's eye. "The advance must be on foot, because horses will not approach the darkspawn unless specially trained, and we have few of those horses. Untrained horses will bolt, and be worse than useless. In the future, if you have the ability to train horses and wish to make your mount more effective, we can work on that. There is no time now."
There was just time for a meal, a final look at the necessary gear, and some sleep. They would be up before dawn, moving into position. The army would be watching, as well as the Sieur de Flambard in Verchiel. This was to be the Grey Wardens' show — Bronwyn's show —it it must be a great success.
Morrigan was in the process of brewing the women's tea, when a young page appeared before her, bowing, presenting her with an a little inlaid box and a letter.
"Madame Morrigan," he said. "This is for you. There is no need for a return message."
He vanished into the maze of tents. Morrigan turned the box over, eyeing it with suspicion, and then opened the letter instead.
Madame—
Permit me the honor of presenting to you this trifle as a token of my respect and esteem. Your extraordinary talents and ready wit have made you remarkable even in this company. I will not trouble you with expressing sentiments that you are perhaps not prepared to hear. It will be enough if the gift is of some small use to you in the future.
Believe me, Madame, your devoted admirer,
Prosper de Montfort
She smirked, her vanity flattered, but for all that she opened the box very carefully. One never knew.
"Ah..."
A ring. Quite a magnificent ring, in fact. Pure and heavy gold was elaborately, fantastically chased in the form of a two serpents facing one another. Held between their fangs was a large emerald. Morrigan studied it with the eye of a woman who had recently discovered jewelry and taken the trouble to learn good from bad. The emerald was a fine one, with a glint of blue deep within the green. Looking closer, she saw...
A hinge, and a hiding place beneath the stone. A poison ring. She had heard of such things: read of them in old books. What did the duke mean by it? That he thought she was poisonous? Or that she might be in need of such tricks? The letter was respectful enough; in fact, it sounded like the man was attempting to pay court to her. If she wished to be some sort of pampered concubine— which she did not— very likely she could do worse.
But the ring was pleasing to her. She found that it fit well enough on a forefinger. The weight pleased her too. She would wear it, and tell Anders that it was plunder. And so it was, in a way... As to the secret compartment, she would give some thought as to what to put there.
Guards were posted, and the army settled down for the night. In the Wardens' camp, Leliana and Aeron sang a duet, sweet and melancholy. Three of the recruits had some talent, too, and joined in. It was something to remember. Bronwyn hoped the bass would survive: he had quite a fine voice. One of the women had a little dulcimer, and it made a pleasant addition to the lutes.
"The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him…"
She leaned against a tree, looking at her people as they gathered to hear the entertainment. How many would among the living tomorrow? Some of them were young: not as young as Quinn and Pepin, sitting there open-mouthed and entranced by the music; but too young for this. Of course, war and the demands of war always fell heavily on the young.
Velanna was scowling and dissatisfied. Danith spoke quietly in her ear, probably telling her to settle down. When the singers were done and applauded, there was more music: this time from the Dalish.
"Hahren na melana sahlin
emma ir abelas
souver'inan isala hamin
vhenan him dor'felas
in uthenera na revas"
Bronwyn smiled, remembering the song from her wedding. She had never thought to ask what it meant, but it was beautiful.
Oghren and Sigrun had organized a game of Wicked Grace and were gloating over their winnings. Bronwyn gave them a wink. Better for Oghren to be gambling than drinking. Oh, wait: he was doing that, too. Morrigan was making her blasted awful tea in a cauldron over a campfire. Anders did not want the women afflicted with Blight disease to take any, since it might interfere with the potions he was already giving them. There were unlikely to become pregnant in their current state, anyway.
Ah, look there: Adaia and Siofranni were curled up together in the shadows, kissing passionately. They seemed happy. That was always a good thing. And Nuala and Steren were also curled up together, but sound asleep.
It was time for her to sleep, too. Or at least to turn in.
She and Loghain had a lovely big tent now, given to them by the citizens of Jader. It was red, alas, and so sleeping in it made her think of being inside a dragon's mouth. But it really was quite big and lovely. It even had a partition in the back to given them a separate place to sleep. While anyone could hear anything going on in a tent, it gave a pleasant illusion of privacy.
Morrigan ran her down as the tent doorway, a steaming cup in hand, a stern look in her yellow eyes. Bronwyn took the cup, and smiled.
"Thank you. You should get some sleep yourself."
"I shall," Morrigan said stiffly. "As soon as I prevent our female companions from making fools of themselves."
The tent guards looked straight ahead, pretending to hear and see nothing. Bronwyn suspected that they had plenty to discuss when off duty.
"Good night, Morrigan."
Loghain always said he was unable to sleep, the night before a battle. Bronwyn was excited, but thought she would nod off easily enough, after some proper, thorough love-making. She slipped out of her clothes and into the wide camp bed, waving the servants off. Where was Loghain? She could hear him, some distance away, conferring with his officers. There… that was Cauthrien, and that… was Corbus. And there was the gruff voice of Arl Wulffe. The conversation sounded like it was concluding. Bronwyn blew out the candle, and lay in the red-tinted darkness, listening to the familiar noises of a camp at night.
The Dalish were still singing.
"vir sulahn'nehn
vir dirthera
vir samahl la numin
vir 'lath sa'vunin'"
Loghain said goodnight, and Bronwyn listened to his approaching footsteps, smiling to herself. Soon after, the partition flap opened, and Loghain entered, trying to be quiet.
"I hear you," Bronwyn said softly.
In the chilly grey light before dawn, preparations were made. The Wardens moved out to the open field west of the camp, within sight of the city of Verchiel, and then stood aside to give the six most experienced mages some needed room. There was a change of air pressure, and a mighty work of magic. Then there were cries of wonder.
"Those are wyverns?" yelled Quinn, almost babbling. "They're a lot bigger than I'd thought they'd be. They're really big. Are you sure they can only carry three? Because they're really, really big."
Morrigan, Anders, Tara, Niall, Jowan, and Velanna had all shifted into their wyvern form. The sight impressed even Shale.
"How novel... how refreshing to feel petite. Indeed, I feel positively dainty. Is it your plan for the mages to simply knock the darkspawn about with their tails? That might do it, you know."
"It might!" Bronwyn laughed. "This is something in the nature of an experiment. Come on, you lot, we need to put this harness on them."
The other Wardens wanted to crowd close, to touch the wyverns, to examine them in delight and awe. Ostap and Bustrum were as awestruck as the rest, but perhaps not as surprised. These were, after all, the days of high adventure. They were fortunate to be living in them.
To the wyvern mages, Bronwyn said, "Do you remember what I said about bounding along? It would probably snap our necks. A nice, fast, smooth run at the darkspawn is what we're hoping for."
Wyvern Morrigan scoffed, sounding just like her human self. Wyvern Velanna bridled scornfully. Bronwyn only smiled. She was not too worried about Velanna following orders, since two of her passengers were Dalish—Steren and Nuala— and she would likely take pains not to deliberately harm them.
Bronwyn was riding into battle on the back of a wyvern herself, along with Leliana and Zevran. Morrigan did not care a pin for either of the latter, but Bronwyn flattered herself that Morrigan wanted her alive and well at least a little longer.
Adaia and Siofranni were handing out bags of grenades, helped by the Glavonak brothers and some of their new engineers. Thorwald draped a bag over Brosca's shoulders and was rewarded with a deep kiss that left him red and grinning.
Wyverns were far taller at the shoulder than a horse. Bronwyn could use the harness to vault up into her saddle, but a number of others used the mounting blocks cobbled together for them. Zevran was second in the composite saddle and Leliana was third, giving her the space to use her bow freely.
There were Carver and Astrid, laughing together, climbing up onto Jowan's wide blue back. Fenris joined them, smiling somewhat ruefully, but smiling all the same. Those in the foot company looked on with various expression of envy or deep, deep relief.
It was possible to sense the darkspawn ahead. Some must be coming their way, alerted by the shared Taint. They were in for a surprise.
Meanwhle, half the army had come out to see them. Once the wyverns were spotted, there was a rush, slowed by a few responsible officers.
"Are those griffons?" demanded one soldier, giddy with excitement.
"They're wyverns," declared Bann Cauthrien, her face carefully expressionless, her belly roiling with the desire to jump right on the back of one of the creatures and race off to battle. She added, "Everyone knows that griffons are extinct. And white."
Maeve managed to smooth down Junior Warden Pepin's hair and tunic, and make a brief bob to Arls Wulffe and Corbus.
"The Queen ordered Warden Pepin to stay with Arl Corbus," she told them.
Arl Wulffe bit back a laugh. Corbus, briefly distracted from the wonder of wyverns, was very curious about the little boy. He supposed he was like a page to the Wardens. He could practice his Orlesian with him, maybe. He was about Lothar's age, and Corbus missed his brother terribly at the moment. Lothar would have loved the wyverns.
Prosper managed to smile graciously at the sight before them. It was all he could do not to saddle up Leopold and go, too. For that matter, he wondered how Leopold was faring, and if he could smell this band of his own kind. If he did, he might well break loose and follow them. Prosper ordered a flunkey to warn the grooms, and then sighed a bit. Another time, perhaps.
Loghain hardly knew what to say. There was Bronwyn up there, going into battle on a heraldic monster, off to fight other monsters. She looked her way and flicked him a jaunty salute. He lifted his hand in response, but could not manage a smile in response. He did not trust any one of those mages not to go mad and turn on their own people. They needed watching. Still, it was quite the sight. A little hot flame of excitement warned the icy-hard surface of his pragmatism.
For their part, the mages in wyvern shape were fairly excited themselves: their huge eyes seeing shapes and colors denied to mere humans; their ears picking the tread of distant feet; their muzzles smelling the Taint even this far away.
The dogs were rather startled by the wyverns, but the more experienced of them, like Scout, knew that these were not enemies, but packmates in strange new shapes. They prepared to run into battle with their friends, pleased at the chance to tear at the evil-smelling enemies.
Once all the riders were settled into the harness, Bronwyn raised her arm and then dropped it, shouting, "Forward!"
The wyverns set off at a quick pace, careful not to jar their riders. The gait was extremely smooth and surprisingly silent, not at all what Bronwyn had expected. The wyverns picked up speed and then each moved toward the assigned targets. Darkspawn milled around a huge bonfires outside the city walls. They squawked with surprise and outrage at the huge shapes heading in their direction. Bronwyn laughed, feeling tall and terrible on the back of this creature, and readied her first grenade. Behind her sounded Leliana's squeal of delight and Zevran's excited laughter.
Once in range. Wyvern Morrigan spat a mass of green venom at them. It was larger than a man's head, and spattered over the darkspawn in front, glowing ominously on impact. The poisoned darkspawn tottered, some tearing at their envenomed flesh. Morrigan crashed through their ranks, scattering them like toys. She turned quickly for another go, and Bronwyn clutched at the saddle, swaying precariously.
"Blessed Andraste!" cried Leliana. "This is fun!"
Bronwyn threw a grenade among some fallen darkspawn. It exploded, shaking its targets. A darkspawn rolled over, spitting blood. More explosions crashed around the battlefield as wyverns and their passengers reached their targets. Far behind came a "hurrah!" as the Wardens on foot trotted up to support them. The dogs darted in and out, knocking down bewildered darkspawn, ripping out their throats.
An ogre roared, off to their left, beating its massive chest and challenging the wyverns.
"Morrigan!" shouted Bronwyn. "Let's get him!"
They charged. The speed was intoxicating. The ogre bent, reaching for a log to use as a club. Before it could straighten, the wyvern was on it, slamming into its side, knocking it off balance, clawing and spitting on it. Practically touching it, Bronwyn tossed a tar bomb into the ogre's face, blinding it. Leliana's arrow thudded into the throat, and Zevran threw a concussive grenade at its feet. They flashed past as it stumbled and fell.
Bronwyn glimpsed a big wyvern — it must be Tara— shaking a hurlock in fanged jaws, and then tossing it away, knocking down a half-dozen darkspawn. A flick from another wyvern's tail bludgeoned another band, shattering their very bones. Green venom dripped from scabby, Tainted bodies, slowing them, making them clumsy and weak.
It was a delirium of violence, unhampered by conscience or the demands of honor. They rushed on, nearly to the city walls, hardly noticing the little figures up there watching them and gesturing in excitement. There was time for one more run before the reinforcements reached them. Bronwyn gave a yell, and Morrigan circled back. She charged again, quick as a snake, and shattered a group of genlocks that had rallied against them. Two went down under Morrigan's clawed feet, and were shredded instantly, with barely a moment to utter their weird croaking death cry.
Bronwyn grabbed for her horn, and sounded a call.
Then, just as planned, she and the other melee fighters leaped down into the fray to close with the darkspawn. The wyverns moved to the outskirts of the fight, killing darkspawn stragglers, and acting as fighting platforms for the archers and grenadiers they carried.
Within moments, the others charged in on foot. Some, like Boniface Clery, were ferocious in battle; eager to prove all sorts of things to themselves. Some were hesitant and frightened, not the stuff of warriors. If they could survive this, Bronwyn had plans for some Warden support staff. Behind the foot soldiers the earth shook.
The golems had arrived, smashing the darkspawn down, moving astonishingly fast for creatures of stone and metal. Nothing the darkspawn did had much affect on them. They simply plowed through, grabbing up hurlocks and genlocks alike and crushing their skulls.
Bursts of light and color flashed around them, as the mages did their part. They had been ordered to be careful with their magic, and avoid hurting their own people with wide-area spells. Nonetheless, they could use targeted spells to great effect. Equally usefully, they could counter the malign magic of the darkspawn emissaries and heal their comrades.
The darkspawn nearby were annihilated, but the Wardens heard more fighting to the southwest, and charged toward it, letting the wyverns dash on ahead. Another ogre was discovered, and the wyverns pounced gleefully, rendering the monster one glowing mass of green venom before it toppled.
A half-dozen genlock archers made a stand behind some rocks. An arrow whizzed past Bronwyn's ear: close enough to make her angry.
"There!" she shouted, pointing. "Up there!"
A wyvern — possibly Anders, though it moved so fast it was difficult to tell — tore the stones asunder, spilling the darkspawn to the ground, when they were ripped apart by the dogs.
The scratchy sensation of nearby darkspawn was fading. Bronwyn divided her people once again into their patrols, and they combed the plains around the city for darkspawn stragglers. By midmorning, they were certain that the darkspawn were dead, and then they set about burning the bodies.
They were not unscathed. They had lost seven of the recruits, and there were injuries and wounds to be attended to. Bronwyn let the mages work, while she gathered her people together to assess their condition. Quite of few of them were ready for another go, if an enemy dared to show his face. Some of the recruits were in shock, but she knew that not all of them were the stuff of heroes. She made mental notes and instructed the wyverns to hold their forms. There was still Verchiel to be dealt with. She vaulted back into Morrigan's saddle, since looking menacing was the best card she had to play at the moment
And with that, Loghain decided it was time to send a herald to Verchiel. The Sieur de Flambard could hardly have missed the spectacle outside his own gates.
Unsurprisingly, Olivier de Flambard still did not want to open the gates of his city. Not to Duke Prosper de Montfort, not to the Grey Wardens, and certainly not to Loghain Mac Tir. On the other hand, his city had been saved for the moment, against all hope and reason. He had seen warriors in Grey Warden tunics riding on what must be wyverns. No matter how often he rubbed his eyes. the wyverns were still there. Two... four... no six of them. They were very impressive. The leader of the party, dressed in splendid red plate, had vaulted onto the back of one of the creatures, and was directing operations from there.
A herald, escorted by horsemen bearing the arms of both Orlais and Ferelden, rode up to the gate before him.
"In the name of the Alliance against the darkspawn," shouted the herald. "In the names of Queen Bronwyn and King Loghain; in the name of Duke Prosper de Montfort, speaking for the Empress-Elect Celandine; in the name of Astrid, Paragon of Orzammar, I bid you open your gates in friendship!"
"I hold the city," the Sieur declared. "I owe allegiance to no one else— not even to the very impressive chevalier on the wyvern."
"Yes," the herald replied. "We were told you would say that. You are commanded to give the army of the alliance against the darkspawn every assistance in your power, as a loyal subject of Empress Celandine."
"I know of no Empress Celandine," replied de Flambard, from the safety of his thick walls and high towers. "Is that chevalier the Duke?"
"It is not," replied the herald. "That lady is the Queen and Warden-Commander of Ferelden, Bronwyn Cousland. It is to her you owe your salvation. And while you may not know of Empress Celandine, who is a friend and intimate of Queen Bronwyn and King Loghain. she knows about you. Consider if you wish hereafter to be her loyal servant—or her enemy."
De Flambard had been terribly impressed by the battle before the city gates, but he had no idea of the size of the force this "alliance" could command. If it was no more than a thousand or more, he felt he could easily hold Verchiel against them. If they were more… then he would have to be prudent. Furthermore, there were other large creatures on the plain before him, like men of stone or metal, and he did not know what they were— only that they were powerful. They did not seem vulnerable to arrows, and could likely breach the gates. And this...alliance... had solved his darkspawn problem... for the moment.
"I do not parley with underlings," he declared. "I will speak only to the leaders of this 'alliance.'" He punctuated his words by leaving the gate tower. However, he immediately swung down, and watched the herald through an arrow slit, invisible to the party.
The herald rode back and conferred with... yes, it must really be the Red Queen out there... She was much more impressive than any Fereldan had the right to be. And given the size of the army emerging out of the trees and moving on to the plain, he was just as glad he had not been rude to the envoy.
Especially so, since the Queen looked in his direction, and urged her terrifying steed to make for the gate. Her people followed her, warriors, wyverns, mages, stone-men, and metal-men alike. Maker, there were even dogs down there! It was not like an army at all, but something fantastic from a storybook.
The rest of the army, off in the distance, was approaching as well. Presumably Prosper de Montfort was among the horsemen in front. De Flambard had seen the duke once, but had never been presented to him, since the difference in their rank was so great. And the big man in silverite armor beside him. Maker! That really might be the notorious Loghain!
But here already was the Red Queen. De Flambard climbed back up to the tower to meet her. She pushed back her helmet and tossed it down to a dwarf, flashing her a brief winning smile. Then she turned her face to de Flambard and the smile was, alas, gone.
"You are the Sieur de Flambard, I presume?"
"I am he, Your Majesty. Everyone knows who you are."
"Good. That saves time. You have been holding this city against the darkspawn. As there are no darkspawn inside, I'll say, 'Good on you.' I understand you do not care much for Grey Wardens, but as Grey Wardens saved you today, I trust I won't hear the kind of hard words you had for my comrade, Senior Warden Riordan."
De Flambard shivered with dread. Oh... she knew about that, somehow. Did she know everything? Courtesy, at this point, was imperative.
"I am indeed most grateful for Your Majesty's timely arrival."
"So you should be. Open the gates. I daresay Duke Prosper will wish to confer with you about internal Orlesian affairs, and relay the commands of the new Empress-elect. As her allies, I believe my party will remain in our nearby camp, and not tax your hospitality. I do have other demands of you, however. I want every suspected mage given into my custody. They are useful in battle. And I want you to open the gates of the Alienage at once."
He regarded her blankly, not quite understanding the relevance of elves to matters of war and state. The mages? It would displease the Revered Mother greatly, but of the two, he would prefer her wrath to that of the woman before him. Yes, the mages might be put to good use. But...
"The elves, Majesty?"
Bronwyn eyed him coldly. "You heard me. Your elves are imprisoned and starving in their Alienage. You cannot hide anything about the state of your city from me. I already know everything. Open the gates. Some of my own people will be visiting the Alienage. Do not dream of contradicting me."
He did not dream of it. He thought of himself as a hard man; a brave man; even a ruthless man. He also thought he was not stupid, or a bad leader of his own men; nor did he wish harm to the citizens of Vercheil, whom he protected. If the Red Queen wanted the mages and the elves for her own purposes, she was welcome to every last one of them.
"It shall be as you say, Your Majesty."
"I'm glad to hear it." She lightly slapped the neck of her fearsome mount, and spoke in an undertone that carried quite audibly to the listening ears of de Flambard and the Verchiel garrison. "If he hadn't been sensible, the Maker would have struck him down before the next dawn, most likely."
The wyvern huffed, in what sounded like an eerily malicious laugh.
Guards were posted to watch the western approaches to the city, alert for another darkspawn incursion. Most of the Fereldans returned to camp, wanting to have as little to do with Verchiel as possible. Loghain was entirely too twitchy to tolerate staying in the palace, and Bronwyn saw little benefit in it. She had brought a bathtub in a wagon, and their camp bed was perfectly comfortable.
A party of Wardens did enter the city in order to collect the mages. There was brief unpleasantness at the Chantry, but it did not last long. The Wardens seemed to already know where the mages were being kept, and practically led the way there. It all smacked of dark sorcery to the Templars, but no one wanted to fight to the death for a handful of apostates and maleficarum. Let the Fereldans have them, and be cursed by them. A proclamation was also posted in the market that offered army service to any mage who wished to join the alliance. The gates would be open until the army left. If they wished to seek sanctuary, they must do it now.
There was only a brief window of opportunity for the elves as well. There was a very populous Alienage in Verchiel, and great hunger and misery there. They could be given some victuals, but were urged to leave the Alienage. The fit and willing could serve the army and perhaps volunteer for the Wardens. Others could travel to the port of Lydes, avoiding the city of Lydes itself. There they could take ship for the elven homeland in Ferelden. They could choose either a four-day journey to West Hill, where they could follow the roads to the Brecilian Forest, or they could spend another eight days or so at sea, and be taken nearly to the homeland itself. If they wished to remain in Verchiel and starve, of course, that too was their choice.
There was a dwarven quarter in the city, also. The news that a Paragon of Orzammar was one of the leaders of the alliance thrilled them. No greater event could happen in their lifetimes. The dwarves of Verchiel streamed out, bringing tribute, offering their services. A line formed in front of Astrid's tent of dwarves who wished to see their Paragon for themselves.
Astrid, enthroned on a camp stool, welcomed them with royal grace. It was very pleasant to be a Paragon. Her ranks swelled with new recruits, and there were some fine craftsmen among them.
"Not all surfacers can adjust to life underground," she confided in Falkor. "I think I'll treat with Bronwyn for surface rights above one of our thaigs. A dwarven trading post with easier access to surface markets would be a fine thing for our people."
In her mind's eye, she could see the dwarven kingdom spreading out, the population growing, their power secure. She might even establish communications with long-lost Kal-Sharok someday, and the dwarves once more would be the united force they ought to be in the affairs of Thedas.
They would hold the Joining that night.
In their scouting expedition, Morrigan and Anders had spotted a deserted manor, not far from the south side of the city. It seemed a good venue to Bronwyn, and she sent an advance party to check it out for lingering darkspawn.
Danith reported it clear, after a brief skirmish.
"There were some half-dozen of the creatures, but no signs of digging."
Sigrun confirmed this. "A cellar, but no tunnels. There's quite a bit of room there, Commander. Plenty of room for the recruits to sleep it off, and a place where we can stow the bodies."
"All right," said Bronwyn. "Take a larger party with you and make it ready. Leliana knows where the Joining regalia is. The mages are tired, but maybe Tara and Niall can go and start working on the Joining potion. We'll move the recruits out at twilight. Remind them to bring their vials."
Next, she had to let Loghain know the plan.
"So they certainly won't be fit to march for another day or so."
"Not realistically. And quite honestly, the shape-shifters are tired. I recommend scouting the area around Verchiel and keeping it secure until the day after tomorrow."
They studied the map together. Verchiel seemed safe enough to the south and east, but was very vulnerable from north and west. A mounted patrol would be sent a short distance down the Imperial Highway which ran southwest toward Montsimmard. Another would venture along the Greenway.
"I mean to send some couriers to Montsimmard," Bronwyn said, "but we need to get through the Joining first."
"Surely you don't need every single Warden to be present."
"No..." Bronwyn agreed, hesitating. "But I need quite a few in case of a panic. I'll join them in groups, just as I did before, since I've got— Maker!— I've got so many recruits! We'll need a lot of people there. Now that you bring it up, though, I agree that there should be some Wardens in that patrol on the Imperial Highway. If it seems safe enough, they could go on through to Montsimmard, after the rest turn back."
Thinking about it a little more, she came up with a roster. "Carver, Jowan, Clovis, and... Nevin. They should have an archer, and he sustained no serious wounds in the battle. They all ride well, and Carver and Jowan have experience dealing with foreign Wardens. They'll be sorry to miss the Joining, but we really need to know what's happening in Montsimmard."
"So you're really not going to Join?" Carver asked Fenris, disappointed.
"I am not," said the white-haired elf. "It is another leash, and I want no more of them. I am content to serve the Queen and her Wardens, but I will do so of my own free will, not out of compulsion."
"Well, then," Jowan said, more cheerfully. "Why don't you join us, instead?"
"I am not sure I understand you."
"We're going to try to get through to Montsimmard! Right now, while we've got the afternoon before us. If we ride hard and aren't challenged, we might make it before full dark. The King's sending out a patrol along the Imperial Highway. They'll escort us part of the way, and if it's clear, we'll keep on going. Come on!"
Thanks to my reviewers: imperial queen, So you want to be an Author, Rexiselic, KnightOfHolyLight, RakeeshJ4, Blinded in a bolthole, Aoi24, IgnusDei, Nemrut, Chiara Crawford, darksky01, Isabeau of Greenlea, the darks light, Brenediction, Kyren, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Guest, Chandagac, Ie-maru, timunderwood9, Phygmalion, Tirion I, Jenna53, Atrilial, amanda weber, Guile, Mike3207, Vaanarash, sizuka2, Girl-chama, Lyssa Terald, jnybot, AD Lewis, Costin, dragonmactir, Zero, FloridaMagpie, and mille libri.
My own suspicion about Bronwyn's story is that it predates the Couslands, who coopted it into their family history when they took over Highever. Ostap and Bustrum's remarks indicate that there was a ancient religious taboo regarding swans.