Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 118: A Dreadful Leaden Sky

At the same time that the army's advance party made contact with the darkspawn, Sten was being debriefed by his superiors.

"I respectfully disagree," he said, in his self-possessed, deep rumble. "I do not believe that Par Vollen is, as you claim, safe from the Blight. From the darkspawn, perhaps. Nothing, however, prevents the Archdemon from flying across the Northern Passage and burning our cities and fields to ashes. Furthermore, we know that this creature can enthrall others. It could enthrall other, lesser dragons, to serve it."

"Dragons are largely extinct," Karasten objected.

"I have fought dragons myself," said Sten, his face stony, falling into his normal demeanor when dealing with Qunari superior officers. It was to be regretted, but he could not but feel that Bronwyn was a more satisfactory leader than the ones before him. "We killed a High Dragon in the Korcari Wilds. The Wardens' party repeatedly faced dragons: in the Brecilian Forest, in an underground cavern system under Amaranthine, and in the Frostbacks, where one of the party was killed by another High Dragon. From the reports Bronwyn received from the Nevarran-Orlesian border, dragons have made a resurgence. A hostile dragon could well prove a threat. We must be prepared for all possibilities."

Karasten and Tallis exchanged a glance, remembering the disaster in the harbor. They had been completely unprepared for the dragon's devastating attack. In this, Sten was correct: they must immediately begin formulating effective strategies against such an enemy.

"Furthermore," Sten continued, "as I planned to report to the Arishok, there is strong evidence that our people have had contact with the darkspawn in the past: or at least the Kossith race has had such contact."

"Clarify," ordered Karasten, intrigued in spite of himself.

"Very well. The darkspawn are of various kinds: hurlocks, genlocks, sharlocks, and ogres. They are physically and functionally different to a remarkable degree. There appears to be little understanding of the reason for this, but I believe my explorations with the Warden-Commander have caused me to have new insight."

"Go on," said Tallis.

"In a portion of the Deep Roads called the Dead Trenches, we saw the Archdemon. We also discovered how darkspawn reproduce themselves. It was an ugly revelation. We learned that the creatures kidnap females of the races of Thedas and through violent and abusive means impregnate them. I will not dwell on the method, but it enables the females to spawn hundreds, perhaps thousands of offspring. The nature of these offspring depends on the female's race: the Broodmother we discovered was originally a dwarf woman. She spawned genlocks. A human woman would spawn hurlocks, and an elf woman sharlocks, also called shrieks."

Revulsion twisted Tallis' mouth, remembering the squealing creatures pursuing her through the horrible streets of Val Royeaux. The idea that they might have wanted not to kill her, but to... No, she wasn't going to think about it. "You saw one of these things… one of these Broodmothers?"

"Saw it and gave it the mercy of death. It was immense and distorted, and its mind and memory were long since gone. It was, however, a formidable opponent, despite its inability to move from the spot."

"Formidable in what way?" Karasten asked, pressing for useful details. "And how did you destroy it?"

"It could spit poison that blinded. It also wielded powerful tentacles that could crush and rend. Its hands had developed sharp claws, which made close encounters hazardous. However, because of the massive layers of fat, the most vulnerable area is the head." He frowned and continued. "The Grey Wardens are anxious to reach Val Royeaux, the vanquished city, because they fear that a large number of women would have been captured and modified in this way, thus creating the danger of a huge increase to the darkspawn horde within the next month or so."

Karasten nodded, trying to picture such a creature. If the Grey Wardens found a nest of such creatures, they would have to kill them with sword and axe, or with arrows and magic. How much more efficient would be the use of gaatlok. Not that the Qunari would offer it to them. For that matter, they had only one small keg of their own.

"What is your argument for previous contact between the darkspawn and the Kossith?" he asked.

Sten replied, "In the existence of the creatures known as ogres."

This required some lengthy description. Neither Karasten nor Tallis liked to believe it, but Sten was quite positive that the heritage of the Kossith was apparent in the huge horned creatures.

"They are not numerous, which makes me think that there were not many Kossith Broodmothers. However, in my readings in the dwarven Shaperate — a most admirable and informative archive— I learned that the ogres were known in previous Blights, though not in the First. At some point, Kossith women were captured by the darkspawn. No other conclusion is logical."

Tallis took a deep breath, and revealed an obscure secret. "There's evidence to suggest that an early attempt at a southern settlement was made by Kossith during what the bas call the Towers Age. This was very far to the south, in what is now the Korcari Wilds of Ferelden. It's one of many reasons that the Salasari is interested in that land. The settlement was a failure for many reasons —including the harsh and inclement winters that prevented regular communication. A rescue expedition discovered some evidence of a massacre, and no survivors. If this massacre was committed by the darkspawn, they might well have taken prisoners. Yes, your conclusion is logical."

She squared her shoulders, ignoring the general malaise that had plagued her since they had landed in this dismal swamp.

"But none of this is a good enough reason to involve ourselves in the Blight at this point. There's no advantage to the Qunari people in wasting our resources to protect the lands of the bas. If the Blight moves north, we might be forced to reconsider. For now we'll hold to our mission. We'll follow in the wake of the Wardens' army, using them as a cover to find our way to the Tome of Koslun."

As the army forged its way westward, the sky darkened. A heavy layer of grey cloud blotted out the sun, but it did not smell like rain. The air grew heavy and oppressive.

The allies had little idea what they would encounter across the Orne. A party of scouts moved out ahead the the main body of the army, crossing the ancient stone bridge over the river, feeling their way along the Greenway, moving slowly and cautiously.

The scouts included Wardens: Danith, Cathair, Darach. They sensed the darkspawn almost immediately, and moreover sensed that there were a lot of them to the right— the northern side— of the mossy narrow road. They immediately sent a soldier back to warn Bronwyn about what was ahead of them. The young man glanced back at them with wide and wild eyes, and took off running.

"Where are they?" whispered Cathair, moving carefully toward the trees. "I see nothing. I hear nothing."

Nothing indeed. The forest was unnaturally silent. Not even a bird call rose from the branches. The air itself was still, as if bespelled. Dying foliage drooped sadly around them, darkening the way ahead. Even the grass of the Greenway was dull and greying.

"They're here," murmured Danith, tilting her head toward a fallen branch just ahead, its black and Blighted leaves shredded. "I smell them."

Without further speech, they instinctively moved back to back, presenting a defensive triangle, bows at the ready. The other Dalish and the human soldiers in the party, alarmed, mimicked them, ready and watchful. Time stretched out beyond endurance. Everyone's breath grew shallow, as they tried to be quiet; quiet as mice, quiet as the grave.

"Atch-aaagghhh!"

Danith jumped at the young soldier's sneeze. He was bent almost double, unable to stop. Sneeze after sneeze rang out through the waiting woods.

At the third sneeze, the ground beneath them erupted.

Darkspawn burst out from under the dead moss and the rotting leaves. The earth heaved, and breathed out corruption as the creatures rose up and charged.

"Kill them!" shouted Danith. "Kill them all!"

The range was short: too short. She could only get off two arrows before the closest were on them. She dropped her bow behind her and unsheathed her daggers, skewering the first hurlock that lunged her way.

"I hope Bronwyn comes soon!" shouted Cathair. He gritted his teeth as he stabbed a darkspawn, and then shoved it aside, freeing his blade.

The melee was brutal. Darkspawn chuckled and squawked; humans and elves cursed. Now and then a shriek of mortal agony plucked at their senses, but no one could turn to look. Darach stumbled against Danith, and righted himself, grunting in pain. Darkspawn were falling, but men and elves were falling, too. Out of the underbrush beyond the trees, more darkspawn were emerging, waving their weapons, rushing at the advance scouts.

Danith hissed as a hurlock caught her blades with his own, forcing her back. While she struggled with him, a genlock came in low and slashed at her, slicing a shallow wound across her middle. Her armor spared her the worst, but she could feel the hot thread of torn flesh begin to sting. She had no idea how bad it was.

"Keep together and withdraw back down the road!" she yelled. More darkspawn were coming. If they tried to make a stand here, out in the open road, they would all die.

Another scream. Genlocks had grabbed a bloodied soldier and were having a grotesque tug-of-war over him. His comrades fought back, desperate to save him. One managed to hew the arm off on of the attackers, and the contested prize's legs were dropped abruptly. With a squawk of triumph, the rival genlock tugged the soldier away from his friends and brought down its crude iron mace, smashing the man's head to bloody splinters.

Bows still twanged. A quartet of Dalish had scrambled into the trees and were shooting down into the darkspawn. Danith's heart lifted in pride at their resourcefulness. The darkspawn attacked the trees with swords and axes, but were brought down before their could manage more than a blow or two. It was an excellent diversion.

The advance party moved back, drawing together in a rude circle, backs to each other. A thrown handaxe struck Darach in the knee. He went down, and another darkspawn chopped at his already injured leg. He screamed and stabbed up, gutting the creature. Danith tried to help him up, but it was impossible for him to stand.

"Get inside the circle, then!" Danith ordered. Crawling painfully, Darach managed to make it to comparative safety, and then collapsed from shock and loss of blood.

Darkspawn gibbered and lunged, feinting and hacking. The circle shrank, contracting as more and more of them fell.

The earth trembled, the vibrations shivering up the warrior's boots. Thudding footsteps, gathering momentum. One of the Dalish in the trees gave a cry.

"Ogre! Mythal protect us!"

Danith glanced over her shoulder. Looming, massive, it was pounding down on them around the next turn of the Greenway. Once it hit them, it would scatter their little band, and that was death. There was only one thing to be done.

The runner passed the message to a horseman, who came flying back up the column.

"Darkspawn ahead! A lot of them! They've attacked the scouts!"

"Morrigan! I need a wyvern!" shouted Bronwyn, leaping down from her horse. She blew into her dragon horn, sounding an alarm. "Wardens! To me!"

The witch threw the gear she was carrying into a wagon, and dashed off to the side of the road for enough space to make the transformation. Instantly a wyvern appeared. Horses reared and screamed; men shouted and clutched at their reins. Bronwyn vaulted onto the creature's back, and clung to the neck ridges, while they took off, the wyvern's roars clearing their way.

To do her justice, Velanna was at their heels, desperate to help her friends among the Dalish scouts. Anders, Tara, and Niall followed. Zevran laughed as he dashed away with wyvern Tara. Alistair and Brosca managed to get up on a wyvern apiece. Adaia ran after them shouting, until Alistair reached a hand back for her and pulled her on behind him. Siofranni ran after them, trying to catch up.

"Wait! Wait!"

Astrid shouted, "Let's get a move on! Yes, that means you, you mages there! Shale, bring the golems!"

Danith shouted, "Hold fast! Keep them out!" and then slipped between two frightened soldiers. She ran toward the ogre. It was crouching, head down, preparing to charge. She slashed past darkspawn, as they groped for her, and then she gave a wave to the archers in the trees.

"Shoot the ogre!" she screamed above the noise of battle. "Bring it down! Bring it down!" Then she sprinted away, daggers held tight.

Some of the archers heard her, and directed their arrows at the ogre, trying to distract it from its deadly rush. It shook its massive, horned head, dislodging some of the arrows, and then pawed irritably at one that had penetrated its ear. It gave Danith just a few extra seconds. Another archer had the sense to target the darkspawn in her path.

She ran; and time slowed to a crawl. Ahead of her was the ogre, and between them were yammering darkspawn. One went down before she reached it, and she hurdled it. It slashed out feebly, dying, and she felt the blade brush her boots. A hurlock challenged her and she parried his sword with her dagger and ran on.

Above her was the sky, an immense bowl of dull lead. Briefly she wished for a glimpse of the sun and the blue of the heavens above the Brecilian Forest, but they were far away; so far that they were now part of the dim, dead, inaccessible past. The only thing in the world was the ogre, growing larger as she ran.

It was fully crouched now, in a moment of perfect stillness before the terror of its charge. Danith ran up it; a boot finding purchase on a huge knee, another on the edge of a breastplate. She flung both hands high, and brought down her daggers into the corded vessels of its neck with all the strength in her, screaming aloud.

Foul ichor spurted out, splashing her arms and face. The ogre bellowed in surprise, rose half-way, and faltered. Danith screamed again, and gave the daggers a hard twist.

The right dagger's blow would have killed it eventually, but the left did the work far faster. Danith pulled the daggers out, and a jet of the ichor pulsed from the right of the ogre's throat. Bewildered, outraged, it slapped Danith away with its left hand, while with its right it tried to stanch the ichor squirting from the wound.

The elf landed on a dead genlock, breaking her fall, but still bruising her on bits of rusty armor. She scrambled up, and it was then that she realized that there had been not one ogre, but two. The other had been hidden by the bulk of the one in front.

Unwounded and ready for a fight, the second trampled its dying fellow underfoot, and was on Danith in a moment.

She winced as she bounded up from the ground. Lesser darkspawn milled about, getting in the ogre's way, but it carelessly knocked them aside, lumbering toward the Grey Warden nearby. She ran to meet it, slowed by her injuries. With a leap, she was on it, daggers extended at the chest just above the breastplate. At that moment, the ogre was distracted by an arrow, and shifted to the right.

One dagger struck true, buried deep, penetrating the top of the lung. The other only slashed the ogre's left bicep. Danith clung to the hilt of the dagger in the ogre's chest, hanging there precariously, trying to gain purchase with her feet. Mortally wounded and enraged, the ogre made a grab for her, and yanked her away. Her armor was no match for an ogre's grip, and her ribs cracked under the pressure. With a scream, she threw her remaining dagger in one cruel, glaring eye.

The monster bellowed, and dropped her. It fumbled for the dagger, feebly, as its brain shut down. A great, wet cough, and it spewed out a mouthful of ichor. It took a step forward, and stumbled, already falling. Danith tried to roll out of the way. She did not entirely succeed.

She shrieked in brief agony, and darkness took her.

Just as Morrigan neared the darkspawn, Bronwyn jumped down to engage them on foot. It had been all she could do to cling on this far. There was no way she could fight mounted without the gear to hold her in place. She dropped off and rolled, coming up and unsheathing her sword in one motion.

The charge of the wyverns smashed the darkspawn. Morrigan lashed her tail, sending them flying. She spat poison, and rent them with her claws. The rest of the wyverns followed up, not giving the the darkspawn time for an effective counterattack. Bronwyn rallied the scouts and they spread out, killing the darkspawn laid low by the wyverns. Alistair had jumped off, as she had, and was hacking genlocks to bits. Brosca bounced away, with a gleeful yell, and pounced on the nearest genlock. Adaia, still sticking to Velanna's back like a burr, was chasing the last of them through the trees, tossing bombs in one direction, while Velanna spat venom in the other. Zevran had the knack of staying on a wyvern as well, He leaned to one side, sword extended, moving down darkspawn as they pursued them down the road.

Dalish archers rushed in behind them, their arrows finding their targets. Merrill's childlike voice rang out in bloodthirsty threats. The shallow burrows the darkspawn had used for the ambush were routed out and any creatures hiding was slaughtered.

"Bronwyn!" called one of the Dalish. "Darach needs a Healer!"

The elf was on the ground, not moving. Even at this distance, he looked bad.

"Stay with him! The mages are coming! Where's Danith!"

Another answered, "She fought the ogres, but she did not come back." He pointed, and Bronwyn took off at a run. One ogre was piled on the other. Huddled down within the bend of a massive knee was Danith.

"Over here!" Bronwyn shouted. "Anders! We need a Healer, not a wyvern!"

He had raged over the battlefield, and his blood was still up. Great golden eyes stared at Bronwyn, and she wondered for a moment if he was going to attack her. Then the wyvern shivered back into Anders, who staggered a little as he ran toward her.

"Danith's down here!"

They clambered over the stinking ogres, trying to think of a way to extricate the elf. Bronwyn felt queasy at the thought of moving her. Danith was covered in blood; worse, her hip was oddly distorted.

"This is bad," Anders whispered to Bronwyn. "I don't know how much I can do. We mustn't try to lift her yet."

"Where's Tara? Where's Zevran?" Bronwyn asked, remembering their packets of Ashes.

"I don't know. Gone after the darkspawn." He met her eyes. If they were not back in the next few moments, it would be too late.

By this time the golems had arrived, and Bronwyn put them to work moving the ogres away instead. The corpses were hauled away, the limbs pushed aside to reveal Danith on the ground. Anders crouched down, working to stem the bleeding and heal the wounds. Anders pushed back a eyelid. Danith moaned softly and blinked at him.

"Hurts..."

"I'll take care of you. You're going to be all right." He hurriedly gathered his mana, spilling blue light, trying to repair countless ruptured blood vessels.

"No. I'm not. The Dread Wolf has me. Merrill..."

The little Keeper appeared, and knelt at her side. "I'm here, lethallan." She laid a laid on Danith's hair, stroking it back from her brow.

Wardens and Dalish crowded around, everyone wanting to help. Danith tried to wave them away, but she was too weak, and her hand dropped to the ground.

"No," she murmured, "No. I want to feel the sun on my face..."

"—What did she say, lethallin?"

The clouds parted just a little: just enough for a rim of silver to line the edges. A fugitive patch of sun spilled down, casting light on the aftermath of the battle. Danith smiled, and died.

All things considered, it counted as a victory. They had slaughtered over four hundred darkspawn and cleared a wide swath of road. These were good things.

They had also lost a Warden to death, and another had been severely injured. Tara slipped Anders some of her Ashes for Darach, feeling sick with guilt over Danith's fate. The Ashes made all the difference. Without them, Anders might have been able to save Darach's leg from amputation, but the elf would have been lame for life.

Zevran did not know how to feel about Tara's decision. Yes, one did what one could for a comrade. He liked Darach. However, people died in war. All people died eventually. They could not save the whole army. Decisions would have to be made: hard decisions. That said, he knew that had he been on the spot, he would given his Ashes to Danith.

There had been other casualties, of course. The humans would be consigned to the pyre. As for the Dalish, they would be buried along with Danith in their traditional way. An area was cleansed with fire, and the Keepers' plan was to mark the graves with stones, and when the area could be further cleansed, to bring in saplings to plant on each one.

Bronwyn looked on, rather glad of Loghain's stalwart presence beside her. Such were the fortunes of war. Her relationship with Danith had not started well, but Danith had proved herself since as a courageous and principled Warden and a champion of her people. Alistair stood with a group of human Wardens and friends: Leliana, Silas, Emrys, Aveline, and others, looking on with sober curiosity. Astrid, of course, was there, serious and tactful, comforting Danith's friends. Those who had journeyed with her were grieved: Niall, Quinn, and Maeve, and Nuala and Steren. Danith had come into her own in their adventures together.

"I don't like this," Quinn whispered to Maeve. "I mean, it's like the Dalish have taken her back. Danith was a Warden! That's what we should recognize!"

"Shhh!" Maeve hushed him. "Funerals are for the living. Bronwyn's one to respect people's home customs. No doubt the Dalish find our customs strange, too."

Since it was a Senior Warden, the other leaders had shown the courtesy to attend as well. The Fereldan nobles could maintain a serious demeanor. For that matter, nobles like Wulffe and Corbus knew Danith and respected her. The Orlesians were less comfortable at the situation. All of these pagan goings-on seemed improper and heretical; and the idea of putting the dead bodies in the earth to rot and be eaten by crawling things turned their stomachs. Far better a clean, decent pyre. The dwarves, of course, thought burial the appropriate way to dispose of the dead. The Dalish whispered among themselves, some not pleased that strangers were here to witness what was a Dalish ceremony, but tolerating it for the sake of the alliance.

Velanna had been weeping: hot, angry tears. Her face was swollen and red, and she glared resentfully at the humans. Nuala and Steren whispered gently to her, restraining her temper. Niall had slipped a calming potion into her wine, Bronwyn understood.

Keeper Merrill was quite distraught, too. Danith was from her own clan, and they had known each other from childhood. Lanaya supported her on one side, and old Maynriel on the other. A Dalish woman that Bronwyn did not know sang a dirge, accompanied by curious harps that were as much bow as musical instrument, and by a strange bone flute.

"Melava inan enansal

Ir su araval tu elvaral

U na emma ableas

In elgar sa vir mana

In tu seetheneran din'

Emma na…"

The words had a significance that was only known to the leadership among the elves. There were nods and significant glances. Beyond these dark days of Blight, there was a future for the elves that no darkspawn could sully and no human lord control. Merrill pulled herself together sufficiently to say the Dalish words of farewell to the dead. The language, incomprehensible to all but the Dalish, sounded sweet and musical, its very intonation soothing the heart. Bronwyn sighed as Danith's body was put in the grave by Thanovir and Cathair. The elf girl looked very small and frail there in the dark ground.

"If we were not in the Blighted lands, we would give her flowers in summer and fragrant evergreen in winter," murmured Lanaya to Bronwyn, "But there is nothing here but Taint. Therefore we give her presents instead, sweet cakes and small bowls of hallenensal. Cathair carved Danith a little halla to keep her company. Velanna gave her a silver brooch she found in the Deep Roads."

After the gifts were arranged around the dead, a little bronze trowel of dirt was presented to Merrill. She used it to sprinkle a little earth into the graves. She gave it next to Lanaya, who then, politely gave it to Bronwyn. There was a little stir among the Dalish, but the consensus was that it was permissible for Danith's commander to take part in the ritual. When she was done, Maynriel gave her a little nod and took it from her. The trowel was filled again and again, and friends participated in the

The graves were filled. Bronwyn tried not to flinch as the shovelful of earth covered Danith's still white face. If she could bear seeing her friends consumed by fire, she could bear this.

When the graves were filled, the stones were arranged on top, and Lanaya chanted a long invocation in Dalish, and the Dalish chimed in the responses. There was more restlessness among the Andrasteans at this. Bronwyn glanced around, willing people to have the decency to let the dead be buried in their own fashion. The last words spoken were luckily in Dalish, for they would have been inflammatory if declaimed in the Common Tongue:

"We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last elvhen. Never again shall we submit."

When it was over, they dispersed to their new camp, and Bronwyn called a meeting of the Wardens. Cathair was the new Dalish Senior Warden. No one talked much, until the human and dwarven Wardens had turned in for the night. Darach was still in a deep healing sleep. The rest of elves had plenty to say among each other.

"At least Danith saw the elven land. At least she had that," sighed Siofranni. Adaia held her close.

"She died a true hero," declared Cathair, "and would want us to finish what we have begun. The Blight must be conquered before we depart from Thedas."

"And I'm not going until I free as many people as I can from the Tevinters," Adaia said, black eyes fierce.

"There is that," Tara said, trying to think clearly. She laid her head on Zevran's shoulder, feeling more guilty than she could express. "I would love to see my family. Just once, I'd love to be able to see them and speak to them. That Fenris probably knows heaps about Tevinter and what they do with the slaves. Let's pick his brain when he gets back. Do we have anything to drink?"

All the elves stared at her. Wardens always had something to drink.

"My friend Oghren is snoring," said Zevran. "I shall steal something from him."

Bronwyn lay awake for a long time, listening to the sounds of the camp settling down, and to the insistent whispers of the elves, talking among themselves. They were too quiet to be intelligible. Bronwyn hoped they were not plotting mutiny. Loghain's breathing evened out, and soon he too added to the chorus of snores. His were certainly not the worst. She stared up at the dark red of the tent, backlit by a hundred campfires, and tried to make herself relax. She counted backwards, and only reached eight-three before she was asleep.

She found herself in the Fade, surprised at how noisy it was. She drew a Fade version of the Keening Blade to ward off the creatures lurking in ambush. It appeared that she was in the ruins of a city, on an upper level of some great edifice. She peered over the edge of a broken floor, once glorious black marble. Far below her was a pit of nightmares.

Tentacles swayed like seaweed in the ocean shallows. A low, deep moaning rose up from it from a hundred ruined voices. Bronwyn thought they were cries of agony, until she realized that they were singing, heads raised to drink in the sight above them.

The Archdemon perched watchfully on a shattered tower, an immobile profile. Its fanged jaw was closed, and it physically uttered no sound, but from it rose a musical note, plangent, achingly sweet, and immensely powerful. It promised everything: balm for old wounds, surcease from sorrow. It promised, in fact, a perfect world.

Bronwyn looked past it, and far away saw a shadowy mass, hanging as if suspended in the heaven. She tried to make out details and thought she could recognize towers and gates, high walls and battlements. The Black City? it must be. Her mage friends had told that they could see the Black City when in the Fade.

She began climbing, up and up, wondering what would happen if she attacked the Archdemon here. Would it be easier to fight? If it killed her, would she be dead in the real world? Could she find her friends here in the Fade, and ask them to join with her? Mages could manipulate the Fade. Could she?

The Archdemon ignored her, more interested in what lay at a distance beyond them. Bronwyn kept climbing, and found herself atop a section of damaged wall. She followed the dragon's gaze, and stared, unbelieving, at what was stretched out on the plain below.

Blue and silver banners heralded the presence of Wardens. Thousands of Wardens. The Taint in the their blood called to her.

"Hello? Can anyone hear me?"

"Bronwyn?"

Striding out of darkness, silver armor shining, was Warden-Commander Duncan.

"Bronwyn! My dear child!"

He looked much as he had when they had first met at Castle Highever. White teeth gleamed in his dark face. With his gold earring and black beard he looked like a gentleman-pirate. He seemed very happy to see her.

"Bronwyn! You brave, brave girl! I knew you could do it. I knew you were The One."

"I haven't done it yet."

"But you have!" He swept out his arm, gesturing at the army of Wardens encamped below. "You've brought us all together, the way it was meant to be. Here, in the Dragon Age, Urthemiel will be vanquished and the Fifth Blight will end! You've done your part, and more." He gave her the kindest smile. "Now let your brothers and sisters do theirs."

"I don't understand what you mean."

"You've been the leader that Thedas needed in her darkest hour. There's no need for you die! Among your faithful Wardens are heroes enough. Or let a worthy brother of Nevarra—or Antiva — or even, yes, even of Orlais— reap the honor of slaying the Archdemon. Don't be greedy for greater glory, dear child. Leave some for others."

"We'll all do our best against the Archdemon," Bronwyn answered."When we face it, no one can hold back out of misguided good manners."

She had once, after the slaughter of her family, quite depended on Duncan. Now his words seemed patronizing... condescending. Had he always been like this? She had come to disagree with his leadership of the Wardens, but she had never been uncomfortable in his presence before. No, that wasn't quite true. There was her Joining, when Duncan had killed Daveth with the Joining potion and then skewered poor foolish Jory. Those had been significantly uncomfortable moments. Even so, she didn't remember him seeming so... insufferable.

"Of course," Duncan intoned soothingly. "Of course. A Cousland always does her duty. And you've done splendidly. You deserve to reap the rewards of such superhuman effort. You're a queen, and a wife of a man who loves you— however unusually he manifests it— and you will someday be a mother. Think of the good you can do Ferelden— the good that I must say I think only you can do. If you were to fall, how long do think your scheme of mage clinics would last? What would become of your proteges, the elves? What would become of Loghain, unlooked-for love once again taken from him? And what of your unborn children?"

Three small phantoms flickered in the dreadful leaden sky, illuminated only by fire. A girl, a boy, a girl. The older girl had with long brown hair and pleading grey eyes. Bryce Cousland's eyes, starred with Loghain's dark lashes.

"Mother!" she called. "Mother! Save us! You've already lost our older brother! If you die, we won't even exist in the Fade!"

Bronwyn shuddered, and turned to Duncan's sympathetically smiling face. Duncan? She saw now that it was a bad imitation. "That was a low blow, Urthemiel, even for you."

The smile altered only minutely. "Does it hurt? Good. You should know how it feels when your children are slaughtered. Mine wish only to live... to exist. They wish to love me, serve me, hear my song, reproduce their kind. You would deprive them of all those things. It is only right that you should suffer some grief in your turn. But see!"

The phantoms were brighter now. With a pang, Bronwyn saw that the boy had Loghain's scowl. The smaller girl was clutching a puppy.

"All you have to do is live, Mother!" the older girl sobbed. "Don't strike the final blow, and we can all be together with Father! Let someone else do it!"

Bronwyn hardened her heart, though it broke in doing it. "If you were really my daughter, and the daughter of Loghain Mac Tir, you would never have said those words."

They vanished, their sweet faces tear-streaked, fading young voices crying "Mother! Mother!"

The imitation Duncan's smile remained, but turned malicious and smug, the face lengthening, the eyes pale and cold. The immobile dragon on the heights had only been an illusion. Bronwyn turned to the real Archdemon, who leaned with casual ease against the battlements.

Bronwyn said, "If I weren't going to kill you before, I would kill you for that. You are too hateful to live. You were a rotten God when the foolish ancients worshiped you, and the Taint has not improved you. Your days are numbered, and I will end you and the Blight together."

"Stupid girl!" the creature mocked. "I offer you love and a future, and you simper about the Blight. You are immune to the Taint! Use that advantage! Together, we can rule this world!"

Bronwyn hefted her sword, considering. It was not a great distance. Could she kill the Archdemon, right here and now, right here in the Fade?

"I'm not interested in ruling the world."

"Just some of it, eh?" gibed Urthemiel, the last vestiges of Duncan quite gone. "Just enough for your unfortunately limited abilities. But a crown, even of a wretched, barbarous, penurious land, is very sweet. Whatever happened to 'the kingdom within?' Your father must be so disappointed, not to mention poor Andraste..."

Bronwyn charged without warning, sword raised, running quick and silent. Just a step farther...

A burst of echoing laughter, and the Archdemon was gone. Bronwyn tottered at the the edge of the battlement, and then she was falling, falling... the wind in her hair...

"Wake up, woman!" Loghain growled, giving Bronwyn a shake. "Stop arguing with the bloody Archdemon!"

Bronwyn jolted awake. The sensation of falling through space was so intense that she grabbed at Loghain's arm, gasping for breath.

"I tried to kill it!" she told him, her jaw stiff. "I tried to kill it in the Fade!"

"Good idea! See if you can pull it off the next time."

She sat up on the edge of the big camp bed, fumbling for a tunic. Her sword was propped up against the bed, which was reassuring.

"Where do you think you're going?" Loghain asked.

"Out. Out for a walk. It's almost day, anyway."

"It is not." He rose up on his elbow, and wrapped an arm around her. "It's hours until daylight. Lie down and rest, even if you can't sleep. Maybe I can think of something to relax you."

Riordan made sure everyone was ready to leave Montsimmard very, very early the next day: even so instructing Prince Florestan himself. He had warned them that those not ready would be left behind.

"We leave at dawn," he said, his tone brooking no contradiction.

Carver was pleased, as was the rest of his party. Jowan regretted that he had had no time to explore more of the Tower of Shadows, nor to insinuate his way into the Montsimmard Circle. Someone else would have to do that, he supposed. Nevin was uncomfortable, surrounded by Orlesians, and wanted to get back to the army.

Fenris was eager to return as well. There was where the danger and hardship were most likely to be, and that was why he was here, after all. Once they stepped beyond Verchiel, the army was entering terra incognita; the place where the Orlesian army had been destroyed. No one knew what they would find, other than lots of darkspawn. 'Where' was the big question.

Riordan had been glad to hear that Bronwyn had left a small garrison of Wardens at Jader, and decided to do the same here at Montsimmard. Out of his remaining Wardens, he left seven.

The Prince was ready in good time. So were his followers, and Berthold de Guesclin and his. The nobleman's wife and children were ensconced securely and quite comfortably in their townhouse. Altogether, a strong force of over a hundred would ride to the allied camp. Unsurprisingly, no one challenged them on their way. The only person they met on the roads was a daft merchant, Felix de Grosbois, who was hurrying south, bound for Val Firmin.

Other than the stops to rest and water the horses, they did not pause in their journey. They met elements of the allied army north on the Imperial Highway, at the crossroads with the Voie Verte. A rearguard was left at that point in the road, entrusted with patrolling the roads and keeping them clear.

"They've gone west on the Greenway already?" Carver asked, surprised. They were not giving the new Wardens much time to recover. On the other hand, perhaps there really wasn't much time to be wasted.

The officer of the patrol nodded. "Had a bit of a scuffle yesterday, too, I heard. Plenty of darkspawn over the river, I reckon."

A few hours on, and they began passing the main baggage train. Even Fenris had to respect the foresight of the ancient Tevinter engineers, who had built the Imperial Highway wide enough not to be easily clogged. One huge wagon had them all stopping to gape. They heard the roars before they saw the occupant.

"Is that..." Riordan gasped. "Is that a wyvern? Is that one of the wyverns that was in the battle?"

"It's a wyvern, but it wasn't in the battle with us," Carver said, grinning. "That's Duke Prosper's pet, Leopold. Pretty impressive, isn't he?"

"Very. The others," Riordan persisted, "they were equally large?"

"Or larger."

"That's... very good news."

Prince Florestan sighed. He had always been rather afraid of Prosper de Montfort, and did not look forward to meeting him again. That Duke Prosper was in with the new Empress did not bode well for Florestan himself. Florestan's people scowled, and Corot took to watching his prince narrowly, obviously wanting him to say something loud and denunciatory. Florestan refused to look at him. This was no time to fight among themselves. It was probably never a good time to fight with someone who kept a wyvern for a pet.

"It looks like reinforcements, my lord King," remarked Cauthrien. "From their colors, they are Wardens… and others. It's that de Guesclin fellow, come back, too."

Loghain recognized the Orlesian, and was briefly surprised that one of that lot would keep his word to return and fight. Probably wanted to be around to make trouble. And who were those others, with the painted shields and the chased armor? He glanced over to see Proper de Montfort's face turn an interesting shade. Hiding a grim smile, he waited to see what developed.

Ah… there was Carver Hawke, looking pleased and excited, as if he'd done something brilliant. At least he'd rounded up more Wardens for Bronwyn. That could only be a good thing. The girl was in low spirits about the death of the Dalish Warden.

"Your Majesty!" called Carver. "We found Wardens at Montsimmard! This is Riordan…"

Bronwyn stepped out of the royal tent and her face lit up.

"Riordan! How wonderful to see you!"

The Senior Warden of Jader jumped down from his horse and strode forward to greet Bronwyn, with a fierce smile and a graceful bow.

"Your Majesty. It has been a long time since we last met."

"Too long. Present your friends to us, Riordan."

Some of Florestan's retinue stiffened at the idea of an Imperial Prince of the line of Kordilius Drakon being presented to a Cousland of Ferelden— and even worse, to a peasant like Loghain Mac Tir. It was for their Prince to have his inferiors presented to him. There was no help for it. For that matter, Florestan himself was not helping. He dismounted and came forward, a pleasant smile on his lips.

Riordan said, "Your Majesties, this is Florestan, Imperial Prince of Orlais."

Rather startled to see someone they thought long dead, Bronwyn and Loghain stared at the bowing newcomer. Bronwyn managed a smile.

"Welcome, Your Imperial Highness."

Loghain added. "It appears that the rumors of your death were somewhat exaggerated."

"Very true, Your Majesty. Madame la Reine," Florestan said in a softer tone to Bronwyn. "I can see that exaggeration played no part in any report of you."

And then, to Loghain's great disgust, Florestan kissed Bronwyn's hand. Loghain was even more annoyed that Bronwyn gave the fellow a smile, especially since he was wearing a mask, which objects Loghain had made a point of banning from his presence.

"We're sorry not to get a better look at you," he commented.

"The mask? Alas, it is not an affectation, but to conceal what the darkspawn did to my face during my flight from Val Royeaux."

"Honorable scars are nothing to be ashamed of," Loghain growled. "Be damned to the world if they don't like them!"

Florestan hesitated, then sighed. "If it is your will, Majesty." He slipped off the mask, and braced himself for the reaction.

It was pretty bad, but everyone there had seen worse. The scars were still red. The Prince had clearly not had the advantage of magical healing when the wounds were fresh. The lid of one eye slanted down at the outside corner, and the nose was smashed like that of a drunken brawler. The flesh of the right cheek appeared to be largely carved away and the skin healed badly. The flesh of the left cheek down to the jaw appeared... melted... as if by dragonfire or acid.

Impulsively, Bronwyn took him by the hand. "Loghain is right. It's nothing for you to be ashamed of, but it must have hurt horribly," she said, and then gestured to her own scar. "The darkspawn marked me too, as you see. I was very lucky to have a brilliant mage Healer with me at that very moment."

Florestan gave her an odd, sad smile. "You are too kind, Majesty. Ah, well... Let me make my comrades known to you: This is Philidore de Corot, a man of ready wit. This is my faithful friend and foster-brother Ursus, whose strong arm saved my life the night Val Royeaux fell..."

As the prince made the introductions, Prosper de Montfort arrived, a prodigiously false smile pasted on his lips.

"Your Imperial Highness."

"Duke Prosper. I was most impressed by your pet wyvern."

"Ah, yes. I think many have learned to be impressed by the creatures. We were all grieved at the false reports of your death. I shall inform the new empress of your survival, and naturally, also, of your acceptance of her as the rightful heir."

"Mais oui. I could not be happier for her. I haven't seen Celandine since we were children, but I remember how pretty she was."

Prosper sneered back, and let his eyes travel over the prince's maimed features in an unmistakeable statement that Florestan's good looks were certainly a thing of the past. He said nothing of that aloud however, and only smugly remarked, "Her Imperial Majesty's beauty is greater than ever, were that possible. I act for her as her proxy and ambassador, especially as I am her affianced husband."

"You are fortunate." There was, perhaps, just the slightest emphasis on the "you." A careful listener might detect that Florestan thought the good fortune was entirely Prosper's.

Bronwyn took Riordan and the Wardens off for introductions and briefings. After their blooding the day before, they would all be glad of the extra swords.

Prosper held a public ceremony of homage to the Empress in the Orlesian camp. Corot raged inwardly, but Florestan did not object to declaring his loyalty to Empress Celandine in the person of her representative. Ursus was less upset. It was in the Maker's hands; and just as the Maker had allowed them to escape alive from the grasp of the Archdemon, so they would survive Duke Prosper's scheming.

Morrigan wondered if it was time yet. Soon, certainly. At some point she must confide in Anders, since the ritual demanded some degree of informed consent to be effective. Perhaps now was not a bad time. He was depressed over his failure to save the elf. His heart, already soft, would be softened further. Not that it was in any way his fault. He was a superbly gifted mage and a brilliant healer. The elf had been simply too damaged to live. That happened, in war. Morrigan had never cared a pin for Danith one way or another, and when there had been that period of tension between Bronwyn and Danith, Morrigan had been completely on Bronwyn's side.

It was Anders' nature to be kind; to save those who could be saved; to relieve or prevent suffering. Very laudable, to be sure. That he was a Grey Warden, high in the Wardens' counsels and a favorite of the Queen's, was an excellent way for him to make the best possible use of his powers... with, of course, the greatest possible rewards. Rewards were agreeable things.

Morrigan had never thought of herself as poor in those days with Flemeth; never thought of herself as deprived. With the benefit of hindsight, she regarded her past life with disgust and indignation. She had lived in a dirty hut in a swamp, eating boiled lizard and entertaining stinking savages, while Flemeth told her what to think and do. She smirked, reflecting on the curious amulet in her special treasure chest: the amulet that would never, ever, in the course of her life be put to the use that she believed Flemeth intended. The world did not need a resurrected Flemeth. Now and then she considered having it thrown in the deepest part of the sea, but she dared not part with it, dared not let it out of her hands. If some fool were to throw it into the shallows, it could well wash to shore and into some other fool's hands. Perhaps, one day, she would take an ocean voyage herself. Or perhaps she would return to the Deep Roads, and throw the amulet into the lava, utterly destroying it, as the golem Caridin had destroyed himself. Perhaps that was the soundest scheme...

That was not the problem before her at the moment. The problem was the ritual, by which she would gain control over the soul of an Old God, and would prevent Bronwyn... well, any Warden—but chiefly Bronwyn, whom she actually liked and cared about— from death by Archdemon.

It was an elegant solution. The Tainted seed of the Warden would attract the soul of the Archdemon. It would take up residence in the new embryo and be born once more into the world: pure, unTainted, sublimely powerful. It could well usher in a Golden Age for this cruel and violent world; and Morrigan would be mother to a god. As far as she could see, everyone — other than the vanquished darkspawn— would benefit. Bronwyn would survive, which Morrigan thought Ferelden's only hope for anything resembling enlightened government until Urthemiel was old enough to begin his reign. That would probably not be for many, many decades... very likely after Bronwyn herself was long gone and not inconvenienced by a supplanter. The little voice that might be her conscience — something she generally ignored and of which she denied the existence— pointed out that Bronwyn's children might not care to be swept aside. That was nonsense. Morrigan was not to be turned from her goals by any sense of duty to unborn children, even if they were Bronwyn's.

To be effective, the ritual demanded the child must be conceived "on the eve of battle," but the Archdemon could well attack at any time. They were clearly within the creature's attack radius, since they were approaching the site of its destruction of the Orlesian Imperial army. The embryo, to be effective, must be so young as to have no brain function of its own.

Looking back, she felt that Flemeth's instructions had been pitifully inadequate. Why must she be alone? Why must the child's father have no part in the child's rearing? That part she had rejected already. Flemeth wanted her alone and isolated in order to kill her and take the child. Flemeth was no longer a concern, since one part of her was at the bottom of Morrigan's jewel box, and Bronwyn was wearing bits of her as very handsome armor. There was no reason for Morrigan not to please herself and remain with Anders as long as she liked, enjoying the hospitality of the Grey Wardens.

There were other concerns. The spirit of the Old God emitted a "song" profoundly attractive to darkspawn. Would the child also be a magnet for the creatures? How could she protect him if he was? Truth be told, the prospect of a safe haven built into the granite foundations of Soldier's Peak was looking more and more appealing. And the child, however great a genius, would need teachers. Anders' skills complemented her own so well... Tara was so clever and powerful and amusing... Niall was quite the expert in runes and glyphs: an estimable, ancient art... Petra was quiet, not a fool, and fond of children...

She sniffed, dismissing the idea of Velanna, whom she found obnoxious. Velanna could be assigned elsewhere, surely. Somewhere far away, perhaps.

Then Morrigan's thoughts turned to the most senior mage at Soldier's Peak, and even she briefly quailed at the sort of interest Avernus would take in the child. Would he discover Urthemiel's true origin? Would he want to do his part in mentoring a god? Yes and yes, unquestionably. Morrigan rearranged her future somewhat. Perhaps Bronwyn would want Anders at the Wardens' Compound in Denerim, serving as Court Mage. That might be more lively and equally secure.

Anders slipped into their tent quietly, looking tired and unhappy. Morrigan had left the lantern lit, and he saw that she was still awake.

"Darach will walk again, though not due to any healing of mine," he said, trying to smile. "That was all that bit of Ashes. Bronwyn came and sat with him for awhile, and they had a talk. He didn't know about Danith until he awakened, and he took it hard."

She arranged the bedding for him more invitingly, while he slipped out of his clothes.

"More will perish before the Blight is over," she said. "Without you, it would have been far, far worse."

He sighed as he lay down, and seemed pleased by her words. She supposed she should give him praise and compliments more often. They always worked very well.

"Yes," she continued, her voice thoughtful. "In this dark time, more will perish. That is why I want a child."

Thanks to my reviewers: sizuka2, Melysande, Chiara Crawford, Nemrut, Tirion I, Rexiselic, imperial queen, just in jest, MemoriesoftheForgottenGuardian, forget the rest, Mike3207, Blinded in a bolthole, AD Lewis, KngihtOfHolyLight, DjinniGenie, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, New Zealand 5, Fenrir666, JackOfBladesX, Phygmalion, Ie-maru, Robbie the Phoenix, Lyssa Terald, Brenediction, Garm88, jnybot, mille libri, Girl-chama, Herebedragons66, dragonmactir, Wedger, and Josie Lange.

My good friend JOdel, who has created spectacular versions of many of my stories at her Red Hen site, has begun the heavy lifting on a version of Victory at Ostagar. The preliminary graphics are gorgeous. I, of course, will have to edit the story from page one on, since what is on ffdotnet is pretty much a first draft. She will break it down into five volumes, and I will let you know on my author's page when it's posted. I'm quite excited about it. Thanks, JOdel, for the immense undertaking!