Victory At Ostagar
Chapter 120: Fires on the Plain
Cauthrien and Brosca returned to camp with the good news that a squadron of ships was anchored at the mouth of the Orne. Captain Isabela had got the message and was there for when they needed her. Cauthrien described the number and kind of darkspawn they had fought and her speculations on how many were in that part of the river delta. Then she described finding the old campsite and displayed her little map, annotated with her diagrams of how the Archdemon must have attacked.
"It was night," Bronwyn said, visualizing it. "It was dark, and no one was looking up. Of course, it would be hard to see the Archdemon if it weren't actually flaming."
"Dwarves and elves have better night vision," said Loghain. "The Dalish especially will be the best choice to watch the skies at night. They'll want to poison their arrows, too." He snorted a laugh. "And we'll tell them not to shoot until they actually have a chance at hitting the creature."
Bronwyn hoped they would not be treated to poisoned arrows raining back down on their camp. "I wish I knew how badly hurt the Archdemon really is," she said. "We shouldn't waste the opportunity, if it's really damaged."
Loghain pretended to be philosophical about it. "The army can only move as fast as it can move." Actually, he was anxious to hurry, too. It had been a month since the attack on Val Royeaux. The Wardens all seemed to think it would take almost two months for the wretched Broodmothers to start bearing. They needed to strike hard before those unwelcome reinforcements came into play.
Brosca added, "I saw Sten, too. He wanted to come with us, but the bigshots said no."
"He was all right?" Bronwyn asked.
"He looked all right. I don't think he's pleased with how things are going."
"I would think not."
Cauthrien told them that the Wardens had done some work on cleansing the old camp, and that it should be usable if they traveled in that direction. She also reported finding the remnants of the Qunari: the dead body and the boat.
"And they moved the boat. It wasn't where we saw it on the way in. It crossed my mind to destroy it, but that seemed not only petty, but a perfect way to start a needless fight. The ships were warned to watch out for them, in case they decided to steal one."
"It's completely ridiculous," said Bronwyn. "If they had the least intelligence they would join with us for the duration, instead of standing on their dignity."
Loghain shrugged. "That's their decision. If they attack us or offer any hindrance, they'll have to be killed."
Bronwyn was not happy about it, but saw no way to object. Anyone who made it difficult to pursue the war against the darkspawn was by definition their enemy.
Riordan and Alistair were back later in the day, with the news that Val Foret was still holding, and that Riordan's wandering Wardens had reached the city alive.
"I told Fiona to stay there," Riordan reported. "We need an outpost there, watching for darkspawn. The refugees there were sure that the darkspawn tunneled under Val Royeaux's city walls. Fiona is making certain that they don't do that in Val Foret."
Loghain granted the value of Val Foret. It was directly on the Imperial Highway. As long as the city held, the darkspawn could not easily turn south. To the northwest were the vast Nahashin Marshes, and the horde would be as bogged down there as any human army. The Nevarrans and other Wardens were keeping the darkspawn occupied to the north. It was really not a bad tactical situation. If it had been any other army, he would think they had an excellent chance of hemming them in and destroying them piecemeal.
But they were not an ordinary human army. Darkspawn could survive without food and without clean water. They were hard to kill and they spread disease. And above all, there was the Archdemon, which could rain down death from above. Their options against the creature were limited. Ballistae and magic were all very well, but their range was limited. Of course, when he thought about it, it was true that the dragon's effective range was limited, too.
"How long is a dragon's flame?" he asked Bronwyn.
She could only give him a general estimate. Obviously, a High Dragon had a much longer range than the lesser kind, who could only flame the length of two men.
"Do dragons do anything else?" he wondered. "If they carried rocks into the sky, for example, and dropped them, they could do great harm."
"Yes, but I've never heard of that, or seen it, for that matter." Bronwyn thought about it. "I suppose there are all sorts of things an intelligent dragon could do, but they don't. They flame, and they use their claws, teeth, and tails to rend. They can fly in low and smash into you. I think they might well do that to an advancing army. But dropping things? It would be very effective, but they don't."
"Interesting." Loghain considered his options briefly. "We move out tomorrow."
Their next objective was the Charente River.
Val Charente lay on both sides the river, according to the map: a small town south of Val Royeaux. Nobody had heard a word from it, or from anyone claiming to be a refugee. A bridge spanned the river, and rather than going all the way up to Val Foret and traveling on the Imperial Highway, which crossed the Charente at the town of Arc, Loghain preferred to try the smaller bridge along the Greenway that would shorten their journey to Val Royeaux.
"The Count in Val Foret knows nothing of the fate of Arc," Riordan told them. "None of his scouts got that far. The darkspawn very likely hold the bridge there."
"Presumably they hold the bridge at Val Charente as well," Bronwyn pointed out.
"True," said Loghain, "but I like the idea of using the bridge at Val Charente better, anyway. We'll have naval support that way, and we can withdraw into the Orne Marshes and back up the Greenwayif we get into trouble."
Bronwyn liked the idea better too. Ever since Loghain had confided his concerns about being trapped deep in Orlais, it had preyed on her mind. It caused her to look at Duke Prosper in a different light. He was a sound ally at the moment. He even seemed to personally like and respect her, but she could imagine, all too easily, that he would turn on them the moment he could do so with impunity.
They finished their meeting and Riordan and Alistair went off to be introduced to the Antivan Wardens. The noise from from the Wardens' camp was loud and cheerful, and their presence reassured Bronwyn somewhat. Without the Wardens, their position would be infinitely more perilous.
No sane person would cross the Wardens, and a large portion of them were under her command. In fact, they were all under her general command, by common consent. The mages and Dalish, as she and Loghain had agreed, were loyal because it was in their best interests to be loyal. Astrid and her dwarves —for they were now unmistakably Astrid's dwarves— would likely stand with them, as long as their escape did not take too long or cost too many lives.
What about the Antivan Wardens in particular? They were curious about her, having heard some sort of nonsensical stories about her and the Ashes and Andraste. They were very curious about the dogs, and were quick too see their value in combat. Visconti himself seemed friendly enough, but she could not imagine him wanting to get between the Fereldan army and the growing Orlesian forces.
For they were certainly growing. Prosper de Montfort had done very well, luring in nobles and chevaliers at loose ends since the fall of Val Royeaux. They, in turn, brought their retinues, and they were beginning to add up very nicely. Loghain always gave orders when they made camp, and organized things so there would be the least amount of tension, but it was difficult to field an army with such contradictory elements without the occasional conflict. The Fereldans were fairly well trained by now —unless they were drunk — and would not automatically assume any elven woman was theirs for the taking. Nor did they utter high, girly screams, at the sight of a mage using magic. Newcomers to the army, however, were not so collaborative. All that could be done was to keep the Dalish as far from the Orlesians as possible, and to make sure that no Orlesian patrol incorporated Dalish scouts who were not also Grey Wardens. The Orlesians did respect Grey Wardens, and understood that Grey Wardens came in all races and both genders— and included mages as well.
"Perhaps we should send Corbus home," Bronwyn said, her voice low. "Perhaps we should send him downriver to that Captain Isabela, and get him out of here."
Loghain had been thinking exactly the same thing. "He won't thank us for it."
"No, but I'd rather he survived all this. We've had it easy so far, It's going to get so much worse. The farther we go, the more Taint everyone will be exposed to. It's inevitable that soldiers will contract Blight disease. We can try the Joining, but it won't work for everyone, and I certainly don't want to risk Corbus."
He nodded. "The Wardens will have to be in the vanguard as we march. Try to clear the way as much as possible. Try to burn off potential campsites. Have the mages test the water. We'll do what we can, but you're right: people will fall sick. It's too bad Duncan wasn't so honest about dealing with the Blight sickness.
Bronwyn gave him a tight smile. The dream of the Archdemon still haunted her, and she found it too disturbing to describe even to Loghain. No doubt he would find the idea of the Archdemon disguising itself as Duncan amusing. Bronwyn, however, was not amused. She still toyed with the idea of trying to kill the Archdemon in the Fade. If demons could be killed there, why not the Archdemon itself? The problem was that demons could also manipulate the Fade, and change things to suit themselves— just as the Archdemon had.
Arl Wulffe's hearty voice was heard outside the tent.
"Are they in? I'd like a word."
"Yes, we're here. Come on in, Wulffe," Loghain called.
Wulffe looked remarkably cheerful. "We have a new recruit. Who'd have thought the girl to have this much spirit?"
Bronwyn stared at him blankly. "Who—?"
"Charade! Rothgar's Charade! The girl rode all the way here from Denerim, looking for him." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Tired of waiting, I daresay, and wanting her wedding night. You should have seen the look on his face. Happy about it, after the surprise, of course. Be honored if you'd come to the wedding, which is going to be—" he burst out laughing "— before supper, I suppose. The girl brought a promissory note for her dowry!"
"I suppose we can find a priest—"
Wulffe was still laughing. "Oh, that's taken care of, too! She found a young Mother in Verchiel willing to ride out with her. Mother... I forget... Mother Something-Orlesian-Sounding. At least she can sit a horse."
"Lady Charade came alone?" Loghain asked, rather impressed.
"With the couriers. Got an order from Anora for horses. Resourceful of her. At this point, I'd let Rothgar marry her, even if she weren't good for the five hundred sovereigns!"
The wedding was rather sweet. Everyone enjoyed it, and many waxed sentimental. Even the Orlesians, who barely knew Rothgar, and the Antivans, who did not know him at all, were moved to attend and support the couple. A chance for a celebration was always welcome, especially in such dark times. Prince Florestan was particularly gallant to the bride, who had the decency to smile at him without flinching at his ruined face.
Charade had brought a pretty yellow silk dress in a saddlebag. Rothgar found a ring among the quartermaster's supplies: a fine ruby sold by one of the new Wardens for a fraction of its worth in order to buy drink instead. The quartermasters were cautious about loot sold by Wardens, and always had a mage on hand to clean the items properly. The ring even fit, and was much admired on Charade's strong and shapely hand.
The Revered Mother Donatienne looked rather dazed, or perhaps she was simply tired. The ride had been a hard one. The young noblewoman had offered a huge sum for a priest to accompany her, and though Donatienne grew frightened as they went west, she did not dare turn back alone. Strange as this rough camp of warriors was, it was better than the lonely road. She had been very frightened at first by the big Fereldan dogs, but was assured that they would never harm her.
And most people were very kind to her. A Templar, Sir Silas, approached her, and made her welcome. There were other Templars, too, led by a Knight-Commander, and a former lay sister, now a Warden.
"Yes, there are mages here," Leliana told her, in a sweet and soothing voice. "They are nothing to be afraid of. They are being very brave, and trying to do their duty by fighting the horrible darkspawn. The Dalish elves, too, are our allies. It is sad that they do not know the Maker, but all we can do is lead by example."
Donatienne was no fool, and understood the implicit message: "Don't cause trouble."
That seemed like good advice. Naturally, thing were always chaotic in war —or at least that was what she had always heard. Fortunately, the Chantry would be there to help return things to normal once this dreadful Blight was over. Somewhere, perhaps the Divine was still alive; or a new Divine would be elected. A new Cathedral would rise, and the mages would be returned to the safety of their Circles.
And the wedding was a proper opportunity to convey the Maker's message. Donatienne set about making it as pleasant and memorable an experience as she could. Leliana and Aeron had their instruments, and played softly, while the priest recited the Chant of Light, and the couple exchanged vows. They were declared husband and wife, and crowd cheered.
"You're not angry?" Charade whispered to Rothgar, under all the noise.
"Angry? No! I can't believe you're here!" He laughed. "And I can't believe all the presents we're getting!"
There was something to be said for having a wedding in front of an army that had a great deal of loot. Anders and Tara stood guard by a huge cauldron, which was rapidly filling up with coin and jewels and oddments, making sure nothing was Tainted.
Bronwyn actually wore a gown for the occasion, and made an effort to look her best. As the chief guests, she and Loghain looked on benignly, while their thoughts remained on the campaign ahead.
"We need to send her back as soon as possible," Bronwyn murmured, her smile fixed, feeling rather sorry for the brave young woman who seemed so very, very happy.
"Obviously." Loghain did not smile, but no one expected him to anyway. "We can't delay the advance for anyone's honeymoon. On the other hand, Rothgar can see her to that pirate woman's ship."
"Privateer."
"It amounts to the same thing."
"We'll order Corbus to go too, and tell him to look after her on the way home."
The following celebration was restrained. They were marching out in the morning, and no one — or almost no one — wanted a heavy head. They had the dispatches, but Charade could give them the gossip from Denerim in her own words. They learned that Bethany Hawke had established a free clinic in the Market District, under the protection of the Chantry. They also heard about the return of the Tevinters, and the death of Arl Kane. Bronwyn groaned, feeling like pounding her head on the table. Would Denerim ever be sorted out?
Loghain leaned over, and told her his private opinion. "Maybe we should dispense with the Arls of Denerim altogether. Charter the city and have the guilds elect a mayor. Keep everything under the general authority of the Crown."
It was a shockingly radical idea, and Bronwyn could not quite see how a city could be governed without a proper lord. However, it was quite impossible that lords like Urien, Vaughan, or Kane could be considered competent. Perhaps Denerim really would be better off without them.
"It would be hard on Faline," she whispered back, "to be done out of her rights."
"Why should a twelve-year-old girl who grew up on a farm have any right to rule Denerim?" Loghain growled back. Bronwyn was nonplussed by his attitude. The sturdy, independent freeholder appeared in him at the oddest times. Wulffe was speaking to her, and she turned to him with a smile, dismissing Loghain's revolutionary ideas from her mind.
There were toasts, of course, but soon the happy couple vanished into Rothgar's tent, and the rest had the decency not to hover nearby. The camp settled down for the evening, falling back into the usual routine.
While the celebration gave everyone a veneer of good spirits, Anders could tell that Morrigan, unlike everyone else in camp, was extremely unhappy about the appearance of the Antivan Wardens. While the male Antivans greatly outnumbered their female counterparts, there were now too many female Wardens in camp for Morrigan to control, or even to keep track of. She could not force every one of them to drink her awful tea.
Mind you, she had it available, and some of the newcomers had thanked her very politely. That said, she had no real connection with them, and could not bully them into drinking it down, the way she did with Tara or Brosca, or any other female Warden who was... er... active. She did not know who among them was active, for that matter.
Tara noticed that Morrigan was disgruntled about something. Knowing that approaching Morrigan directly was always useless, she instead decided to have it out with Anders. She slid over beside him, leaning against a tree, while Morrigan doled out cups of bitter brew.
"What's up with her? She acts as if we're all a lot of careless sluts who'll let the side down by getting knocked up. Does she think if that happens we'll run away and knit booties? Play house?"
"She's worried..."
"Come on, Anders, she's fixated on it. It's getting creepy. Even Maeve is complaining, and Maeve puts up with everything. She drinks that horrible stuff, and she's not even getting any."
"I though maybe she and Niall..."
"Hasn't happened yet. You know him. He's incredibly repressed. He can't do it in a tent, because he afraid somebody will hear. Once we get back to civilization, though, I think she'll nail him." She burst out laughing. "Nail Niall."
"You wicked girl. Zevran's a bad influence."
"We're not talking about me. We're talking about Morrigan and her obsession with everybody else's fertility."
"Look..." He was torn between keeping Morrigan's secrets and confiding in an old friend who was notably intelligent and sensible. "Look... you can never tell her I told you. You have to swear you'll never tell anyone."
"Tell anyone what?"
"You can't even tell Zevran. Swear."
She sighed heavily. "All Right. Grey Warden Honor. Pinkie swear. I won't even tell Zevran." She didn't like the idea, but it must be something big, and Anders was dying to tell her. If she had to tell Zevran, she could swear him to secrecy, and Anders and Morrigan didn't need to know about it.
So he told her every detail, and then winced at the look on her face.
"You're an idiot," she snapped. "You're completely out of your mind!" For a moment he thought she would hit him, and so did she.
Instead she clenched her fists and thumped the tree. Hard.
"Ow..."
Anders hardly knew what else to say. "Morrigan's obsessed with this. I think Flemeth must have done something to her..."
"Obviously!" Tara's burning sarcasm made him deeply regret confiding in her at all. She was not done with him.
"All right," she muttered, trying to think it through. "It's some form of geas. Probably a blood magic-based spell. It's not like making her a thrall, but just fixing her mind on the necessity of doing one thing."
"Morrigan told me that Flemeth despised blood magic."
"Ha! Of course she told her that! Blood magic is powerful. Why would she hand Morrigan a tool like that? She could have done anything to her, since she's had her all her life, and Morrigan would not know!" She blew out a breath. "It's useless to try to talk her out of it if it's a geas. I doubt there's anything we could do to exorcise it at this point. There's no chance of slipping her the tea without her knowing, I suppose. No, of course not. We'll need to sabotage the ritual somehow. What's involved?"
"Don't know."
"Well, you'd better know. Get it out of her. If it involves glyphs we can alter them. If it's a hex, we can nullify it."
"I do think a potion's involved. Something to make us... er... fruitful."
"That makes sense, but I don't think I can work with that. Morrigan's sure to notice if she doesn't quicken. I'm hoping there's something else that we can modify. We need to think about keeping her far from the Archdemon."
"Bronwyn likes to have her with her..."
"If Bronwyn thought she was pregnant, she wouldn't let her anywhere near the battle. Maybe that can work, too."
"Maybe not. She might just shape-shift and fly in to join her."
"True. Let me think about it. And get every single detail out of her. See if she's got any kind of talisman relating to Flemeth. That might have some effect on her. Does she have a ring? An amulet? Something that she always wears?"
"There's a necklet of willow beads that she slips under her gown. She always wears that."
"Take another look at it. I wish we could bring Jowan in on this—"
"Not Jowan."
"I know you don't like him, but he knows a lot about this sort of thing."
"Right. Blood Magic."
"Don't you get high and mighty with me, Prospective Father of the Old God Urthemiel. How do you and Morrigan think that's going to work out, anyway, when the baby smites you for singing the wrong lullaby or not changing his nappies fast enough?"
"It's not going to happen! That's why I came to you. If you don't want to help—"
"Don't be stupid. Of course I'm going to help. Morrigan's going to be busy for awhile. After she's done here, keep her talking. I'll search everything she's got, while you lull her into complacency, doing your... lulling-into-complacency-thing. Pick her brain for every detail of the ritual. Be honest. Tell her you're really worried about it and you need to understand it. How do you know Flemeth's ritual won't do other things to you? I see nothing wrong with analyzing the whole process. Now go. Do it."
Tara shoved him away, fuming at all people made fools for love. Anders was supposed to be clever. Morrigan seemed to think she knew everything. Both of them were behaving like complete idiots. They were the pathetic pawns of that vile old monster Flemeth, who was supposed to be dead, but probably wasn't quite dead enough.
Any sane person could see that Flemeth must have some sort of back-up plan, and would be scheming to swoop in, kill Morrigan and everyone with her, steal the child for whatever nefarious purpose she had, and flap away in triumph. Eventually, they would probably have to kill the rotten old bitch again.
What was Flemeth? More than a witch, more than a thorn in Morrigan's side. The dragon form, Tara surmised, was the big giveaway. Maybe Flemeth wasn't a witch who could assume dragon form. It was just as likely that Flemeth was a dragon who could assume human form. Maybe she was an old God herself. Tara had given Flemeth quite a bit of thought over the past few months.
Records of Flemeth only went back to the end of the Towers Age, when she had suddenly appeared in Highever, married Bann Conobar Elstan, and then killed him. Not as old as an Old God, some would say, but who was to say where Flemeth had been before? Was she an Old God, trying to rescue another of her kind? How did she know about the ritual? Why would she think it would work?
Tara shivered. The ritual worried her. Was it possible that it had been tried before? Was Flemeth the product of such a ritual? Maybe from the Archdemon Toth? The dates were very close. Maybe Flemeth knew the ritual would work, because it already had.
All this was supposition, and Flemeth was unlikely to give anyone a straight answer. She was supposed to be dead, but Tara found it difficult to believe that she had gone down so easily— unless that was her plan, for some reason. Maybe she was lulling Morrigan into complacency, letting her imagine she was safe. It was all fairly frightening.
She slipped into the tent that Anders and Morrigan shared, feeling like a traitor, but also like someone who had found a friend drunk in a gutter once too often and was trying to save her. She dug through Morrigan's possessions, found her trinket box, and sorted through her collection of jewelry with admiration. She remembered Zevran's tutelage and looked for hidden compartments. After a moment, there was a click, and a space under a false bottom was revealed.
It was a nasty looking object: a fetish more than an amulet, made of hair, hide, bone, and something that looked like fingernails, but might be horn. The remains were very old. It was intensely magical. Tara felt uncomfortable holding it, and dropped it into a pocket. She replaced everything in the box as it was, and then looked for Morrigan's grimoires. She could not read much of them, since quite a bit was in Old Alemarri, and Tara had no idea who could still read that, other than Flemeth and perhaps Morrignan, However, it used the Arcanum alphabet, and some of the roots seemed similar. She sat down to puzzle out what she could, knowing there was not enough time.
After awhile she gave up the struggle, and put the books back. Sneaking out the tent was easy enough. Simply taking that talisman away from Morrigan might do wonders for her mental health.
Zevran had been more amused than horrified at Tara's tale of the Old God baby. He stared at the unlovely object in Tara's hands. "I hope that is magic. Otherwise, I must say that it is a most unattractive souvenir of our visit to Orlais."
"It's magic," Tara admitted. "And it's still ugly. I don't know what it is, exactly, but I think it's something very, very bad. I think it's affecting Morrigan, but it's not something that's safe to just throw away."
"Does our good friend Morrigan know you have this?" Zevran asked, brows raised. "She does not seem to me to be one to share."
"I stole it from her jewelry box."
Zevran burst out laughing. "Brava, cara mia! Brava, brava, bravissima! Your education has not been wasted." He gave her a serious look. "Be very careful."
Tara was a little shamefaced, but pleased at the praise. "She'd probably kill me if she knew. She keeps it hidden away in a secret compartment, so she may not miss it for a long time. Anders and I are going to figure out what it is. Maybe it has something to do with Morrigan's obsession with reincarnating Urthemiel using weird Sex Magic."
"Weird Sex Magic sounds like an otherwise worthy field of study. As to the object, let us rid ourselves of it, and the sooner the better." Zevran grimaced in disgust. "Are those fingernails?"
"Maybe."
When the darkspawn burst through the Blighted trees the next day, Sten saw no reason not to take advantage of it. Karasten charged them bravely enough, but did not know enough about them to target the emissary. Sten had tried to make the others understand that the darkspawn had saarebas of their own: powerful magic users who posed a real threat. One should always take them out first.
Karasten, however, chose to engage the biggest hurlock, an axe-wielding creature that was formidable indeed, but not the chief danger. A bolt from the emissary struck Karasten, weakening him, making him stumble. The axe came down with a wet thud. A genlock followed up, and stabbed Karasten in the back. It was over in moments.
Sten was already leaping forward, and Asala came down on the emissary's shoulder, biting through the rotten robes. Another blow and the creature was dead. After that, it was a matter of mopping up. The ten survivors looked at each other, and then, questioningly, at Sten, who was currently the ranking officer.
He was pleased that he had not had to kill Karasten himself, but had let the man's own ignorance kill him. Some people could not be saved. However, perhaps these Qunari warriors could be. It was time to take command.
"I do not know you," said Sten. "And you do not know me. What you should know, however, is that I have been fighting darkspawn for some months, and I know their ways. We have a duty to perform. I have been ordered to collect information about the Blight, you have been ordered to retrieve the Tome of Koslun, if possible. To complete either or both of these missions, we must survive and be in a position to return to Par Vollen. Obey my commands and we will do that."
"Karasten wished to seize one of the bas vessels," said a sullen Arshaad.
"An unnecessary hazard. I know the bas commanders well. All we have to do to reach Val Royeaux with a good chance of completing our mission is to attach ourselves to the force marching against the darkspawn. The Grey Wardens will accept temporary —" he emphasized the word. "—temporary allies of all sorts. What is more important: Showing our disapproval of those who do not know the Qun, or completing our mission and return to report?"
Some muttering followed, but it was clear that Sten had the right of it. The Tome was more important than their pride; more important than converting these bas. With the brusque nods that were Qunari usage in such cases, the rest of the Qunari expedition pledged themselves to obey Sten, their new commander. The next thing he did was go into further detail about how to fight darkspawn effectively.
Afterwards, he had the men fill their canteens from a spring running clean from a nearby outcropping, and then follow him, using the path taken by Brosca and the woman commander named Cauthrien, back to the Wardens, and to Bronwyn, whom he trusted like no other in this strange country.
Loghain was not particularly pleased to see the band of Qunari, but Bronwyn greeted Sten in friendly fashion, and provided his people with adequate supplies to make themselves comfortable on the march. Scout wagged his tail. He had always liked Sten.
Bronwyn refrained from smiling too much at the fate of Tallis and Karasten. "So, are you going to try for the Tome of Koslun?"
"That was the mission given to the expedition. If you truly will not prevent me, I hope to complete it."
"The Tome is yours, if you can find it," Bronwyn assured him. "You have earned it, and more."
"The Tome will suffice. That, and perhaps passage in a ship to convey me and my men home."
"Done."
Sten established an area next to the Wardens, gathered his men, and told them— in discreet Qunari — how things were arranged.
"The woman Bronwyn is Warden-Commander. She is also Queen of her country. She can be regarded as commander-in-chief. Yes, she is a woman," he said, seeing the confused looks about him. "However odd it seems, certain of the Fereldans hold with an antique custom of training their women in the art of war. In her case, it is understandable, as she was born into the ruling caste, and learned to fight for much the same reasons as a female Ben-Hassrath. Among the Wardens, it has been tradition from their beginning over a thousand years ago to admit women. Some of the women fight; other serve as artisans and Healers. The bas have only a limited understanding of the dangers posed by the saarebas, and you will see many walking about the camp unleashed. Do not interfere with them: my experience is that these are trained not to attack you as long as you do not attack them. They are useful in combat against the darkspawn, whom, you will have noticed, have powerful magic of their own."
They were listening, at least: at this point aware that not to listen was to court a useless death. Sten went on. "You will report to me. I will report to Bronwyn. The men about her are also leaders. Treat them — and her — with cautious respect. My advice is to stay away from them, but if Bronwyn gives you an order — or the black-haired warrior with her named Loghain — you are to obey them. However, stay out of their way, and that is not likely to happen."
It was a dark day, heavy with clouds, when First Warden Wildauer finally ordered the general advance. His troops spread out on a wide, meticulously organized front. A few skirmishers darted out ahead, checking for ambushes, but behind them stretched companies of archers and arrow-bearers. They hoped to draw the horde out. Their orders were to fire as many volleys as possible until the darkspawn were within magical range. Then, the archers were to withdraw behind the Tevinter battlemages, and the games would begin.
The Tevinters themselves had been pushing for this. It would show the world of the White Chantry how very powerful they were, and what they could inflict on their foes if the Templars kept pushing too hard.
There was always trouble on the border. Desperate apostates would make a run north, and now and then were caught just short of their goal. Even more provocatively, there had been instances in which the mage was actually within Tevinter lands, but the Templars had ignored the fact and followed in hot pursuit, killing or capturing the fugitives. This could not stand. The Archons at home had told the Tevinter Warden-Commander to show the heretics what mages could do. Not everything they could do: that would be giving too much away. But yes, they were to show them that there was a reason, if they had forgotten, why the Imperium had never fallen to the Exalted Marches.
And they never had fallen: not even in Andraste's day. They had taken the Prophet's lessons, and revered her as she deserved, but she had not conquered them, so much as persuaded them. The dreary succession of hags calling themselves Divines had never persuaded Tevinter of anything, except that they had been right all along. Besides, it was a deeply-held tenet of faith in Tevinter that Andraste had herself been a powerful mage. Anyone who believed differently was not only a heretic, but a fool.
So they would light up the sky and shake the earth. They would rain down fire and poison on the darkspawn; they would fry them with thunderbolts and smash them with arcane energy. If the Archdemon was tempted out of hiding, they would be ready. A school of thought held that freezing the Archdemon in flight would cause it to crash. Five hundred mages should have no trouble destroying even an Archdemon, once it was on the ground.
Further back were the swordsmen and axemen, Nevarrans and Andermen alike, with their own mages. These mages were held in reserve, and would act primarily as Healers. The nevarrans especially were not particularly happy about their current position, though most were willing to let the Tevinters lead the vanguard and put themselves at risk.
"Smug bastards," Athis growled to Hector Pentaghast. "I think their robes are stupid, too."
Pentaghast chuckled. He agreed. The black feathered capes smacked of people who were trying too hard to be impressive. On the other hand, Tevinter mages really were impressive.
A strong garrison remained in Val Chevin, defending the walls, patrolling the perimeter, and guarding the all-important harbor. The rest were marching out into the Blighted wilderness: a dead zone dotted with the corpses of men and animals.
Pentaghast understood the reason for the broad front. The mages were spread out into two ranks, one just behind the other. There was considerable space between each mage, giving them plenty of space to wield their staffs. What was comfortable for mages was in Pentaghast's opinion a little too thin for archers, and would reduce the power of their volleys. He was not in charge, however, and it was not his decision.
From the noise ahead, a pack of bandy-legged genlocks had been started up out of cover by the scouts, who danced away at the sight of them, leaving them for the archers. It was frustrating, to be able to see so little. Some of the scouts were acting as runners, carrying news back and forth from the First Warden and to all the other commanders. It felt a bit precarious to Pentaghast, but he could think of no better plan himself.
The mages just ahead of him were moving aside, skirting a shattered wagon and a pair of rotting oxen. Pentaghast caught a glimpse through the mages to the archers in front of them, and a bit of the empty rolling fields beyond. There was a fine manor on the map that they should reach by noon, even at this slow pace, unless something happened to distract them. His own position was nowhere near the coast road, where there were a number of villages. Scouting had indicated that they were all gone, and burned to ashes for the most part.
After more trudging, he was relieved to find himself at the top of a shallow hill, which gave him a decent view. According to his map, those crumbling ruins were all that was left of the manor of Sancerre. The family and their servants had not been seen in Val Chevin, so Pentaghast had no idea what had happened to them.
There! To the southwest, there was dust stirred up by hundreds of feet. Gradually, the dust resolved into a disorganized mob of darkspawn. Runners sped fast, and the left flank, following order, wheeled, backs to the sea, to provide crossfire to the rest of the Wardens. Already, down the line, there were little bursts of colored light: distant fireballs casts by mages. It was too far away to see the archers' arrows.
The slow maneuver continued, and more of the line formation turned to envelop the charging darkspawn. The fireballs were bigger and closer, as the darkspawn ran at them, not exactly head-on, but at a slight angle.
There were ogres among them. That was never a good thing. Ogres could smash through men and beasts and through a carefully-planned defense into chaos. There was no cover left, either, to use for defense. Much of the woods had been burned, and farms and manors leveled.
One of the distant ogres halted, captured in mid-stride by a spell. The sullen light reflected oddly on him. Probably a freezing spell. Other spells were been thrown at the creature, and in short order, it toppled to the ground. One down, but there were others.
"I'm sick of this," muttered Borthus. A good man, but impatient. Pentaghast did not turn to stare him down, but flicked a glance at Athis, and she did. The grumbling was briefly silenced. Out of the dust, more figures appeared. The first charge had only been a taste of things to come. More darkspawn were on their way.
"We'll have our turn, soon enough," said Pentaghast. "But maybe not today."
The ground shook under the weight of the creatures. All along the line, archer captains shouted orders, and volleys of arrows took to the skies, creating yet more dark clouds. Squeals and squawks answered, but the darkspawn were still moving. More shouts, and the archers fell behind the mages, continuing to shoot over their heads. Then the full fury of the Tevinters was unleashed. A cry rose up from the Tevinter senior Mages. It was in old Arcanum, and thus incomprehensible to Pentaghast, but he could not complain of the results.
With uniform precision, the Tevinters all cast the same spell. The landscape was rocked by an earthquake, bizarrely localized, but insanely powerful. Even on the edges, as he was, it was disorienting. The earth before him, down the hill, trembled and split. Ogres stumbled and fell, crushing their fellow darkspawn beneath them. Weapons were dropped, creatures scrambled and crawled, wounding each other in their confusion. Another blast of magic from the Tevinters, and the sprawling darkspawn were caught in a storm of ice and lightning, slipping and crackling in an isolated band of springtime snow. Archers backed away from the onslaught.
it was hard to see what was happening in the midst of the storm, but it raged with great violence for some time. More darkspawn appeared on the horizon. Some were stupidly sucked into the the trap. Others tried to avoid it, and were targeted by the archers and mages on either flank. The troops behind them, like Pentaghast and the other Nevarrans, decided to have a snack while they enjoyed the show.
When the storm began to die down, new orders were shouted. The second rank of mages stepped forward, and then a nightmare of fire exploded over the helpless darkspawn.
Well, almost helpless. A big hurlock burst out of the firestome, flames streaming from him, and charged the Tevinters. He bellowed, and for a moment Pentaghast thought he was speaking in actual words. The mages burst out laughing, and struck him with a paralyzing hex.
"Try to capture that one!" commanded one of the Tevinter Senior Wardens. "I want to find out what makes him that tough!"
After the flames died down, only a few bodies twitched when the spells had struck. The archers took aim and finished them off. Not even ogres had withstood the power of earth and lightning, ice and fire. The bodies were piled up in unrecognizable heaps. The Wardens edged past them, and when the army was on the other side, the mages all hit the piles of dead with more fire, burning the flesh and bone away with the Taint.
They marched on, hoping to cover more ground that day. A trickle of darkspawn contested their way, but feebly. No doubt the Archdemon had plenty more and to spare, but for now, they were fairly safe. They made camp early, using the rollling landscape as best they could. They lit very few fires.
But some Wardens made their own entertainment. One of the campfires was at the Tevinter camp, where the senior Wardens amused themselves by restraining and vivisecting the captured hurlock. He was an alpha of some sort, but more powerful than any they had ever seen. Some were convinced that he showed signs of rudimentary intelligence.
"I wonder..." one said, musing over the creature. "Is this really a darkspawn?"
"It's certainly Tainted," replied another. "I can feel it if you can't."
"No, I know it's Tainted, but so are we, after all..." He leaned over, peering into the filmy eyes. The hideous face was constricted in what appeared to be an expression of agony. That was interesting. Darkspawn responded to the stimulus of physical damage, but they did not appear to experience pain in the way that humans did.
"Look at this," he said. He pressed a red-hot iron to the creature's scabby jaw, and it groaned. "See! I think it actually feels pain. I'm beginning to wonder if this is not a very powerful ghoul, rather than a darkspawn. A high functioning ghoul."
The mages laughed uproariously, since it was a old joke of the blackest humor for Tevinter Wardens to refer themselves that way: as "high-functioning ghouls."
Their Commander, who had been watching for some time without either commenting or cracking a smile, finally spoke up.
"You could be right. That could be what's left of a Warden."
That spoiled the fun. The creature was dosed with Quiet Death, and a complete postmortem conducted. The results were disturbing.
"Well, he wasn't one of ours," declared the Senior Warden. "We haven't sent our people off for the Calling in ages."
"Not a mage, either," pointed out a young woman, a former apostate from Starkhaven, who had eagerly Joined the Tevinter Wardens: for the power, the prestige... For the coin.
"Well, my dear," said the Senior Warden, "not all of us are mages."
"Only the best," snickered a joker.
The Senior Warden smiled, and gestured at the remains. "A very powerful warrior in his day. Some latent magical abilities, like all the best warriors. About fifty when he went for his Calling, which is normal. Impossible to recognize him now, of course. A pity we can't share the improved potion with the rest of the Order, but the White Chantry would squawk louder than ever about Blood Magic. Poor wretch. You," he called to a thrall. "Toss him on the fire with the rest."
Later the next day, across the low-lying plains, the First Warden's forces glimpsed the walls of Val Royeaux in the distance, gaping and shattered as broken teeth.
Another swarm of darkspawn descended: a larger one this time. The Tevinter tactics worked well, but a band of the monsters surprised them and flanked them on the right, and then charged perpendicular to the ranks.
The Nevarrans, glad to see some action at last, laid into them with disciplined blood lust. Even the ogre, sent to wreak havoc, could not long survive. Thick ichor spattered them all. After it lay dead, something sparkling rolled out from under its breastplate. A large amethyst of the finest water glittered in Athis' bloody gauntlet.
"Finder's Keepers!" she chirped, quite chuffed about the treasure. She shoved it into a pouch on her belt, and returned to the fight.
It went on for quite a long time. The darkspawn were reinforced, again and again. The Gate of the Moon, the north gate of Val Royeaux, stood open, and from time to time, swarms of darkspawn issued from it, like blood from a wound.
Arrows darkened the skies, warriors hacked at darkspawn flesh, and mages laid down fire, endless fire. Flames licked at the Blighted grass, and only ashes marked their passing.
Bronwyn and Loghain, with the allied army, reached Charente on that same day. As expected, darkspawn squatted on the old stone bridge. It was decorated with heads: the heads of men, women, and little children; of humans and elves. The town of Val Charente, as far as they could tell, was not much more than a smoking ruin, with a few stone chimneys and crumbling walls marking the house sites. A few buildings remained: the little Chantry, the harbormaster's office, part of what was once a tavern.
The march up the Greenway had been contested frequently by bands of darkspawn. As they went farther, those bands became larger and more formidable. There was a barricade on the far side of the river.
The allies had an advantage, however. Standing just off shore was the Siren's Call. Isabela had sent Charade and Corbus back to Jader on her prize ship, Red Queen, under the command of her second mate, who was just enough enamored to be trusted. The priest who had performed Charade's marriage was traveling with them too, glad for an excuse to travel far from the Blight. Isabela had decided that the Siren's Call, with its shallower draft, could get her closer to the action, and better able to render help when needed. She had sent Bronwyn a parchment explaining common naval code between ships, and could send signals using either flags by day or lanterns by night. Loghain's opinion of the woman rose accordingly.
Isabela, watching the town with her spyglass, could calculate the numbers of the darkspawn far more easily than any of the landbound scouts could from their vantage point. There were a few hundred darkspawn in Val Charente, but no more; and their fortifications were crude. In fact, Loghain was quite pleased with the situation. His greatest fear had been that the darkspawn would destroy the bridge and slow them down. They had not done that, perhaps because the Archdemon had no concept of defense. Rather, the Archdemon wanted to maintain all possible routes in readiness, while it decided which way the horde would next march. If the allies could get across that narrow bridge, they could take the town. Loghain made his plans quickly.
Morrigan and Anders flew high and came down behind the darkspawn, perched in the bare branches of a dead tree. Tara, Niall, Jowan, and Velanna moved out of sight of the darkspawn, and prepared for battle. None of the newer recruits had yet managed shape-shifting, but they watched carefully, trying to absorb the lesson before them. The Antivan Wardens, who had not seen this particular trick before, were thrilled, and the mages among them studied every movement, every spell. This was the tactical edge they had lost with the extinction of the griffons. Now the edge was back, but in a new guise. Bronwyn would lead the charge, the happy few along with her. The rest would charge the bridge on foot, along with the dogs, once the barricades were smashed.
Meanwhile, archers spread out on the riverbank, just out of darkspawn bow shot. They moved carefully through the brush, and ducked out of sight. The ballistae were camouflaged with brush, and slowly rolled into position. The rest waited impatiently for their turn.
A few arrows came their way, but were dodged or knocked aside. Florestan shook Riordan's hand and wished the Warden luck, as Riordan went to take his place among his comrades. The young prince nodded at the sight of Bronwyn astride the wyvern.
"There is the hero of our time. Who will believe the stories we tell of this?"
"No one who was not here, I'm afraid. But it was always thus. Be safe, my prince."
"And you, my friend."
While the darkspawn at the other end of the bridge clucked and scolded. Bronwyn and Tara moved into position, protected by a wall of shields. When everything was ready, Loghain drew his sword and gave her a nod. Bronwyn unslung her horn, and lifted it to her lips.
At the horn's call, the hidden archers stood up and poured arrows on every visible darkspawn, killing a number and forcing the rest to take cover. Ballistae launched explosive bolts at the handful of ogres. At the same moment, the shields were pulled aside, and Tara in wyvern form, with Bronwyn, Zevran, and Leliana on her back, charged across the bridge, battering logs and caltrops out of her way. Behind her, the other wyverns charged. The bridge shook, but it was build for the ages, and held under the weight. Behind the wyverns, Riordan led the Warden on foot, and they ran like madmen. Their cheers echoed across the water, and Isabela smiled, watching the spectacle.
While the darkspawn rushed to meet the attackers, they left themselves open to the assault by two wyverns behind them. Anders and Morrigan rushed at the creatures, tails smashing darkspawn; sleek, heavy bodies crushing them. The one thing they must not do is let themselves be surrounded and trapped.
So they kept moving: pouncing, twisting, and darting from darkspawn to darkspawn. The creatures were bewildered by the wyverns, and though their instinct was to fight and kill anything not darkspawn, they hesitated enough to make them easy prey.
The mass of darkspawn at the end of the bridge was still very dangerous. Many were knocked aside by the wyvern's charge, but they soon rallied against the Wardens on foot. It was a welter of slaughter. Behind the Wardens came a unit of the Legion of the Dead, and then Loghain brought up a company of Maric's Shield in support, along with the Circle mages as Healers. The wyverns had prevented a dangerous bottleneck at the end of the bridge, but it was still heavy going. The archers on the opposite river bank were forced to slow their rate of fire, anxious not to inflict casualties on their own people.
Bronwyn yelled to Tara to keep breaking up any rallying darkpsawn. They needed to open up the battle, to prevent the darkspawn from offering any united defense. Velanna leaped past them at an ogre, her passengers in full war cry. They tumbled from their saddles as Velanna reared back, spitting venom directly into the ogre's face. A second later, her front talons slashed out, disemboweling the monster. Not much hurt by their abrupt dismount, Nuala, Steren, and Alistair were quickly on their feet, and bringing down a swarm of genlocks.
Niall veered left, and began a perimeter run around the darkspawn, while Adaia and Siofranni bombarded the creatures with grenades. Jowan turned right, thundering along the town dockyards. Half-way in, Brosca, Oghren, and Sigrun tumbled from his back, and waded into the fight, attacking the darkspawn from the flank.
The force of the attack pushed the darkspawn back, back, past the few standing houses. Here and there, darkspawn made a stand, hiding in the shadows or lurking behind rubble, and then leaped out to kill. Thus died five new Wardens, not yet able to sense the creatures. Others died, too, for darkspawn never surrendered. Even after anyone else would have considered themselves victors, they still had to comb through every building and brave every cellar to kill the last of them. Carver's dog Magister smelled some huddled under the piers, and flushed them out. Securing the area took quite a long time. The worst horror was the Chantry, were most of the women and children had sought refuge. Florestan went in there with the Orlesian Wardens. After a time, he stumbled out and sat wordlessly on the steps, wiping the vomit from his mouth.
They had to recognize that Val Charente was filthy with Taint. The darkspawn had not just moved through here: they had taken up residence. It was impossible for the army to stay here, and so a camp was established a good distance beyond in a field by the sea just above high tide. Mages burned it off, leaving a blackened but fairly safe area for the tents. The army was moved quickly through the town, and told not to touch, not to loot. A hard order to enforce when the soldiers could see the Wardens picking through the rubble and searching the darkspawn bodies.
"Some of them will sneak back through the sentries," said Loghain.
"You can't save everyone," Bronwyn shrugged. "If they sicken, then I'll have new recruits."
She was sorry to lose any Wardens, but had hardly known the casualties. She would note them down in her recruitment rolls, recording their brief service. Nearby, Visconti was celebrating with his Antivan Wardens. They had enjoyed their first pitched battle against the darkspawn. They treated the shape-shifters as heroes, and at the moment were crowding around Niall and Jowan; offering them drinks, slapping them on the back, giving Lily treats and praise.
Visconti grinned at Bronwyn. "Next time you let us go in first, eh?"
"I want to ride a wyvern," shouted an Antivan.
"I want to be a wyvern!" countered one of their mages.
Loghain raised a brow at her, clearly thinking that a splendid idea.
Bronwyn smiled wryly. "Absolutely."
Smoke still rose in lazy white threads: from the town, and the plains beyond. It poured blackly from the pyres for the dead. A thick haze muddied the horizon to the northeast, where Val Royeaux lay waiting.
Thanks to my reviewers: Spirally, Melysande, Tirion I, Guest, imperial queen, Aeonir, AD Lewis, Nemrut, Ie-maru, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, KnightOfHolyLight, Blinded in a bolthole, darksky01, Ninjababe, Mike3207, Floridamagpie, Robbie the Phoenix, BandGeekNinja, Phygmalion, JackOfBladesX, reality deviant, Lyssa Terald, Jenna53, mille libri, New Zealand 5, jnybot, amanda weber, Zereogame, dragonmactir, Costin, Guile, Suna Chunin, Wehaswallhacks.
Such a lot of fascinating insights and suggestions! Really, you've given me a lot to think about, and I'll see what I can shoehorn into the story.
Yes, the Dark Ritual: such a controversial subject. I really cannot explain Morrigan's fixation on it, and now believe she must be under something like a post-hypnotic suggestion or a magical equivalent. The idea that she could control an Old God baby is simply absurd. I don't care what Witch Hunt says. At some point the Old God would assert itself and that would be the end of her. My own view is that Flemeth is simply once again planning on using her as a vessel—this time not for Flemeth herself, but for the Old God. Once she gives birth, she's superfluous.
However, I must thank Tirion I for the fascinating idea about Flemeth and why she appears shortly after the slaying of the Old God Toth. It's really a neat idea, and Tirion explained it to me in some detail. It could explain why Flemeth is so certain that the Dark Ritual will work. I have no idea if it's the developers' idea, but it's quite exciting. I urged Tirion to post the essay. However, Tirion tells me that the theory belongs to Archon Gaius Lucius Vindicus Caesar III. Then, hail Caesar!
As I told some of you, I feel that Sten has a precedent for fomenting a coup. In canon, he attempts to take over the party during the Ashes quest, when he feels they are not sticking to the mission (in some ways I think he's right). Therefore, I think there must be a pragmatic attitude about dealing with incompetence among the Qunari. As it happened, he did not have to issue a challenge or pick a fight.
To my knowledge, the term "high-functioning ghoul" was coined by Sarah1281.
I see no reason why Tevinter Wardens, with a large number of mages and sophisticated facilities (plus an unending number of slave test-subjects) could not independently come up with an improved Joining potion similar to that devised by Avernus. And they would never, never tell anyone else about it.