Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 121: South of the Sun and North of the Moon

The very air tasted of Taint.

Reluctantly, Bronwyn opened her eyes, not knowing if sleeping or waking was worse. Her dreams had been ghastly: a pit of despair filled with grotesque, swollen bodies; with agonized cries as forms changed into things that should never have existed. It was deliberate, no doubt. The Archdemon wanted to demoralize them.

Yes, she was rather demoralized. She was no less determined to end that monster, and give a merciful death to the darkspawns' victims. Loghain eyed her with some concern, but did not subject her to an interrogation. Bronwyn had no desire to put what she had seen into words. She had not slept well last night, and she had not slept well the night before. Making love was simply not possible in her current state.

Instead she washed. She brushed, braided, and pinned up her hair securely. She put on clean undergarments and her underpadding, and she and Loghain buckled each other into their armor, with as few words said as possible. Bronwyn supposed she should eat something. Grey Wardens were always hungry, but she knew everything would taste like Taint. She would force herself to eat anyway. It might be her last meal if things went badly. Or even if things went very well.

She opened the case where her Airbow lay stored. A small number of the weapons had been distributed. A squad of Astrid's dwarves had them now—regular army, not Legion of the Dead. Adaia had done fairly well with this weapon. Bronwyn considered lending her this weapon for the duration. She could not give it away, since it was a gift from the Paragon herself, but Bronwyn was already heavily armed. Yes. She would slip the Airbow over to Adaia later, and tell Astrid that the elf was giving it a field testing for her.

The dogs nosed about. Scout's warm brown eyes were on her, wanting to know that she was all right. She took a moment to sit down and rub his ears and make much of him. When all this was over, he deserved green fields and sunshine and plenty of rabbits to chase.

Amber had found someone's sock and had chewed it to bits. Loghain would ordinarily have reproved her, but the sock was clearly not his, and not Bronwyn's, and so was fair game if the owner hadn't better sense than to protect his belongings. Amber brought it to Loghain with a hopeful air, and he indulged her by tugging on it. Amber clearly thought it all great fun, pretending to growl ferociously.

"They've laid out breakfast, Your Majesties," the tent guard told them, speaking through the canvas.

"Very well." Loghain tilted his head to the tent flap. "Shall we?"

Bronwyn managed a smile. "I suppose we must."

Porridge was the last thing she wanted, but she needed to choke it down. It would be a long, hard slog today, and very likely Val Royeaux at the end of it.

Astrid was up and doing very early, unlike Bronwyn. She washed, dressed, armored, while thinking ahead, beyond today's battle.

I just want this over and done.

Once the Blight was over, she had plans for her life. She had her thaigs to improve, her army to rally, and a crown to win. The longer this Blight lasted, the harder it was on the dwarven people. There was much she could do for them, and she was ready to settle down to doing it. With patience and tact, she might be able to create regular communication between Orzammar and faraway Kal'Sharok, embittered over many ages by what it regarded as Orzammar's desertion.

She was eager to face the Horde. She thought they were in a very good tactical position, now that she knew about the other Warden army, pressing Val Royeaux from the north. Their own force was not alone. They had excellent, advanced weapons, they had mages who could take the form of monsters, they had hundreds of Wardens, they had support troops, and their supplies were holding out. They would face the Archdemon, and they would kill it. And then they could go home. Some Warden would perish in killing the Archdemon, but Astrid knew that it was not likely to be the Paragon of Orzammar. She would kill any other darkspawn — as many as she could — but not that one. She could not be spared.

Strapping on the hand she used for fighting, Astrid went through a mental list of potential allies and adversaries. She had won Piotin Aeducan to her. There was nothing like fighting side by side for strengthening a bond. Bhelen had never risked himself, and so had lost that advantage. Once the Blight was over, the battle for Orzammar would begin... on the floor of the Assembly.

"Once the Archdemon is dead, the Blight is over. It can't happen too soon for me!"

Brosca sat up and grinned at Torvald. This was hard on him, poor kid. He was smith caste, and not a warrior at all.

"You stick with the wagons today," she said, giving him a playful slap. He groaned and looked ready to hide under the blanket.

"Come on. Get up!" she insisted. "Get something to eat. I'm going to be busy today. You stick back there with the luggage. We'll need you if one of the gadgets breaks down, but there's no use risking yourself until then."

"But the Blight will be over once the Archdemon's dead, won't it?"

He sounded like a plaintive little boy. Brosca ruffled his bright hair. It was like gold… and gold was a very good thing.

"We—ll… not all over," she told him, sorry to give him bad news. "There'll still be darkspawn on the surface that we'll need to wipe out. It's called the Thaw. It won't be nearly as bad, though. Just some pockets here and there. We'll hunt 'em down, one by one. It won't be like this."

"Good. I hate this. Everything stinks."

"Yeah, yeah, it does. Smells worse than Dust Town. You be careful, sal roka, you hear? Keep your hands washed and your gloves on, and don't handle anything that might be Tainted. Which is everything, at this point. Come on, get some clothes on. I'm starving!"

Adaia bounced up from her blanket, eliciting complaints from Siofranni.

"Come on! Rise and shine!"

Siofranni tossed a pillow at her. "You rise! You shine!"

Adaia laughed, and dug through her pack for her last clean shirt. She might as well wear it today. She tossed on her light leathers, fastening them with extra care. She had cleaned everything last night, so it was all looking pretty good. Glancing in her little handmirror, she thought she looked pretty good, considering.

Most of her loot was in her chest in the baggage train, but she had a special box that she kept with her. While Siofranni snored daintily, catching the last fragments of sleep before the dawn, Adaia entertained herself picking through her favorite treasures.

"I'm rich!" she whispered. "Rich as a noble!"

She was, too. She was richer than the whole Alienage. Richer by far. She had a sapphire that would buy everything in Alarith's little store ten times over. She had gold. She had fine armor and weapons and beautiful silk clothes for the day when they would celebrate the end of the Blight.

Never would she be married off to a stranger. She was a Grey Warden, and needed no arranged marriage to validate her. Siofranni had been a surprise to her, but maybe because she had simply never met another elf she genuinely found attractive, male or female. She and Siofranni were a couple. They were a team. Wherever they went, they'd go together.

And once the Blight was over, the real war could begin: her own personal war. Merrill and Lanaya could lead the people to the Dalish homeland, and some could start going through, one by one, to the secret land of the elvhen. That was fine for them, but Adaia had work to do.

She and Siofranni would round up some of their friends: Tara and Zevran, of course, and Cathair and Darach, Nuala and Steren, and maybe Velanna too, if she could behave herself. They might see if Fenris would go with them. He was haughty and standoffish, but she thought he'd like the adventure she planned. They were rich enough to hire a ship. Maker, they were rich enough to buy a ship. They would sail for Tevinter, and give the slavers a taste of what it was like to be hunted and harried. They would steal people from them… not be made slaves, but to be made free.

She had talked to Fenris about what it was like to travel by ship. He did not seem to like it much, and told her that it was complicated. Sailors had lots of special knowledge about how to make ships work and how to get places. Adaia knew that was true, from the times she had found work at the Denerim docks. Sailors had a language of their own. Maybe she should learn some of that. If you didn't know things, shems could cheat you. There was that woman pirate Brosca had met: Captain Isabela. Maybe she'd teach them about sailing, for a price. Adaia grinned, imagining swaggering on the deck of her very own ship. Captain Adaia, Terror of the Tevinters!

Duke Prosper awoke, irritated, to the sound of Prince Florestan's voice outside his tent, speaking earnestly to his servant, that brute Ursus.

"Take care of yourself, too! I don't want you sacrificing yourself for me! You've done enough."

"I know my duty, my prince."

"Well... don't get yourself killed. I'd miss you."

There was a warm chuckle from both of them, and Prosper rolled his eyes at such soppy sentiment. Really, he must have a word with some of his people about Florestan. If they ran into heavy opposition, it was very likely that the young prince would meet with a misadventure. He was an untidy loose end, and Prosper intended that nothing should impede his grasp on power.

Once the Blight was over, he would have to move quickly. Florestan was only the first obstacle. They must deal with the Fereldans, and get them out of the country with the greatest possible dispatch. It was too much to hope that Loghain Mac Tir would die in battle. It would take more than darkspawn to put an end to that jumped-up peasant. It was a scandal that the Queen had been forced to sully herself with such a creature.

He meant no harm to Bronwyn, indeed. It was clear that she was favored by the Blessed Prophet. Moving against her personally would be... impious. If it were only she who was here with her army, Prosper would have assisted her departure with every comfort and assurance of good will. The presence of Loghain, however, rankled. He was not the only one who felt that way. Old grudges had surfaced, and had been poured into his ear. He had replied that they needed the man — for now — but once the Archdemon was slain, he would not stand in the way of rightful revenge. A pity that Boniface Clery was now a Warden, and apparently totally devoted to Bronwyn. Prosper would have to find another tool.

First things first. Today he would ride Leopold into battle. Safer for him, a good way to deal maximum damage to the darkspawn, and the best way to solidify his image as the leader that Orlais must have in the future.

And Leopold would enjoy it.

Anders woke up, both incredibly relaxed and incredibly guilty. He had meant to question Morrigan about the ritual. Really. He had meant to question her, and point out the problems, the dangers. He hadn't meant to perform the ritual.

But there she was, stretching languorously, pleased with herself... and him. She gave him one of her smiles, and he smiled back, knowing he must look a complete fool. Tara was going to kill him.

He tried be casual, but his voice came out as a squeak. "So, do you think... " he coughed, and went on in his normal register. "Do you think it worked?"

"I know it did."

"You mean... you're sure..."

"Absolutely. Can you not tell?"

He usually could, but after only few hours? He sat up, summoned his scattered mana, and laid glowing hands on Morrigan's taut, silken belly. Maybe that little sparkle... no... he couldn't be sure.

"Maybe. Early days."

"Of course." She stretched, slipping out from the blanket, and reaching for her smallclothes. Then she paused, and kissed him lightly. "My thanks. You performed well."

He grinned. "We've had plenty of practice."

"Indeed we have."

"It's just so... precarious." He groped for his own garments. "Look what happened to Bronwyn. Maybe you could... I don't know... be more careful?"

Her throaty laugh made it clear that the hope was futile. "After our battle yesterday? Now you want me to be careful? It seemed to me that you thoroughly enjoyed smashing darkspawn as much as I."

"I just don't want them to smash you."

She paused, quite touched. She liked Anders. She had liked him from the first. He was good to look upon. He was magically powerful. He had been considerate and amenable to her wishes. Nor was he a fool, other than when she wished him to be. That he cared so much for her was quite... well... it was foolish and sentimental, but gratifying, all the same. He would no doubt be quite devoted to the child.

"Nothing will stand in our way," she soothed him. "The Archdemon will be slain and the darkspawn defeated. Bronwyn and all our friends will survive to celebrate their feats for years to come in the halls of Soldier's Peak. Our child will be educated as a mage child should be: with rigorous standards and fearless honesty; not like some hedge mage, trembling with fear."

Briefly, she sensed a curious change in her surroundings; as if she were missing something. The sensation was fleeting. Anders kissed her distractingly, and they returned to their pleasant practice.

"Ow."

"Too much wine, cara mia."

"Too much wine and too much worrying about Morrigan and too much bloody Archdemon," Tara groused, rubbing her head. "I had awful dreams."

"I wish I could share your burden."

Tara laughed, and then winced. "I wish you could, too. We could join up and fight the Archdemon in the Fade." She blinked. "I wonder if that's possible…"

"It sounds like you do plenty of fighting already. Come, there is hot water."

"Amazing. I'll give the servitors a big tip."

Tara's thoughts strayed to the perilous amulet hidden away in her little locked box. Could dragon fire destroy it? Maybe not. She had promised not to tell Jowan about Morrigan's secret, but maybe she could phrase it as a hypothetical question and pick his brain. Jowan was always ready to help.

Maybe not today. She dressed, forcing a smile for Zevran. Today was going to be rough.

Clever as he was, he saw past the pretense. He took her face gently in his hands.

"We shall not die today, my Warden. Not today and not tomorrow. Today is a good day to live."

Sten sharpened Asala in the early grey light. One by one, his soldiers awakened, most of them satisfactorily alert and efficient. When all were awake and armored, they stood together, and Sten spoke words of the Qun.

" Existence is a choice.
There is no chaos in the world, only complexity.
Knowledge of the complex is wisdom.
From wisdom of the world comes wisdom of the self.
Mastery of the self is mastery of the world. Loss of the self is the source of suffering.
Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it."

Then he said, "Let us go forth to battle, but first we shall eat, and strengthen ourselves. I have been informed by Bronwyn that cookies will be provided for us."

A scout asked, "What are 'cookies?'"

Sten did not smile outwardly, but inside he glowed with the pleasure of bringing a new, good thing to his people.

"You shall soon see, Ashaad. You shall see, and learn."

The dogs were awake before Carver and Jowan. Others shared the big tent: Oghren, Ser Silas, Niall, Quinn, and Fenris. Fenris was up even before the dogs, awakened by the restless, demon-haunted sleep of the Wardens. Another reason never to join the order.

Carver looked like a boy, curled up under his blanket. Quinn was a boy, for all his height and muscle. Life could be merciless. Would they survive today? For today they might well find themselves before the walls of Val Royeaux, besieging monsters from the days of the ancient magisters.

Another evil by-product of magic. Magic was evil, however useful this army found it. Fenris liked Jowan personally — and liked his dog even better — but it was clear that Jowan would be a menace without the discipline and control imposed on him by the Grey Wardens. Niall, too, appeared a decent fellow, but who knew what he would have become had he been born in Tevinter? Their conscription into the Wardens was making the best of a bad situation. Personally — though he knew better than to say this aloud — Fenris thought the Qunari handled mages more sensibly than any other culture in Thedas.

But for better or worse, they were all in this together. Carver had taken him aside, and reminded him that he, Fenris, must not be the one to strike the final blow against the Archdemon. Some unspecified horror would fall upon them if any but a Warden slew the creature. That said, anything that could be done to disable, to weaken, to damage the creature would be more than welcome.

What would the world be like, after the Blight? Fenris suspected it would be different in ways that no one had foreseen. As long as there was a small corner for him, perhaps he should not complain.

Riordan grew weary of nightmares, and lay looking up into darkness until light began seeping through the canvas of the tent. Early, still, but not too early to face the day. He smiled, wondering if it would be his last. If it were, he would also make it his best.

Savaged and decimated as they were, the morale of his Wardens was fairly high. The presence of the allies had done much to raise their hopes. They knew that Fiona and her party were alive in Val Foret.

Clovis and Fabrice were particularly happy to back under Riordan's command and among their friends once more. Minjonet had enjoyed her adventure, and had nothing but good things to say about Queen Bronwyn and her Fereldans. They were here, after all, without even having to be asked.

Bronwyn. Riordan smiled again. A fine lass, indeed, just as he had thought when they first met. The very finest. She had been wiser than them all, in the end. Becoming Queen of Fereldan was not a foolish entanglement, as he had feared, but the only way to bring the full power of her country to bear against the darkspawn. A Grey Warden did whatever was necessary, after all. Duncan might well have saved Thedas when he recruited her.

That said, it was not necessary for her to die. Riordan heart rebelled at the image. She was too young, and had too much of her life before her. She had already done so much.

Besides, the horde was in Orlais. The Archdemon had usurped Val Royeaux. Riordan thought it very important that an Orlesian put an end to the Blight. He was the oldest Warden in camp — even older than Visconti, based on Joining date. He was nearing his Calling. It was only fit and proper that he should be the sacrifice.

The greatest difficulty, he mused, would be getting between Bronwyn Cousland and what she perceived as her duty.

"Blessed Andraste," whispered Leliana, not wanting to wake Aveline and Maeve. "Make me fast and accurate today. Maker, let my aim be true and my hand quicker than those who would seek to destroy me. Grant me victory over my foes, and those that wish to do harm to me and mine..."

Aveline blinked awake. "Were you talking to me, Leliana?"

"I was just praying. It should be an exciting day."

This might be the end, and that was all right. Alistair stepped out of the tent with Scrapper, and looked at the dark and turbulent sky. It would be a red dawn, but he felt curiously lighthearted.

Bronwyn must live through this. Ferelden needed its queen. She had heaped honors and titles on Alistair, because she was a true friend and wanted to do things for him. Bronwyn's presents were always the best. The problem was that she now gave him things she thought he ought to want. Just as he thought he might be able to cope with being Bann of Stonehaven, she made him Arl of Jader. He couldn't see it, though his friends pretended they could. She had better not make him a teyrn, though, or he'd run away to Weisshaupt. Or he would have, if he didn't have something much more important to do at the moment…

He had never had so much to live for. He had been given a beautiful city and a princess to marry. Eglantine was really pretty and really nice. Sometimes he could almost imagine how good his life might be. Emrys would help him, he knew. Ser Blayne and Ser Norrel, too. He wasn't cut out to be a nobleman, but he would have to do his best.

What about the Jader Wardens? They were Orlesians. Riordan, of course, was now the Orlesian Warden-Commander, though he never used the title. After the Blight, the survivors would go back to Montsimmard to rebuild.

Forget the Jader Wardens. What about Fiona? Why couldn't she stay in Jader? They could use an experienced Warden. Or would Bronwyn keep the Jader post operational? It made sense, since it was so close to Orzammar. Would he still act as a Warden? Or would he be a prisoner of the Emerald Palace? Could he be both Senior Warden of Jader and Arl? There was a precedent, after all.

It was pointless to worry about any of this. He had a mission, and that took priority over everything else.

Fiona insisted that he could never reveal that she was his mother. It was unfair, but that was life. The one thing he would insist on was that Fiona be given the improved potion. No mother of his would face a Calling in the darkness of the Deep Roads. In his opinion, all their fellow Wardens should share in the discovery. They were his brothers and sisters, after all, though he had some reservations about the Tevinters.

He had written that request about the potion down in what might well be his last will and testament. Nobles were supposed to have wills. Alistair would never forget how furious Bronwyn had been with Cailan for not having one ready. Since Alistair was a nobleman now, with coin and lands, he had taken the trouble to give his opinion about what should happen, if he were the one to kill the Archdemon.

Or if he were simply one of the many to fall in battle. Eglantine might even be sad. They'd have to find a new Arl for her. Too bad he hadn't stolen a kiss; it would have been nice to have kissed a girl... ever. He had left instructions to give her a keepsake: an emerald pendant from the Deep Roads around Ostagar.

Someone had to kill the Archdemon.

Why not me?

The Dalish Wardens joined their fellow elvhen, facing east to the Sun, while Lanaya offered prayers to Mythal the Great Protector. Though the rest of the sky was overcast with the darkness of the Blight, a patch of light shown clear in the east over the Waking Sea, far beyond the power of the Archdemon. The sweet elven words washed the bitterness from their hearts, and before they dispersed to breakfast, Merrill told them the Tale of Mythal's Touch:

"Elgar'nan, God of Vengeance, had defeated his father, the sun, and all was covered in darkness. Pleased with himself, Elgar'nan sought to console his mother, the earth, by replacing all that the sun had destroyed. But the earth knew that without the sun, nothing could grow. She whispered to Elgar'nan this truth, and pleaded with him to release his father, but Elgar'nan's pride was great, and his vengeance was terrible, and he refused.

"It was at this moment that Mythal walked out of the sea of the Earth's tears and onto the land. She placed her hand on Elgar'nan's brow, and at her touch he grew calm and knew that his anger had led him astray. Humbled, Elgar'nan went to the place where the sun was buried and spoke to him. Elgar'nan said he would release the sun if the sun promised to be gentle and to return to the earth each night. The sun, feeling remorse at what he had done, agreed.

"And so the sun rose again in the sky, and shone his golden light upon the earth. Elgar'nan and Mythal, with the help of the earth and the sun, brought back to life all the wondrous things that the sun had destroyed, and they grew and thrived. And that night, when the sun had gone to sleep, Mythal gathered the glowing earth around his bed, and formed it into a sphere to be placed in the sky, a pale reflection of the sun's true glory."

Breakfast was quiet, but not particularly gloomy. They were all particularly kind to one another, gentled by the prospect before them. The enemy they faced was so terrible that the differences among themselves seemed petty by comparison. Ostap and Bustrum had established themselves as leaders among the newest Wardens. Their calm attitude toward the coming battle did a great deal to hearten their peers.

The mages and Templars were having a calm and pleasant breakfast together. Some of the army mages had joined their old friends from the Circle, and there was a hum of gossip. Greagoir and Irving presided like a pair of grandfathers: one gruff and no-nonsense, the other kindly and comforting. Keili sat at the far end of the trestle table, as she always did, hoping that today would be the day that her curse— the terrible curse of magic— was lifted.

Wulffe was trying hard to lift his son's spirits. Rothgar's brief wedding night must seem a dream to him now, as he woke to the horrible reality of the coming battle. Bronwyn wished she had sent him home, too. Wulffe had another son, now ruling West Hills in his father's stead, but the Wulffes were loyal, and in some ways doing far more than their share.

Loghain ordered the war machines brought forward, since he thought it would best if they were available, just behind the vanguard. The preparations were held up by a temperamental wyvern. Duke Prosper's Leopold did not want to go back into his caged wagon, once he was fed and exercised. Prosper then announced that he would be riding the creature. Clearly, he wanted to make a statement of some sort.

There was time for talk during the delay. A number of Circle mages clung to the Wardens they knew from their days together: Anders, Niall, Jowan, and Tara, wanting to pick their brains about shape-shifting. Tara tried to turn the conversation to another brilliant magical application, but the concept of the Arcane Warrior eluded many of the mages. It was at once too alien and not obviously magical enough. Tara sighed. A handful of Dalish mages had learned the discipline, and she would have to be satisfied with that. Maybe it really was something only for elves.

As they were preparing to strike camp, a cry rose from the lookouts. The ships offshore were signaling to them. The Marcher Wardens had arrived: almost too late, but not quite. Excitement rose while the five ships approached, their sails bright with blue and silver. When they dropped anchor in the little harbor of Val Charente, the ships' boats were launched, and the Wardens of Ansburg began arriving, a dozen at a time.

Their Warden Commander clambered out of the boat and strode eagerly down the pier. He spotted Bronwyn —a tall young woman in red armor, and made directly for her.

"Errol Sainsby," he said, extending his hand for a warrior's wristclasp. His glance searched over her, and settled on her poison-green eyes. "You must be Bronwyn Cousland!"

Bronwyn smiled, and returned the gesture heartily. "I am." She introduced Loghain, Astrid, Prosper, Visconti (whom he had met before), Riordan, Merrill, Prince Florestan, Knight-Commander Greagoir, First Enchanter Irving, and Alistair. Sainsby introduced his command team, and was inexpressibly relieved not to have missed the war.

He commanded one hundred ten Wardens, thirty-five non-Warden mages, and five ships. His ships, they were glad to hear, were loaded with supplies. They would have to delay their departure somewhat, but it was quickly agreed that the supplies would mostly remain on the ships, which would join with Isabela's little flotilla, shadowing them as they went north. Loghain ordered a signal to the Siren's Call, requesting Captain Isabela join them for a council of war.

She arrived quickly, jumping up to the pier, swaggering ashore in her thigh-high boots. She had always wanted a look at Bronwyn and Loghain. Maybe she'd even have a chance to catch up with the gorgeous Fenris. She gave the dignitaries her most polished bow, graceful to the point of impudence. She gave the famous Red Queen a once-over, and decided that she wouldn't turn her down if the chance ever offered. Unlikely, but you never knew. For that matter, she wouldn't turn down the King either. Maybe a threesome… She indulged in the most depraved speculations as they all retired to a clearing, where soldiers had placed a table and a number of chairs and benches.

Sainsby gave them a brief accounting of his recruitment efforts and his journey, not failing to mention the antipathy shown by Kirkwall and its Knight-Commander, Meredith Stannard.

"Refused! Outright refused! She wouldn't allow us to have any mages from Kirkwall, nor Templars either! Said that the Grey Warden Order is a refuge for criminals and apostates!"

"Well…" Visconti whispered to Riordan, trying not to laugh. "It is."

Riordan coughed, wiping the sudden grin from his face. Bronwyn looked their way, with a carefully innocent expression. They all smiled pleasantly. She looked at Sainsby, too, who then shrugged.

"And we conscripted quite a few runaways before we sailed. But that's not the point. The de facto ruler of Kirkwall refused assistance in a time of acknowledged Blight. That cannot stand."

"I entirely agree," said Bronwyn. "The Blight is our first priority. Afterwards, however, I think that the Wardens should meet and take counsel about people, who, like this Knight-Commander Meredith, in effect allied themselves with the darkspawn."

"Deal with her as you like," Loghain said harshly. Kirkwall was a maritime rival of Ferelden. "But later. She's not the only one who let others bear the burden while remaining safely at home."

Greagoir fidgeted on his bench, but found it impossible to protest. He was not sure he wanted to, since he was here, and Meredith obviously was not.

They buckled down to practical matters. There was no time to waste on fine speeches.

The horses had already been sent back to the camp at the Orne, guarded by a small force. There was no pasturage for horses here in the Blighted Lands. There was no pasturage for the oxen, either, but the army needed them. Isabela was instructed to keep two of her ships rotating on runs to the seaports to buy up what fodder they could.

Personal possessions, too, would have to be left behind. Food and arms were the priorities. The army might resent a separation from its loot, but there was nothing else to be done.

Bronwyn began to understand more clearly now why it was so terribly hard to fight the Blight. The logistical problems were huge. Finding untainted water required skilled mages, and there was no food at all to be requisitioned or scavenged. As it was, the Rivainni ships were a godsend, and they were likely to eat up all those supplies within days.

Besieging the darkspawn in Val Royeaux for an extended period would be impossible. The non-Warden components, at least, would have to leave soon, especially if large numbers of soldiers became Tainted. Supplying the troops would get harder and harder. They were going to be reduced to being supplied completely by sea. What if the Archdemon took notice of their ships, and destroyed them? They would have to retreat in that case, and many would die on the march.

Loghain glanced again at his map, now a little grubby from much handling. It was stretched out on the table, pinned flat. Val Royeaux was less than half a day away. They needed to march, but sensibly.

"Captain Isabela, I want you and your remaining ships to keep following us along the coast. The Rivainni ships, too, Take the lead, since you know the waters around here the best. Let us know what you see."

"No problem, Your Majesty," Isabela said, with just a hint of a saucy look. "I'll stick to the shoreline like a wet silk nightgown."

Loghain gave her a brief look that suggested that if they were alone, he'd have said something about her attitude. She wondered what it would be like to get past the stony facade. Stony? More like rock-hard, and probably in a good way. She wondered if his Red Queen knew how to stoke the hidden fires... and Isabela was now absolutely certain that there were some pretty hot fires hidden there. Hard to tell. Bronwyn had that upper-class manner that sometimes put Isabela off—just listen to those plummy vowel sounds— and she was obviously terribly earnest and sincere and all that was goody-good. She should let her hair down and live a little, but Isabela granted that she probably hadn't had much time for that. Out of the schoolroom and into the Blight, more or less, poor girl.

For his part, Loghain found it hard to believe that the bloody pirate woman had just flirted with him in front of his wife and the entire allied command. Should he be offended or flattered? Bronwyn was diligently studying the map, the faintest smile on her lips.

What nonsense. It was just the way the woman talked to everyone. She was doing her job, and that was what mattered. And there was more reconnaissance to be arranged. He turned to an aide, and ordered him to summon Warden Anders. He and that witch of his should be able to tell him what they were walking into. While the mages were scouting as birds, the army would move on to Val Royeaux.

The soldiers were restless; ready to march. A few struck up that song of theirs.

"When evil stalks upon the land
I'll neither hold nor stay my hand,
But fight to win a better day
Over the hills and far away.

O'er the hills and o'er the bourne
Through Jader, Lydes, Verchiel, and Orne.
The Queen commands and we obey
Over the hills and far away."

First Warden Reinhard Wildauer had always believed he had a good idea of what a Blight was really like. It was distressing — perhaps even humbling— to realize that he had been wrong all along. Nothing he imagined was anything as bad as this.

The darkspawn had not ceased to attack. The creatures trickled out of the Gate of the Moon, or sometimes charged in force. Forays flared up randomly. It was impossible to make a normal camp. Instead, he was forced to improvise. Various units were brought up to hold the line, while exhausted Wardens moved back to the baggage train to swallow a hasty meal and sleep wherever they could find a patch of bare ground to collapse on.

Even the Tevinters, as powerful as they were, could not hold their ground indefinitely. They too, needed rest, and mages from the Anderfels took their place on the center and left flank, and the Nevarrans and Rivainnis on the right.

Those latter did not work particularly well together, since their magical styles were very different. The Rivainnis had a Circle, yes; and learned magic there. The Rivainnis, however, were not very orthodox Andrasteans —when they were Andrastean at all— and much of their magic seemed primitive, even shamanistic, to the Nevarrans.

That being said, it was powerful. The fetishes the Rivainnis used to hex the darkspawn caused the skin of the creatures to slough off, made them turn on each other, made them claw at themselves. Swarms of stinging insects rose up from the fetid marshes and settled on the darkspawn, bewildering them. Tainted creatures raced across the ashy plains, snarling and tearing at the darkspawn, and ignoring the Wardens altogether.

And the attacks intensified at sunset. Wildauer had always understood that darkspawn avoided the sun when they could, and preferred darkness. He had wondered if that were true, seeing how bold they were in the day. With night, he learned that he had not been wrong. Darkspawn really did prefer the night.

They were forced to supply their mages with lyrium now, as the assaults grew in frequency and in numbers. They were exposed out here in the plains north of Val Royeaux. They were not close enough to storm the walls, which would have been suicide, anyway. Neither were they close enough to be in danger from archers on the walls and towers. Archers who emerged from the city and tried to shoot them were picked off fairly quickly by their own archers and by the mages. Even emissaries could be killed at a distance, and that was certainly the best way all around. The greatest danger was the raw, Tainted vigor of ogres, and their accompanying genlocks and hurlocks, armed with swords, axes, and maces. Time after time they surged through the lines, and brought Wardens down before being mobbed and slain themselves.

Some remarkably stupid Rivainni archers thought it would be a good idea to use fire arrows, thinking they could set the grass on fire and more easily see darkspawn creeping forward through the dead grass. They set the grass on fire, all right.

"Fire!" Athis shouted, pointing. "Fire!"

It was spreading quickly, snapping and snarling, fanned by a south wind. The wildfire was coming their way.

Pentaghast roared for mages, but their spells could only freeze the earth ahead of the fire and slow it. Frantically, the Nevarrans, and then the Rivainnis and the Andermen, all began frantically digging a firebreak.

Dozens of Tevinter mages, heavy-eyed and sleepy, stumbled forward from the baggage train and set a series of backfires across the firebreak to change the direction of the burn. The blaze licked at them, tall as an ogre, blackening silver griffons with soot, scorching at faces. The backfires crackled up to meet it, and it roared away, forced to the west and south, surging toward the road and the walls of Val Royeaux. Everywhere, the Blighted grass and brush caught fire, burning, burning a path that only stopped briefly at the Imperial Highway. Sparks and tufts of wind-born grass blew over the ancient stones, and the grass on the other side was instantly alight.

A large band of darkspawn was caught in the fire and every one of them roasted, their shrill squeals carrying in the wind. And ogre waded through it, too imbecilic to understand its danger. Horns wreathed in flame, it actually made it halfway to the Wardens' lines before it stumbled and went down. It crawled and twitched for some time before it was still.

The fire stopped the attacks for some hours.

"A breathing space," Pentaghast said gratefully.

"By accident," Athis replied. "It's a wonder it didn't kill us all."

"Any rest has to help us," said Pentaghast. "This is going to take time. The darkspawn might well outnumber us ten to one."

Borthos overheard them, and grinned. "May I should go home then," he joked. "I already killed my ten."

A haze of smoke clung to the ground; another layer obscuring the sky. The fire died down over most of the plain, but persisted in places. Corpses of darkspawn and animals burned. So did stunted trees and shattered, abandoned wagons. Some scaffolding at the north wall caught fire. Repair work had been going on there until the fall of the city. All the Wardens, from Wildauer to the rawest recruit, were sorry to see it go, since it had looked like another route into the city. The heavy beams and supports burned for a long time. When some of the smoke from the grass fire cleared, the light from the fire at the wall illuminated the darkspawn nearby.

A few bands of scouts crept closer, behind mobile shields called mantlets that could be wheeled out by a team of sappers. Behind the mantlets were archers and mages, who tried picking off the shambling figures at the top of the wall. Wildauer and the other commanders watched through their fine spyglasses. Every time a darkspawn fell, Pentaghast gave a wave to his Wardens, and a cheer rose up. The darkspawn tried to retaliate, but the good silverite of the mantlets thwarted their efforts. Not even a ballista at a guard tower succeeded in penetrating the armor.

It was good sport until well after midnight. Another mantlet was rolled out, and the first teams was told to get some rest. The Wardens who slept, slept very badly, moaning and thrashing. When they relaxed somewhat, most of those on watch breathed a sigh of relief.

Pentaghast made the effort to sleep, laying uncomfortably on the damp and Tainted ground, his neck and jaw prickled by dead grass. The Archdemon taunted them, showing them horrors. Suddenly, the Archdemon vanished.

The Tevinter Warden-Commander, Ennius Elagabalus, struggled out of the Fade. If the Archdemon was not in the Fade at the moment, it meant it was awake...

The shouts of alarm were not particularly composed. Some of the shouts were closer to screams, when a horned head of nightmare and lunacy rose up over the wall and glared down at them.

Wildauer was looking through his spyglass at the moment, and the head, thus magnified, was frightening large. He yelped and dropped the instrument. Seen without the lens, the Archdemon still looked big. And angry.

"Archers!" he cried out. "Mages!"

In a quick, dazed moment, every Warden was standing, weapon out and ready. A few groped for their canteens. Others found flasks of something stronger to drink. A defiant Rivainni behind a mantlet loosed an arrow. It soared up, past the burning scaffolding. and hit the Archdemon's armored neck. It penetrated only a little, and looked like no more than a dangling splinter compared to that vast, scaly body. The Archdemon did not appear to notice the challenge.

Pentaghast pulled himself to together with an effort. "So that's the Archdemon," he said, trying to sound casual. "Ugly bastard."

Elagabalus, pushing his way to the front, came to halt next to him, and shot him a cool look. Pentaghast wondered if the Tevinters disapproved of mocking Old Gods. Pentaghast had never heard anything about them that was worthy of respect. Fear... yes. Not respect.

Wings unfurled and beat the air like thunder. The Archdemon launched itself into flight, the dark purple of its hide blending into the smoky haze and the thickly clouded sky. Everyone braced for what was to come.

But instead of attacking, the Archdemon continued to climb. Higher and higher it rose, and the First Warden hastily snatched up his fallen spyglass to follow its trajectory. The dragon grew smaller and smaller in the distance, and finally was lost to sight. There was a long silence, and then excited whispering, and then loud talking. The wait stretch out endlessly.

"Could it have risen above the clouds?" Pentaghast muttered. He glanced at Elagabalus.

"Why not?" the Tevinter replied, clearly concerned. "We know that griffons could fly that high. In fact —"

A massive body burst out of the clouds directly over their heads, and dropped like a firebomb among the Wardens.

Ten Wardens were dead before they understood they were in danger. Everyone was formed up in ranks for battle, closely packed. The Archdemon pounced again and again, wings beating like bellying sails, crushing a dozen at a time. It flapped up, and there was a sucking, wheezing intake while the Archdemon filled its lungs. Then hot blue flames roared out, turning men and women into torches.

The flames just missed the First Warden. He was still looking through his golden spyglass, still looking in the wrong direction, and the Second Warden and the men around him were clumps of cinders between one breath and another. He stood, frozen in shock, gaping at the monster smashing his army.

Some kept their heads better. Elagabalus got off a freezing curse that actually slowed the Archdemon. The wings faltered, and the dragon landed hard on the bloody field, crushing the life from already wounded Wardens.

On the other hand, it briefly made it vulnerable to edged weapons.

"To me!" Pentaghast shouted, charging. "To me! Keep it down!"

Where were the net teams? If they could launch a weighted net now, they could entangle the Archdemon. If they could just disable the wings…

He plunged his sword into the huge thorax, trying to remember everything he had ever learned about dragon anatomy. The fire glands were above the stomach and within the lungs. If you could nick the fire glands, the corrosive chemicals would seep into the lungs, and…

A shock, and he and the others were knocked aside by the sweep of the tail. More Tevinters ran up, trying to coordinate their spells, so that one did not cancel another. The dragon screamed and grabbed a mage in fanged jaws, shaking her like a terrier shakes a rat, then throwing the bloody remnants aside.

Pentaghast rolled aside, narrowly avoiding a front talon, and scrambled to his feet. There was something wrong with the creature. It turned its head from side to side, trying to focus on its attackers. One great eye was white with Taint. The Archdemon turned its head toward him, and Pentaghast saw that the other eyesocket was empty, surrounded by half-healed scars.

"It's blind on the left!" Pentaghast roared, heartened by the discovery. "Attack on the left side! It can't see you!"

Who had done that? Someone had hurt the Archdemon, and made a good job of it. That wound had never been inflicted tonight. It was at least some days old. Had Bronwyn Cousland and her people done it? Had they already come to Val Royeaux and been wiped out? Were they nearby… perhaps on the other side of the city?

No way to tell at the moment. Hearing his words, mages and warriors alike grinned fiercely, dancing out of the dragon's way, trying to stay on its blind side.

All but the brave souls who deliberately put themselves in harm's way.

Athis and Borthos were running, shouting insults, banging swords on shields. Another blast of blue fire, and they ducked down behind the mantlets, temporarily safe from the flames.

The Tevinters gave a great shout in Arcanum, and a glowing band constricted around the dragon, squeezing it like an Iron Maiden. The Archdemon shrieked and backwinged, knocking Wardens aside like leaves in the wind. The spell faded and instantly the dragon was aloft, sucking in air.

"Scatter!" shouted Pentaghast. He saw the First Warden, not a dragon's length away, gaping stupidly. Running with the speed of a guilty boy caught stealing apples, Pentaghast rushed at him, and pushed him down. The flames raged over their heads. Pentaghast felt the hairs on the back of his neck crisp with heat.

A shriek of agony, cut off abruptly, as the Archdemon's jaws snapped shut on another victim.

Three ballistae traveled with them, each with missiles that would carry weighted nets. The teams manning them pushed them hard over the uneven ground, trying to find a way to get a good shot at the Archdemon.

The Wardens were making an impact, here on the ground. The Tevinter mages still had enough power for another crushing prison curse, and while the Archdemon was caught in it, enterprising Wardens leaped up on their enemy, hacking, hacking. Athis tried to slash through the sail of one furled wing. The curse faded, and the Archdemon shook them off with an ear-splitting shriek. Its wing was hurt, but not disabled, and it rose up, gaining altitude, squealing as arrows and spells struck home. It veered and flamed down at them.

Some caught in the blast hid behind shields, some dove behind the mantlets, some rolled away. A few were caught and roasted in their armor, like turtles in their shells. Away from the fire, archers and mages kept pouring arrows and spells at the Archdemon. Outraged, it squawked and flew higher, out of range of the Wardens, but also out of range to flame them. Instead, a mob of darkspawn burst from the city and came charging across the plain. The Wardens hardly had time to form ranks, when the first wave was on them.

This was brutal. Overhead, the Archdemon seemed to be directing its forces, observing everything from its aerial advantage. The tired mages downed more lyrium. The penetrating odor began to have an effect even on the most non-magical of the warriors. Those who had learned the secret arts of the Templars used them more easily: Emissaries were struck down and destroyed. Another great storm was raised in the path of the charging darkspawn, killing and crippling them. Some of the Tevinters decided the time had come for mightier magics, and drew the small, sharp lancets they kept on their belts. If they were to live through this, it was time to perform Blood Magic. Darkspawn staggered and fell, their blood boiling in their veins.

Behind them, the Archdemon tried to flame them again, dropping down and coming in low. Garamis, a tall Nevarran, hit the ballistae release, and a net shot up, its weights swinging in deadly circles, its furious momentum making one weight slam hard against the Archdemon's right front leg. For a moment, the dragon faltered, both front legs tangled in the net. Trying to free itself was a distraction from flight, and dragons were not built to hover. Elagabalus and the Wardens nearest him united in a Blood Magic spell that was powerful enough to disorient the Archdemon. Deciding that it would be better to put some distance between itself and the Wardens, the dragon flapped frantically and headed back to the city wall, ripping at the net with its teeth. It had been wounded, and was displeased with the battle. Its creatures could fight it instead. It gave a mental command to one of its generals, and the huge hurlock pounded away, running to direct the fight against the Archdemon's enemies.

Once the net was torn away — and it was no easy task — the Archdemon took flight once more, and settled back on its preferred perch on top of the south tower of the Grand Cathedral. The north tower had been utterly destroyed, but much of the other remained. It even still contained its bells, now silent since the slaughter of the holy brothers who had rung their changes. The delicate spiral staircase of silverite and bronze that led from the base of the tower to the very top was damaged, but usable, had there been anyone to use it. The Divine and her Court had once enjoyed the view from this tower. Other than the Archdemon, no darkspawn cared for such things.

Most of the Cathedral's roof had collapsed, but this one tower was still a comfortable eyrie. The Archdemon could peer over the edge of the tower, long neck craned forward, and gaze down through the gaping hole, down, down, to the despoiled sanctuary, and think complacently about the great nest established in the vaults and dungeons below, gestating the great horde that would overwhelm Thedas.

It watched the battle going on outside the Gate of the Moon to the north, fearing nothing. The flares of magic and the screams of the dying were a spectacle, something to be enjoyed at a safe distance. It was pointless and unnecessary to risk itself. Saturated, steeped in Taint as it was, it paid no attention to the hawk and the raven perched on a nearby battlement. After a time, the birds flew away to the southwest.

"A battle outside the walls of Val Royeaux?"

"A very great battle," Morrigan told Loghain. "And the Wardens were holding their own, though they were hard-pressed. The Archdemon briefly took part, but withdrew in a fit of temper. Some clever Warden had tangled the creature's talons in a net, and the Archdemon was forced to pick it apart with its teeth. 'Twas most diverting."

"It may still be going on," Anders said, more concerned for the Wardens than Morrigan was. "A lot of Wardens, but a lot more darkspawn. We flew over the battlefield. There's a huge force of mages — probably Tevinter— there. They were in ranks, taking turns with mass area-of effect spells. It was impressive."

"Where is the Archdemon now?" Bronwyn asked. "And did you see an evidence of the injury that the Qunaris mentioned?"

"Up on the remaining tower of the Grand Cathedral," Anders told her. "It likes the view, I guess, and the cathedral tower is the best place to keep an eye on what's going on. From what I could see, its left eye is damaged. I think," he added, "that there's a big nest below the Cathedral. I got a really strong sensation there, and when I looked through the hole in the roof, I saw those long tendrils. I flew closer, and smelled..." he paused, making a face.

Morrigan was not so squeamish. "... Broodmother."

"Then that's where we need to be," said Bronwyn. "We've got to go now, while the horde's attention is fixed on the north."

"What about the city's defenses?" Loghain frowned, taking out his map of Val Royeaux. "The Gate of the Sun? Is it guarded?"

Anders shook his head. "It's wide open, just as it's likely been since the day the refugees fled."

Loghain idly scratched at the stubble on his jaw. It might be some time before he shaved again. "Good," he said. "Then our army will march right through it."

Thanks to my reviewers: DjinniGenie, Nemrut, imperial queen, Spirally, KnightOfHolyLight, Chiara Crawford, Incognergro74, Wedger, watermostcharmed, MisterSP, Blinded in a bolthold, AD Lewis, Highlord, Ie-maru, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Guest, darksky01, Doom-N-GloomGal, Vaanarash, Robbie the Phoenix, Mike3207, JackOfBladesX, Jenna53, Phygmalion, Suna Chunin, Juliafied, mille libri, Lyssa Terald, undeadyeti, dragonmactir, Mystricka, jnybot, Lucy's Echos, Fenrir666, animeman 12, LeanoraPascault, The Warrior of the Light, Isala Uthenera, karinfan123.

Once again, thanks to Sizuka2 for "Over the Hills and Far Away."

As I told some of you, I am considering writing two endings for this story. You might eventually be able to choose the one you like, and ignore the other.