Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 116: Tower of Shadows
The messengers to Montsimmard, together with their escort, galloped southwest on the Imperial Highway. Berthold de Guesclin, Lord of Chateau Corbelin, had begged to be of the party, for his home was half a day's ride north of Montsimmard, though not particularly close to the Highway. In the end, Bronwyn allowed him to go with a dozen of his men.
They saw no one on the road. There were villages along the Imperial Highway in between Verchiel and Montsimmard, but they appeared to be largely deserted. If there were people in the huts and cottages, they were hiding from view. Nor did they see cattle or sheep, nor even chickens. Now and then they spotted a bewildered, abandoned dog, its ribs prominent. Some of them flinched away. Some tried to follow, barking hopefully. It was spring, but there were no farmers in the fields. There would famine in the Heartlands if this were the pattern everywhere. Clovis, who knew this road, looked about him anxiously, shaking his head.
"This isn't right," he told them, as if they needed telling. "This is not normal."
De Guesclin said nothing at all, but his eyes were haunted. His men talked quietly among themselves. Some of them, too, had family at the chateau.
It was mid-afternoon when they came upon the first barrier on the Imperial Highway. The Wardens sensed no darkspawn nearby, so it was certainly the work of bandits. They kept their eyes on the trees on either side of the road, while the captain of the troop ordered four men down to move the overturned wagon and the crates aside. Silence surrounded them. They all sensed that they were being watched, but whoever it was did not wish a fight with twenty-seven armed men and a pair of mabaris. Magister and Lily growled, their heads down, and the foliage swayed against the wind, gently and quietly.
"We can go with you a bit farther," the captain murmured to Carver. "We'll need to turn back in a bit, but we can see you past this."
"No," said Carver. "Turn back now. If you come back through here in a few minutes, they'll be ready and waiting. Go now. We'll go on."
"If I see another barrier," Jowan muttered. "I'll blast it, and we'll ride on."
It was another hour before they saw the signpost marking the turn-off to Corbelin. Carver could not help sympathizing with De Guesclin, but thought riding into the countryside was a reckless thing, under the circumstance.
"Why don't you come with us to Montsimmard?" he suggested. "If it's been bad this way, everyone might already have evacuated, and Montsimmard would be the sensible place to go."
He thought De Guesclin would shout at him, but the Orlesian pulled himself together, and then shook his head.
"No. No. I shall go home, and see what has happened. It is true that they would evacuate to Montsimmard if there were danger. My wife, Heloise, is a woman of good sense. First I shall go home."
The Orlesians rode down the ramp to the narrow dirt road that led west. De Guesclin gave a wave of farewell, and he and his men disappeared among the trees lining the way.
"I wonder if we'll see them again," said Jowan.
Nevin snorted. "I don't give much for their chances."
They rode on, and Jowan now and then cast Haste on them. It was a startling experience for Clovis, and Nevin had only heard about it and not experienced it for himself. The dogs loved it, and the horses appeared not to notice it at all.
Some distance on they came upon another village and saw signs of life. In this case, people were packing up a wagon, and hitching a sorry pair of oxen to it. Carver signaled a halt, and they trotted down to speak to the people, nearly getting shot for their pains. A tall boy with a bow drew down on them.
"Don't come any closer! I'll shoot!"
"We are Grey Wardens!" shouted Clovis. "We will do you no harm. We only want to ask if you have seen other Wardens on the Highway."
The people by the wagons murmured among themselves. An old man, and old woman. A middle-aged man, face lined with worry. A girl of about twelve, and two boys, maybe six and eight. In the wagon, lying on a pallet, was a white-faced woman with a bundle in her arms.
"Maybe I can help her," Jowan whispered to Carver.
Carver put his hand up, well in sight of the boy archer. "Can we talk? We have a Healer with us."
They puzzled over his accent, but did not recognize it as Fereldan. These were peasants from the Orlesian Heartlands, so parochial that anyone from the next village was accounted a foreigner. The middle-aged man, evidently the woman's husband, frowned at them, but muttered something to the boy, who lowered his bow.
They approached slowly, making no threatening moves. When within speaking range, they dismounted, and led their horses forward. The people were plainly frightened, but knew the uselessness of trying to flee mounted armed men. The girl slid behind her father, peering out at them with large hazel eyes. She was rather pretty now, but the life of a peasant would soon enough render her as worn and faded as the woman in the wagon.
Jowan slipped past the others, and then past the man, with an apologetic glance. The elderly couple glared in suspicion.
"While our brother Warden sees to your woman," said Clovis, catching the husband's attention, "we want to ask you what you have seen around here lately. Any Wardens on the Highway? Men in silver and blue?"
The man shook his head. "No, soldiers, but not like that."
"How long ago?"
A debate ensued among the peasants. Many, many days, they agreed, but they did not agree about just how many. They had seen pikemen marching, and rich people in fine robes with handsome staffs, but no other Grey Wardens. It was perhaps at the beginning of the month, but they did not know what day it was. The rest of the village had fled ten days before. Darkspawn had attacked and made away with some women. Luckily the sick woman had just given birth and was safely indoors with her daughter at her side. Something had killed the sheep and cattle. All they had left were a pair of milk goats and the oxen for the wagon. They could not leave until today because the woman was too sick. She had begged them to leave her and save themselves, but they would not.
"Where are you going?" Carver asked.
"South. South. The creatures come from the north, so we go south, into the Dales. We have cousins in Thradaille."
Fenris said quietly, "Perhaps they should come with us to Montsimmard. There would be walls to protect them."
The peasants were horrified at the idea, horrified at being spoken to by an actual elf, and rather horrified that an elf had spoken up in front of the chevaliers. They expected him to be beaten for his impudence, but he was a strange creature, taller than they, armored and armed like a chevalier himself.
"We will go to our cousins," the man mumbled, obstinate with fear.
"Fine, fine, go east and south," Carver agreed. "As far as you can."
Meanwhile, Jowan had examined the woman and the baby. Neither was in very good shape. The woman had lost a great deal of blood, and was feverish. She was not producing any milk, and the old woman and the girl were keeping the newborn alive with goats' milk.
The infection could be cured, and the damage from childbirth repaired fairly easily. A good dose of a healing potion would probably get the woman's milk started again. Jowan decided to see how she responded first to the potion before using visible magic. These people might react badly. He fetched the potion from his saddlebag, and poured it into his traveling cup for the woman to drink from. It was silver, a piece of loot, and the peasants were awed at the sight of it. Perhaps they thought it more important than the potion itself.
It seemed to do her a great deal of good. This pleased the family, obviously. Uneasily, Jowan put his hands on her belly and released his mana. A gasp rose up at the sight of the healing blue light. Lily, the dog, watched in awe, tail vibrating. Her human was best, the kindest, the noblest in the world.
"A mage!" whispered the oldest boy.
"Don't be afraid!" Carver yelped. "He's a Grey Warden! He's approved by the Chantry!"
Jowan tried to take the baby, but the girl snatched it away, eyes wild. Meanwhile, the mother sat up in the wagon, much improved. She put out her arms for the child, and the girl yielded it up reluctantly. Pleadingly, the woman lifted the whimpering infant to Jowan. He gave her a weak smile, and took the baby in one arm, and laid his other hand on the little body, reaching out with his senses for any problems. He did what he could.
"He needs food, mostly," he told the mother.
"It is a girl," she smiled, a little amused at him.
"Right. She needs food. Your milk should come in again. Give her all the milk she wants. Goat's milk, too, if she'll take it, but yours is best."
"I think you must be a very good man, Grey Warden," said the mother, taking a happier child back into her arms. "What is your name?"
"Er, Jowan."
"Then her name will be Joanna," said the woman.
"I thought she was Ronette!" protested the grandmother.
"Joanna."
The tips of Jowan's ears turned pink. Carver pulled him away, grinning.
While the allied army was very curious about what the Grey Wardens were up to, they were not permitted to spy. Both Fereldans and Orlesians were forbidden to stray toward the deserted manor where the Grey Wardens were welcoming the new member of the order. Guards were posted, with strict orders to let no one through. Sunset faded to twilight, and it was time for the Joining.
The Warden auxiliaries were left in camp to their own devices. Morrigan, as usual, pretended not to care, and declared that she was busy washing her hair anyway. Zevran proposed a card game to Silas, and Sten meditated upon the Qun.
Pepin whined until Quinn brought him along. He was, after all, a Grey Warden. Bronwyn was exasperated beyond words. The child's nightmares were already terrible: what would happen if he saw someone die horribly during the Joining? She had a word with Tara, who promised a sleeping potion for the boy in a cup of warm milk. He was a child, anyway, and should not stay up late.
Another thing she must take care of tonight: she would have to promote more Wardens. Alistair, Astrid, Danith, and Tara were Senior Wardens, but she should just go ahead and promote the rest of that first Joining, plus the others who had Joined before the big event at Ostagar. Anders would have to be a Senior Warden whether he liked it or not. Then Leliana, Brosca, Adaia, Carver, Jowan and Oghren. She really had no idea what kind of command structure the Wardens had, but she wanted these individuals to enjoy some recognition.
How many of her fifty-three recruits would survive? She had no idea, but the improved potion should make a great difference. She thought briefly of Avernus, the malignant old spider in his web. He was a dangerous creature, but she owed him a great deal.
The recruits were gathered by a bonfire in the manor courtyard. Building it had allowed them to throw a great deal of trash into the blaze, and had considerably cleaned up the courtyard in the process. The pyre for those who did not survive was being built a little way away, but would be directly behind this bonfire in line of sight from the camp, thus eliminating some questions.
Inside, the little hall had been more or less put in order. The darkspawn had been through there, but had not stayed long. A good fire blazed forth, taking the chill off the spring night. Tables were righted, and the candlesticks arranged and the candles lit. The Joining potion was in a tall goblet. To either side of the hall, rooms had been arranged for the living and the dead. Leliana felt the living should at least have the comfort of a blanket between them and the hard stone. Later on, they would put a big pot of porridge on the fire to feed the mob of Wardens and the recruits as they awakened.
While Bronwyn believed that the recruits needed to continue acclimating with every race, there was no time to arrange them artistically in diverse groups for purposes of the Joining. All the dwarves wanted to be in the Paragon's Joining group, and as there were eight of them, that was feasible. Oghren would help Astrid keep order. She would let that party go first, out of respect for Astrid's title and prestige among her own people.
The fourteen non-magical elves were split into two, and were under the supervision of Danith and Adaia. Only two were Dalish. Bronwyn had never Joined any city elves other than Adaia, and was curious about how they would conduct themselves. Most had done decently in the battle.
The largest single party were the mages, both human and elven. Twenty-one of them, around half from the Fereldan Circle. Those all knew Tara and Anders, and mages seemed to do well in the Joining anyway, so there would be two groups of them.
There were also the non-magical humans, under the care of Alistair and Leliana. Those ten would be split: five and five. Some of them were quite ill from the Blight, and Bronwyn hoped for the best for them. If Pepin could survive, surely some of them could as well.
Speaking of Pepin...
"Quinn! You're supposed to be watching Pepin! Keep him away from the candles."
The little boy was fascinated by the preparations. He had had no real ceremony himself, but simply a dose of potion, and remembered nothing about it anyway. He vibrated around the mysterious-looking room, bursting with questions.
"Are those candlesticks gold? Is that wine in the big cup? Do I get to taste it? Why is it taking so long? Why is everybody so serious? Isn't the King coming? Are we going to sleep here all night? Will we all have bad dreams about the dragon?"
Bronwyn grabbed a bony little shoulder as he ran past, and pulled him up in front of her. She leaned over to look him in the eye, and the boy shrank back, intimidated by her green eyes.
"Pepin!"
"Oui, Madame?"
"This is a very serious occasion and you have to behave yourself. You will stand with Quinn when the recruits come in and you cannot say one word."
He took a breath for another question, but she cut him off.
"Not one word. Yes, we're going to sleep here tonight. Maeve brought your blanket. It's in a room upstairs. The candlesticks are gold, and you mustn't touch them until you're grown up. You also can't talk about any of this to anybody except Wardens."
"Not anybody?"
"No."
"Not even Arl Corbus? Not even the King?"
"Not even the King, and certainly not Arl Corbus. This is just for Wardens. I'm serious. If you chatter to other people, you will be punished."
"I'll get a whipping?"
"The worst whipping of your life. And we would be very, very disappointed with you."
That sobered him. "I promise to be good!" He ran to Quinn, and the older boy put a hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, Pepin. Let's help them take the rest of the blankets upstairs."
Very soon, everything was in order, and they could start. Bronwyn called in all the Wardens who were not supervising recruits, and had a word with them. She glanced over at Quinn and Pepin, and said, "Please go and make sure the kitchen is ready. I'm not sure we remembered to bring those honey cakes. Go and see, and come right back." She gave Quinn a meaning look. "And Pepin should drink the cup of milk that left Tara left for him."
The boys dashed off to the kitchen. The honey cakes should delay them long enough.
"All right, Wardens, this won't take long. Brosca here stands as my second today —"
Brosca swelled with pride at that.
"— and she understands what has to be done. I am relying on you as well. We all hope and pray that all our recruits will survive this ordeal. However, it is likely that some will perish. I am assigning teams to care for each recruits as they go through the Joining. Toliver and Aeron, Cathair and Darach, Hakan and Soren: it will be your responsibility to break the recruits' fall. After the group is Joined, take them to either the room to my left if they die, and to the salon to my right if they survive. The rest of you must bear witness and help them as needed. Some recruits might be panicked by the sight of the Joining. They cannot change their minds. They must Join, or they will die. If they try to fight or flee, they must be brought to reason, and quickly. There is no turning back once they enter this room."
Aveline spoke up. "Does that ever happen?"
"It happened at my own Joining," Bronwyn said frankly. "Alistair was there. The first recruit died, and the second tried to escape. The Warden-Commander ran him through. Then it was my turn. I had quite a bit to think about, I can tell you."
There were grim laughs. Maeve did not laugh, remembering how frightened she had been herself.
"We'll help them," she promised. "If anybody's scared, I'll hold their hand."
"Whatever it takes," Bronwyn agreed. "Now, where are those boys? Someone bring them here, and make them wash their sticky fingers!"
They were at last in some sort of order, and quiet, and Bronwyn nodded to Brosca to open the door. Pepin was already nodding off. Maeve found a bench, and let the boy lean against her.
Astrid entered, followed by the dwarven recruits and Oghren bringing up the rear. In a moment, Bronwyn was reciting the words of the Joining:
"Join us, brothers and sisters, join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant, join us in the duty that cannot be forsworn..."
The improved potion made quite a difference. It did not save all the recruits, but they had a much higher proportion of survivals this time. Bronwyn had hoped that all the mages would make it, but they had not. The apostates had done marginally better than the Circle mages. Nonetheless, there were now thirty-seven new Wardens. They had more than doubled their number. That was something to celebrate, while they mourned their losses. The casualties had been highest among those already afflicted with Blight disease, which surprised no one. The two Templars had survived, and at some point Bronwyn would have to discuss their lyrium habit with them. Since the surviving recruits would sleep for hours, they took care of the dead. Most of the bodies were laid on the pyre, and Leliana recited a bit of the Chant for them before it was set alight. The two Dalish who had died were buried, according to their customs, and young trees planted over their graves.
No doubt there would be questions, but that was just too bad. Greagoir and Irving would ask after every one of their people, but Bronwyn was not obliged to tell them anything. Besides, they would be moving out soon, and everyone would be too busy to pry into Grey Warden affairs.
Bronwyn took out her roster and began writing in the new names, marking the dead as appropriate. She was particularly glad that both Ostap and Bustrum had survived the rite. They had seemed perfect candidates to her, but there were mysteries to the Joining that she had not yet plumbed. Brosca was pleased too: as pleased as a new mother whose infants have done something adorably clever.
The next official pay date was not until Summerday at the end of Bloomingtide. She would give all the new recruits a prorated payment from today until then. Who knew how many of them would actually be alive for celebrate Summerday? Bronwyn decided to announce the promotions to Senior Warden once everyone was awake.
Without their escort, the Warden party galloped on, hoping to reach Montsimmard before dark. The countryside flashed past: some fields tentatively green, some showing ominous streaks of greyish black. Even the green was not a good sign, if one looked closely; for it was the not the green of sprouting crops, but the green of weeds taking what had been productive land.
Darkspawn attempted to ambush them at one bend in the road, but surprised by their speed, missed all their bowshots. It was a small band of scouts, and Carver considered riding past, but even a small band of darkspawn could do great harm. They pulled up with an effort, turned and charged down on the creatures. Jowan, true to his word, shot a fireball that knocked the creatures flying. It was an impressive feat from horseback at the gallop. Nevin shot a hurlock in the face, and the scabby head smashed back against the retaining wall of the Highway. The dogs, too, did their part. They were still growing, but were already big and strong and unafraid.
Clovis seemed rather impressed that they had managed to deal with the darkspawn without dismounting or without their horses shying and panicking.
"I think the dogs help," said Carver. "If the dogs aren't afraid, the horses will follow. Not always, but I think the road under their hooves helped, too."
"And the fact," Fenris added, rather drily, "that the creatures were downwind of us, and thus the horses could not pick up their odor."
Carver laughed. "That's true!"
They rode on, wanting to get to Montsimmard before full dark. At Haste, it was impossible to talk, so they galloped on in silence, watching the road ahead and to the sides.
They were in rolling country now, which forced them to slow a bit. It would be too reckless to dash over the top of a blind hill, not knowing what was just below the crest. Then too, they were forced to stop and rest the horses when they crossed a stream that seemed free of Taint.
Another hill, and the distant city of Montsimmard was revealed in the last golden rays of sunset. The riders drew rein to admire it instinctively. It was well worth looking at.
The name was true enough; or at least, if the city was not built on a mountain, it was built on a wide, broad outcrop of granite. A high hill, then, and an ancient settlement, for the natural defenses were clearly superb, and they had been improved by the finest engineering into something truly formidable.
"So that's Montsimmard," Carver said. "The darkspawn would be hard put to it to crack that."
Clovis shook his head. "And yet they did— in the Third Blight. The Archdemon Toth stretched its wings over Orlais, and Montsimmard burned. This fortified city rose from its ashes: bigger, stronger."
Jowan pointed to a massive white tower that soared over the rest of the city. "Is that the Circle of Magi in Montsimmard?"
"No. That is the Tour des Ombres. You know that in Orlesian, the Grey Wardens are called Les Gardes des Ombres. It is the watch tower of our order in Orlais."
"Tower of Shadows," smiled Carver. "That's... poetic."
Clovis pointed to a round structure. "The Circle is housed over there— in the circular building. It has a round courtyard inside, too. The mages take their exercise there, for they aren't allowed out of their confinement often, unless they are conscripted."
"A fine city," Fenris approved. "The moat is full. Is it deep?"
"Aye, it is," Clovis assured him. "Very deep and the sides are smooth and straight. It is no easy matter to swim the moat, and even less easy to climb out of it. Once we raise the drawbridge, it will be well night impossible for darkspawn to storm the city; and the foundation is granite, which is too hard for their primitive mining skills."
"That's right," Carver said, remembering. "Soldier's Peak in Ferelden is built on granite too. That's why Commander Asturian built the Warden fortress in the Coast Mountains."
"Soldier's Peak?" Clovis asked. "I had not heard of this place."
Jowan elbowed Carver. Perhaps they shouldn't be talking so much. "Oh," Carver shrugged. "It's an old abandoned outpost we found. Empty for years."
Nevin, unimpressed by talk of architecture, spoke up. "Maybe we should get a move on. Just saying."
"Right."
They spurred their horses forward, and the dogs ran silently at their heels, glad that today's journey was almost over.
Intervening hills blocked their view of the city as they rode, but when it was once again revealed, they saw a lot of activity on the walls and in front of the gate that faced the Imperial Highway.
A figure rose up from the underbrush some distance from the road and hailed them.
"Wardens!"
Cautiously, they drew rein and turned to look for the speaker. Clovis' reluctant smile burst forth, and he jumped from his horse, striding forward.
"Riordan!"
The Senior Warden of Jader was not alone, but with a patrol of six other Wardens. Clovis knew them all, of course, and after greeting Riordan with an embrace and a kiss on each cheek, he saluted the others likewise as well. Carver and Jowan glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes, uncomfortable with Orlesian physicality. Nevin diplomatically changed a snort to a cough. Fenris looked on impassively. All nations had their own ways, from Tevinter to the Fog Warriors of Seheron; from the Qunari to the peoples of the Free Marches. He had found Fereldans as different from the rest as the others, and the fact the Orlesians had such a ritual greeting was no longer odd to him after traveling from Jader to Montsimmard. Only the Fereldans would persist in finding it bizarre.
"You found Bronwyn?" Riordan asked Clovis urgently. "Will she come?"
"She is almost here," Clovis assured him. "She is in Verchiel as of this moment, and these brothers," he gestured to the Fereldans, "have come with me to hear news of the order in Orlais."
He then introduced the Wardens, and then nodded to Fenris. "This is our comrade Fenris, an estimable warrior. He has not yet decided to Join us, but fights well at our side."
"Welcome! Welcome all you," Riordan said, his dark, bearded face brightening in the joy of meeting other Wardens. He repeated their names carefully. "Carver... Jowan... Nevin... and Fenris. And your fine hounds, as well. You are most welcome in Montsimmard. Come. The night draws on, and we shall all be safer within the city's walls."
He debriefed them as they walked, wanting to know the number and kind of any darkspawn they had seen on the road, the situation in Verchiel, how many Wardens Bronwyn had brought with her, and the size of any support troops that had escorted her west. He made no bones about admitting that she had surpassed his hopes.
"And she was able to persuade the Sieur de Flambard to open his gates? That is more than I could manage!"
"She was sitting astride a wyvern at the time," Carver told him. "That probably helped."
Riordan looked rather blank, and some of his men chuckled, imagining that Carver was joking.
Clovis shrugged. "She was, indeed. It's a long story. She put the fear of the Maker into that fool. Darkspawn menaced the city, but Queen Bronwyn led the Wardens against them. De Flambard then opened his gates and many fled the city. Some volunteered to Join us. She is having a Joining this very night. Meanwhile, patrols are going out to scout the country around their camp. They are thinking of moving up to the Orne."
"Then you must share what we learned before they march into another disaster!" Riordan tensed. "The army first... and then most of the Wardens of Montsimmard... I will tell you more, but after you have dined."
Montsimmard gave the impression of being a far older city than Jader. That was not actually true, for there had been a little seaside village at Jader a thousand years before, but a great many of that city's beauties and improvement were the work of rulers in the Blessed Age. Montsimmard had kept the shape it had assumed at the end of the Towers Age, after the reconstruction following the Third Blight. That made the public buildings of Montsimmard five hundred years older than the green fantasies of the Emerald City. Some structures in Denerim were as old, or even older, mostly especially Kinloch Hold and Fort Drakon, but the Tower of Shadows was also the work of ancient peoples.
"it is the earliest Grey Warden structure outside the Anderfels," said Riordan, "and one of the few buildings in Montsimmard to have survived the Third Blight."
Jowan, having spent most of his life in the Circle of Magi at Kinloch Hold, was at once uneasy and perfectly familiar with the concept of a life lived vertically. It would be a long way up from the base of the tower to the crenelated top. Still, the view would be worth it.
The general atmosphere within Montsimmard was tense and anxious. Everyone seemed to know Riordan, and most greeted the Wardens in a friendly enough way, but everyone also looked worried. In the Market, a handful of Templars were gathered outside the very old Chantry, glancing the Wardens' way with thinly veiled hostility. Not far away was the curious round building that put them all in mind of a beehive, massive and constructed of rough grey stone. That was the Montsimmard Circle, built quite close to the Chantry itself.
"How many mages live there?" Jowan asked quietly. He would love to get into the Montsimmard Circle and see it for himself, but decided he would wait until he had the authority of his superiors to go in. They likely had a fabulous library, and they also might be home to mages who would prefer to be elsewhere.
"Not many, any more," Riordan said. "Many left with the Montsimmard Wardens, and Orlais did not have a full complement of Wardens to begin with. No one was expecting a Blight."
Once inside the city gates, it became clear that the Grey Wardens possessed more than an old tower. In fact, the Grey Wardens occupied a city within a city. There was an inner wall and an inner gate leading to the most impressive section of Montsimmard. The Tower of Shadows was fronted by a long stone hall pierced with a metal-shod double door and tall pointed-arched windows. Surrounding an impressive square in front of that building, and ranged along the narrow streets leading off from it, were stables and armories, workshops and smithies, taverns and brothels, shops and private dwellings. The Warden's Quarter in Montsimmad alone had room for a thousand Wardens, and with them wives and children, servants and artisans, parasites and whores. The rest of the city could readily accommodate the allied army. Montsimmard had always been a garrison town.
Servants came to take their horses, and other began unloading what little gear they had brought with them.
"It will be taken to your quarters," said Riordan.
They were not led directly into the tower, but through the long, imposing building instead. An entrance hall was decorated with banners overhead. Through a door was a long gallery, the walls of which were covered with portraits of Wardens of times past, and some fairly splendid paintings of great battles. They paused before one, which was simply immense. In a dark and roiling sky, white griffons did battle against a vast and tainted Archdemon. Tiny figures fell to their deaths from their wounded mounts. Below, a sea of darkspawn charged desperate heroes in a nightmare struggle of evil against good.
"The Battle of Ayesleigh," said Nevin, reading the label. "That's really something. I could look at that all day and see something different."
"Many of the figures are said to be painted from life," Riordan told them. He pointed to the upper right. "That is Garahel on Moranth."
"Bloody great shame about the griffons," muttered Carver. "But riding on wyverns was pretty neat."
Riordan shook his head. "I'll want to hear more about that. But first, I'll have the housekeeper show you your quarters. The supper bell should ring soon. I can introduce you to some of the others then." He gestured to the Orlesian. "Clovis, come with me."
The guest quarters were quite large and comfortable, though they were all in the same room. These, of course were not "guest quarters for visiting dignitaries," but "guest quarters for visiting Wardens." Four neat but narrow beds were arranged along a whitewashed wall, and their gear was piled at the foot of each. There was even hot water for washing. They set to with good will.
"Some place, eh?" chuckled Nevin, as he scrubbed the road filth away. "Pretty fancy."
"Actually, I think the Nevarran set-up is better," Carver said, slipping on a fresh shirt. "I haven't seen all this all yet, but I'll bet they don't have a place to swim."
Jowan agreed. "The Nevarrans seemed more cheerful, too. Of course, their country's capital hadn't been blasted by the darkspawn, either."
Soon, a distant bell sounded, and a young Warden knocked on the door.
"I'm to lead you to the Great Hall."
They fell into step behind him, walking quickly, attracted by the savory smells. The Warden ahead of them opened the door, and announced them.
"The Grey Wardens of Ferelden: Carver, Jowan, and Nevin, and their companion, Monsieur Fenris."
"Whew!" Nevin whistled, looking about him. "Now this is what I call refined."
"Shhh!" Jowan gave him a hard nudge.
The Great Hall of Montsimmard was fairly amazing, even for men who had seen the glories of Jader and the splendors of Nevarra. A great deal of coin had been spent on this chamber, over many ages. The vaulted ceiling was gilded in places, and the floor was polished marble. At the head table, Riordan stood by a throne-like chair. In all that vast place there were only some fifty or so Wardens.
"You will sit here, if you please," the young Warden said, gesturing them to some places at a table running perpendicular to Riordan's. "But do not sit until His Imperial Highness enters."
He left, while the astonished Wardens mouthed "His Imperial Highness?" at each other.
Only moments later, "His Imperial Highness, Prince Florestan" was announced.
Being a prince, he was surrounded by a retinue of advisers and bodyguards, pressing close beside and behind him. One of them hissed, "You should be announced as Emperor! It is an outrage!"
Fenris raised an eyebrow, wondering what a rival claimant for the throne of Orlais would do to Queen Bronwyn's alliance.
The prince and his followers swept past, the prince and one of his men going to join Riordan, and the rest taking places at another table. Carver was glad of that, since he was wildly curious, and wanted to talk about them behind their backs.
The Prince took the gilded chair beside Riordan, and everyone else sat down. Carver rolled his eyes at his friends. Among her Wardens, Bronwyn did not demand such formality, and she was a queen.
"Typical Orlesians," he muttered. Jowan elbowed him, too.
"We're eating their food," he softly admonished.
Well, that was true, but Carver was still put out. The Prince was even wearing a mask. It covered the upper part of his face, including his nose, and swept down to the jawline on either side. Only his mouth was uncovered, allowing him to eat without removing it. It was a fairly elaborate mask, too: silverite and leather, boldly enameled in purple and gold. He was the only one in the room wearing a mask. Maybe it was a princely thing.
Food was served, luckily, and the Wardens had no thought for lesser interests. It was all very good, and not ridiculously elaborate. When the first edge of their hunger was blunted, they overheard Riordan mention them by name.
"—and our brave Fereldan brothers have come with good news, my prince. If I may present them..."
They stood and bowed in the prince's direction. He gave them a nod, but because of the mask it was impossible to read his face. Beside him was a man in rich garments, whom it was easy to guess was a noble and not a Warden. He looked the Fereldan contingent with a hard, dissatisfied expression.
"There's going to be trouble," sighed Jowan.
"Oh, really?" snorted Carver. "You think?"
They enjoyed their meal, nonetheless, and introduced themselves to the Wardens at their table. Most of them were from Jader, and thought very well of Riordan. One taciturn, scarred fellow was presented as a "survivor from the Montsimmard Wardens." This begged the question of what he had survived. and they soon had the whole story.
It was not a happy one. Hearing it, Carver wished more than ever than Wardens still had griffons.
The Montsimmard Wardens had found the remains of the Imperial Army. That the Fereldans already knew. What they did not know was what had followed, which was a horrific ambush by the darkspawn north of the Orne. The Wardens had sensed the darkspawn, indeed, but they had not sensed all of them until too late. The Warden-Commander of Orlais and his brother were killed, and many of their Wardens with them. The troops that had joined with the Wardens had been decimated. It was thought that there had been survivors, but that they had either hid in the marshes south of the river, or had fled west. The surviving Wardens fell back on Montsimmard. They had fought well enough that the pursuit was not very determined. Some darkspawn had wandered over the Orne bridge, but had dispersed, and probably were the creatures the Fereldans had fought at Verchiel.
Some Wardens had been cut off from the rest, and those who had managed to survive had trickled in many days later. Some who were thought to be alive had not been seen at all. Riordan, arriving at the Orne, had rounded up a few survivors, as well as some refugees. That was, in fact, where they had found Prince Florestan and his little band of followers. And then the Wardens had made an attempt to get through to the city of Val Foret, but none of the Orlesians wanted to talk about that.
"Riordan will tell you himself."
And so he did, but not until he had questioned his guests. After supper, they were taken to to a chamber high in the Tower of Shadows. There, they found themselves brought before a council of sorts: Riordan, some of his most experienced Wardens, some local nobles, and Prince Florestan. With the prince were Corot, his right-hand man, and one of his bodyguards, a huge, silent man the prince addressed as Ursus.
The first bit of information that had the Orlesians upset was the news that Jader was now part of Ferelden. Riordan listened impassively, but most of the others were quite indignant that the Fereldans would take advantage of the Blight in such a way. Carver thought they were shameless hypocrites, but he was not there to get in a fight.
"And you have allied with local Orlesians?" Riordan asked.
"Well... yes. The most prominent is Duke Prosper —"
"Prosper de Montfort!" shouted Corot. "The man is a traitor! He is known to be in Fereldan pay!"
Carver rolled his eyes. "I don't think Fereldan could afford to pay him, actually. He's really rich. No, he came and joined up with us, and he's done a good job talking a lot of the locals into helping against the Blight." He decided that he might as well tell them the truth. "Once they know that he's speaking for the new Empress—"
That got everyone's attention.
Prince Florestan asked, "If I may... what Empress would that be?"
Jowan and Nevin were wincing. Carver wondered if he'd gone too far.
"Princess Celandine. She's the oldest of the three princesses. They call her Empress-elect. It was my understanding that she had the best claim."
"I knew it!" Corot exploded. "I knew that some bastard would make use of one of those little—"
"Corot," the prince cut him off quietly. "Do take care as to how you speak of a lady, and one of the few members of my remaining family."
"But Your Majesty—"
"I am not the Emperor," Florestan said. "Celandine's claim is better than mine. If she wants to be empress, why should I challenge her? Maker help her." He turned his masked face to the Fereldans. "Is she with the army?"
"No, Your Highness," said Carver. "She's safe in Jader with her sisters. The old countess who used to be their keeper tried to have them killed when we took Solidor, but we fought off the assassins."
A brief silence, marked only with Corot's furious puffing. Then Prince Florestan spoke. "So Celene left instructions to kill them rather than let them be taken. Once that would have surprised me. I am glad they are safe, even though they are prisoners."
The Fereldans were somewhat confused. Jowan ventured. "I don't think they are prisoners... exactly. Queen Bronwyn would never let anyone treat them badly. I got the impression that they are enjoying life in Jader."
"Ah... Queen Bronwyn," said the prince, an oddly sad inflection in his voice. "I have every confidence in that lady's honor. I witnessed myself how those who sullied her name were punished. And she is with the army, I take it?"
"Leading from the front, You Highness. She's united all the people using the Grey Warden treaties: dwarves, elves, mages. Now the Fereldans and Orlesians are fighting side by side. She found the Ashes of Andraste and she's ridden dragons and wyverns. She'll end this Blight, if anybody will."
The prince's mouth curled up in a half-smile. "Then perhaps everything was for the best. I should like to see her once in life, all the same."
"Your Highness," Fenris spoke up. "It is our understanding that you were in Val Royeaux when it was attacked. It was feared that no one had survived, and yet you have. It will give hope to a great many in the army who fear for their families."
"They are right to fear," the prince said grimly. "If they had family in Val Royeaux, they must accept that there is a strong likelihood that they are dead. I survived only because of the strength and loyalty of Ursus there, not by any merit or virtue of my own."
Carver was sobered by the image. "You must have had a terrible experience."
"Ha. What I had was an epiphany, my friends. The world changed for me. I found that I was no safer from the hammerstrokes of Fate than any peasant. I became just a frightened man in a mob of frightened men. I saw my country, full of overweening pride, brought low by an enemy that could not be tricked with lies, swayed by prayers, or bought with gold. The Maker did not intervene to save me, nor to save innocent women and children. I saw men escape because they trampled on the decent and caring. I saw that my fancied swordsmanship and valor were dust in the wind. I survived because the son of my old nurse, my milk-brother, is a better man than I am, and because he is a man whose daily labor caused him to know a passage used by dairymaids and footmen that had not been discovered by the darkspawn."
Behind him, Ursus looked rather sheepish. Florestan noticed it and smiled, reaching out to pat the big man on the back. "It's all true, my friend. You're a better man than I am." With a wry shrug, he added. "Prettier than I am too, now. I do not wear this mask as an affectation, I assure you, but to spare others the sight of my appearance and myself their horror. Amidst all we lost that night my good looks are certainly but a trifle, but I do rather miss them."
Ursus blurted out, "I don't think you look so bad."
All the men laughed, and not unkindly. It broke the tension, and Riordan had wine passed around.
Riordan said, "We will all be changed men before this Blight ends. Let us think of the best way to help this army that has come to our aid."
They discussed prospects for approaching the horde, which appeared to be very thoroughly entrenched north of the Orne, all the way to Val Royeaux. Riordan eventually told the story of how his Wardens had crossed the Orne and found a number of refugees, including the prince. They had not been far from Val Foret when they had been attacked by a large body of darkspawn, and had withdrawn, with heavy losses. They had fallen back on Montsimmard, and the arrival of the allied army was the answer to all their prayers.
More questions were asked about the party that had escorted them. Riordan knew Berthold de Gueslin, of course. Florestan knew the name but could not recall the man's face.
Carver said, "We tried to persuade him to come here with us, but he wanted to go home first. He's the lord of Chateau Corbelin. Do you know if everything's all right there?"
"Corbelin?" Riordan asked. "Yes, I know the place. It is well fortified. I tried to persuade Madame de Guesclin to come to Montsimmard, but she felt that she had a duty to hold the chateau for her husband. They were still alive the last time I was there, about mid-month, but the fields and flocks had been destroyed. I left four Wardens there as a observation post. If a large force attacks them, our lookouts at the top of the tower will be able to see the signal fire."
"I hope they're all right," said Jowan.
Carver was more interested in the idea of a signal. "You always have lookouts posted on top of the tower?"
"Always."
"Could we see?" Carver asked. "That must be quite the view. During the day."
"It is equally beautiful at night," remarked Prince Florestan. "The young Warden is right. Let us take our wine up to the top and enjoy the starlight."
It was a long walk up the winding stairs, but definitely worth it. The top of the tower was huge: wide and flat enough for griffons to land there. Carver supposed that had been the point, long ago. The stars were just coming out, and the sky was an immense bowl overhead. Riordan pointed to the north-north-east.
"There is Val Royeaux. Night after night we saw it burning. You can still see the smoke hanging above the city. Val Foret is there." He gestured just west of north. "So far we have seen no sign of a great conflagration, so we have hope." He pointed off to a distant, wooded hill. "Chateau Corbelin is there. As you see, there is no signal fire."
Neither of them mentioned that the lookouts might not have seen a signal fire in the brightness of day, nor that darkspawn did not always set fire to the places they seized and render uninhabited. It was better to cling to hope, however slippery a spar that was.
Back at the camp near Verchiel, the Warden's escort returned at dusk, and reported what they had seen on the road to Montsimmard. No traffic; some bandit activity; no darkspawn. The captain showed Loghain the exact place on the map where he had parted company with the Wardens and De Guesclin's party.
"I can't claim I saw much danger, Majesty; but it all felt wrong. A road like that should have people on it, even in wartime. I got the feeling that anyone who could get out, had got out days ago and kept running."
Loghain dismissed him, and studied the map a little longer. Bronwyn would be gone all night, initiating those poor wretches into the Grey Wardens. He hoped she got some use out of them. He approved of a larger force of Wardens. The more Wardens she had, the better Bronwyn's chances of not being the one to have to put paid to the Archdemon. He was not so pleased about her accepting all these Orlesians into the Fereldan Grey Wardens. Perhaps she could leave the Orlesians here after the Blight was over.
How much farther should they march into Orlais? They had reached the edge of the Heartlands. Another day would put them into the Orne Valley. Beyond that Loghain was loath to go. The one thing they must not do is overextend themselves. They had a long, but not impracticable communication and supply line stretching back to Jader and beyond. How much farther could they stretch it? Word had come from the port of Lydes that more ships had arrived, and were staying in port, awaiting orders. That was certainly a help, there were many imponderables to concern him. The cooperation of the lord of Verchiel was not something upon which Loghain cared to stake his life. Lydes was held together only by the garrison Duke Prosper had placed there; the deputy ruling Halamshiral was not a strong man. They were all potentially weak links, and losing one of them would throw the entire campaign into crisis and possible catastrophe.
Depending on what they heard from Montsimmard, it might be a better base for their operations out here in the west, but it, too was dangerously far from Ferelden.
Much depended on what the patrol on the Greenway found, and they had not yet returned. Loghain was uneasy about them. They were going straight toward the source of the darkspawn. He traced their route along the map with his forefinger. Only so far, and no farther, and the moment they met resistance, they were to withdraw. It was useless to sit up all night for them. He decided to lie down and rest his eyes.
Voices approached his tent: excited talk was heading his way. Loghain blinked, and realized that he had slept for hours. Rousing himself, he listened to the voices. One sounded like Captain Travis, who had let the patrol up the Greenway. Loghain rose from his bed, threw on a tunic, and thrust aside the tent flap. The east was silver grey shading to rose. It was just before sunrise.
"What is it?"
"My lord king!" Travis was stirred up, clearly. "We were able to penetrate as far as the Orne Bridge. We saw darkspawn here and there in the distance on the way, but, as you commanded, did not pursue them."
"Show me where," Loghain ordered, beckoning the man into the tent. He gestured at the map, and Travis was able to point out the sites. Travis lowered his voice, to give the next news.
"We also came upon a small camp of soldiers near the Orne Bridge."
"Orlesian stragglers?"
"No, my king." Travis gave Loghain a grim look. "A small force of Qunari. They weren't particularly friendly, either, but we talked to them."
In the same pale morning light, the new Wardens began awakening to their new life: mages first, as usual. In the kitchen, with forced civility, Leliana and and Maeve bickered over the seasoning of the breakfast porridge. It hardly mattered which spice was used. Everyone would be starving, and whether cinnamon or nutmeg was added, the porridge would taste infinitely better than darkspawn blood.
Thanks to my reviewers: RakeeshJ4, Nemrut, Chiara Crawford, Melysande, imperial queen, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, AD Lewis, Psyche Sinclair, Brenediction, KnightOfHolyLight, DjinniGenie, Fenrir666, Garm88, Ie-maru, MsBarrows, Mike3207, ellechiM, JackOfBladesX, Robbie the Phoenix, OverseerBishop, Vaanarash, sizuka2, mille libri, Lyssa Terald, Blinded in a bolthole, New Zealand 5, Phygmalion, Jenna53, darksky01, MemoriesoftheForgottenGuardian, Guile, kitza, dragonmactir, Guest, Kel, Herebedragons66, and PhantomX0990.
Writing about the Joining always reminds me of my sorority initiation. Ah, good times. Don't ask me if we had to drink blood. We didn't, but it was pretty cool and mysterious, all the same. And nobody died.
Riordan is incorrect about the Tower of Shadows. He does not know about the Warden prison in the Vimmarks, which predates the Tower of Shadows by over 200 years.
I am aware that Empress Celene regarded Florestan as stupid and biddable. Beware the unreliable narrator. Her opinion hardly matters now, anyway.