-oo-
Chapter 6 – Stumbling In
Connor stumbled and would have fallen yet again if not for Greagoir's support and more sure footing. The possessed, tainted mage had been partially draped over Greagoir's shoulder since…Well, the healthier of the two men had lost track of the distance. It had been the same yesterday and the day before; their progress even slower than when they had started out, courtesy of the advancing taint in Connor's body. While much had been written about darkspawn and the fifth Blight, only a little more had covered Blight sickness. Treatment was still as limited now as it had been before King Cailan's troops had tangled with the horde at Ostagar. A merciful, quick death was usually the preferred option. Even now Greagoir wracked his memory for ways to – at the very least – keep Connor comfortable.
The Dalish for example had some kind of treatment to prolong the onset of the taint, but as with all things to do with the taint, it was only temporary and as with all things Dalish, that knowledge was inaccessible to anyone not of the Elvenhen. Greagoir only knew it involved a combination of herbs already known by Circle Healers and some very old magic that the Circle had only ever heard rumours of. He only knew because as a young apprentice he'd been fascinated. Once upon a time he'd favoured the Healer's path.
Of course, that had changed when he was of an age to gravitate towards blowing things up into tiny, unrecognisable pieces rather than the gentler forms of magic. His mo…The Senior Enchanter had been his lecturer then. Witnessing Senior Enchanter Alyce render heavy pieces of masonry and metal into melted, pathetic globs had been one of the highlights of his teenage years.
Being unable to match her prowess in near-undefinable levels of destruction however; not so much.
That detail had been at times a source of an embarrassment to him. The other apprentices knew how he and the Senior Enchanter were related. He was expected to be just as good – no, better – than Alyce Amell. When he didn't 'perform' as per those expectations, disappointment followed, then resentment…So he didn't do as well with spells…because he couldn't be bothered, or because he had a parent who would pass him anyway so why try hard? Or…folk assumed that because his other parent was a Templar it automatically made him anti-magic; his ability to harness and manipulate mana wouldn't work properly ever.
"And they can all go to the Fade…" Greagoir muttered under his breath with a sigh. He'd also learned a long time ago that if he spent all his time giving a damn what others thought he'd end up either with an ego the size of Thedas or a quivering, paranoid wreck.
It was why he'd always preferred the company of the library instead of his fellow apprentices. There were quiet corners where the sounds of burning students and ice spells gone wrong were muffled or excluded entirely by tall bookshelves and thick parchment. Where only the whispers of the written, magical word could be heard, forever calling to him with promises of escape and distraction. It attracted the odd, suspicious Templar from time to time (sneaky apprentices were sneaky, apparently) but Greagoir could ignore those as easily as he could ignore an armchair or a footstool. And books were undemanding teachers. They never judged, never asked more of him than he was willing to give and they never censured. He was as unlikely to receive a rap over the knuckles for putting his feet up onto a desk as he was to receive an instructional Fire Ball for bad casting posture from a book.
He'd gotten his fill of Blight stories in the Apprentices' Library and then after his Harrowing, the proper library. And…he glanced at Connor's mottled, lesion-riddled countenance. One of the main things he'd learned about those who'd been tainted; they never lasted for long. The longest known 'survivor' had been a dwarven soldier from the Battle of Denerim. The man had lasted a little over a week on pure block-headedness, according to the records, before taint madness led him to take his own life. Most victims succumbed within three days or less.
Connor had been tainted, what…nearly two weeks ago? Slightly more than that?
Perhaps it said something about how much of a hold the demon had on Connor. Perhaps it was because the Enchanter was even more stubborn than a battle-hardened Child of the Stone. The man was certainly determined to find and confront Commander Surana (if the random, muttered curses were any indication). Whatever it was keeping Connor alive and still mostly sane made Greagoir a little nervous. At first the notion of Connor being turned into a Grey Warden seemed as good a 'treatment' as any for the taint. Now, Greagoir wasn't so sure whether it was a good idea. Afterall, a possessed mage with access to the famous Warden prowess of strength and healing?
Bad idea…bad, bad idea…But what could he do? Hinder Connor's progress? The demon would be able to tell, wouldn't it? How much of a ghoul was the demon willing to turn its host into before Connor's mortal body had had enough and important bits began falling off? The smell is bad enough already…And what all those very informative tomes could not describe accurately was the odour of a tainted individual. Andraste's smoking sandals…the smell! Every evening when their little troupe stopped to make camp, the Grey Wardens would pointedly place themselves upwind of the tainted mage. And as it fell to Greagoir to ensure the Enchanter kept up during the day, well…When this is over I'm going to have to burn my clothes.
Several times over…
And then douse the ashes with acid…
And then burn them again.
Angling his head to the side, Greagoir took another deep breath, filling his lungs with slightly less putrid-smelling air. Ahead of them, the two Grey Wardens strode deep in conversation. They were always deep in conversation, Greagoir noticed. Was it a Grey Warden thing he wondered? Or just one of those mysterious girl things? Probably the latter…No, probably both. The universe liked to throw interesting things like that his way. Like a mosquito buzzing in an ear after lights out.
Feeling contrary, Greagoir wrinkled his nose and called towards them; "Are we there yet?"
Denny tossed a grin over her shoulder at him. "Not particularly observant are ya?" she called back. She and the Warden Diele exchanged a look. Ah-ha…another Warden-girly thing…the taller Warden's expression turned even more sour than usual and she increased her pace, widening the distance between herself and the mages.
"If you're wonderin'," Denny added helpfully. "We been in the Korcari Wilds since yesterday."
"Ah," Greagoir nodded, choking slightly as a puff of rancid, rotting scent wafted his way. "That explains the slightly more damp vermin then."
Denny tapped her nose. "Now you're usin' yer noggin'. Keep up the good work!"
The Korcari Wilds…Greagoir grimaced, having felt he'd reached an all time low in observational skills and general intelligence. Just as he'd vowed to pay more attention to their surroundings, their group passed a mound of mossy bone and metal; a single hand with finger still intact, helpfully pointing down their path. History come to life…Greagoir thought, hastily correcting the statement in his head as not so much 'life' as a grim reminder of the events that had taken place here well over a decade ago.
Some of the remains were definitely human, others not so much; an immense tusked skull still impaled upon a spike like some grisly trophy still had what looked like a human hand wedged between its broken teeth. Turning his head from the pile after pile of remains, Greagoir spied a wide expanse of bright green. There must have been a town or even a city here once, if the ruins of a domed structure half buried in the grass was any indication. The wind blew; Greagoir gagged and the verdant expanse of green rippled in a very ungrasslike way. Curious, Greagoir checked that the Wardens were still in view then moved a little closer to the 'field'. A moment later a lone water fowl flapped down towards the surface of the space, clearly intending to land…
The surface of green exploded in a frothing mass of snapping teeth and scales. A spray of blood and feathers and the bird was no more, whatever beast dwelled beneath the now deceptively tranquil swamp returned to its depths.
Note to self…Greagoir inched backwards towards rockier ground. Swamps are not bath friendly.
"Whoa!" Denny whistled, jogging back to join him. "A Drop Croc!" She twinkled at Greagoir. "You hardly ever see those. You should be honoured. They're rare…"
"I think I'm just happy feeling grateful, thanks," Greagoir told her.
"Eh, I hear they're good eatin'," she added, twinkling some more.
"Or they're just good at eating?" Greagoir said sourly.
"Oh ha ha!" Denny slapped her thigh in appreciation. "You're a funny man. Have I told you you're a funny man?"
"Frequently…" Greagoir grumbled, rolling his eyes. If he hadn't figured out by now that the smaller of the Grey Wardens enjoyed making fun of him even more than the elven Warden appeared to despise him, then he had just confirmed that he truly was as thick as a Tower wall. Or incredibly good natured. What are the chances I can push for the second one?
"Ah…don't take it so bad, twinkle-toes," Denny smiled at him. "We'll be at-"
"HALT! In the name of Her Eminence and all that is…" The gasp that followed was punctuated by a screech of: "Apostate!"
In his surprise, Greagoir dropped Connor, the man falling bonelessly to the swampy ground with a wet thud. The smile that had begun to form on Greagoir's face froze mid-curve. Reflexively, he raised his hands. "Now, see here-"
"Maleficar!" came the second screech. This was accompanied by a longsword being drawn and point held to his chest. Greagoir sighed. "Apostate!" the Templar shouted again, causing Greagoir to attempt calming motions with his raised hands.
"I think you already said that-"
"Do not move or I shall strike you where you stand, Maleficar…!"
Greagoir frowned. "You always make a habit out of repeating yourself, Miffy?" he asked, bending forward. He stopped in time from patting her on the head. Even if he hadn't recognised the voice behind the heavy helm, there was the fact that this particular Templar did not quite fill her armour as the average Soldier of Andraste did. And…Maker's nut, what was she of all people doing out here in the middle of nowhere anyway?
"Do not speak, Apostate!" the Templar threatened, pushing the sword point a little more firmly into his gut.
Greagoir rolled his eyes. "Again with the repetition," he sighed. "And anyway…" he added because he was starting to get really annoyed. They were close to the Grey Warden outpost and they get accosted by Templars now? The universe did really hate him, didn't it?
Pushing the longsword aside with his hand, Greagoir stepped forward. Throwing caution, reservation and any other sense of self-preservation he'd ever owned to the wind, he gave the top of the Templar's helm a smart rap with his knuckles. "Aren't you a little short to be a Templar?" he asked.
In answer, sparks exploded in his vision followed by a sharp, unexpected and very unwelcome pain in his groin. Greagoir's knees helpfully folded so he could curl up into a foetal position. It was more comfortable that way. "Argh!" he cursed through clenched teeth. "You little…!" This time his vision flashed red and black before it and his consciousness abandoned him entirely.
-oo-
With a sweep of his hand, the table was cleared of tankards, plates and the leftovers from the morning meal. The perpetrator of such a wanton act of messiness received a disapproving arch of an eyebrow from the other person in the room. Nevertheless, he continued with his intent to utilise all of the table space, unfolding a map of well-worn vellum, while the owner of the eyebrow diligently went about picking up every tankard, cup and bread rind from the floor.
"You're far too domesticated, oh Captain my Captain…" the Cousland grumbled, trying not to follow the older man's movements about the room and failing. "Leave that for the servants, for the Maker's sake."
"Regardless…" Ser Ryan straightened plate in hand. "Such untidiness does not reflect well upon us."
"Pft," Cousland waved a dismissive hand. "You're so…common."
Captain Tremayne bowed. "I thank you for the compliment, my lord."
"Prat."
"Brat."
Cousland waggled a finger at his companion. "I'm too old to be called a brat."
The eyebrow was raised again, this time implying that statement to be applicable as long as there the person applying it was older than the accused. "As you say, my lord."
Cousland sighed. "I hate it when you do that."
Dining implements and accoutrements piled neatly to the side, Ser Ryan joined the younger man at the table. He too perused the map; an elderly edition and one he recognised from the reclamation of Highever during the Blight. There had been additions made over the years since; newer lines; redrawn borders showing a redistribution of lands…and large areas marked with the symbol of two crossed bones. Blight lands. King Bryce I had had to review the borders of Ferelden's Arlings and Teyrnirs out of necessity. While Arls and Teyrns could be reappointed, finding them arable land to administer after a Blight was not as simple or easy.
Gwaren for example, lying to the south, had been left almost untouched by the darkspawn, leaving some to believe that the late Teyrn and King's General had made a convenient agreement with the darkspawn. Dragon's Peak on the other hand was now only a notation; a marker of what used to exist, along with patches along the Waking Sea, Amaranthine…scars from a war that almost destroyed all of Ferelden.
Ryan knew the re-marked borders well. He'd accompanied the princes across and through them often enough. It paid to know where the Blight Lands were without constantly having to refer to a map, even if he knew quite well that the borders of the Blight Lands were in a constant state of flux. All it took was a single, tainted beast to wander onto untainted land and in no time at all, entire fields of crops would need to be destroyed or risk having the taint spread even further. The Archdemon might be gone, but Fereldans still battled the Blight.
"This town here…" Cousland jabbed a finger at a point on the map slightly west of the northernmost point of Lake Calenhad. "Littlehurst," he read. "I've only passed through there, but as far as I can recall, we should be able to provision ourselves there for The Frostbacks." He traced an invisible line westward. "Once we have what we need, we can make for Gherlen's Pass."
Ryan peered at the map. "Not Jader, my lord? It's a larger city."
"It's also too close to Highever," Cousland snorted. "And I would not go within any distance of Highever's borders if I could help it. Not while my mother is in matchmaking mode." Without looking up from the map, he added; "The road from Littlehurst is not as well used, but that may work in our favour. The only other route is to backtrack south around Lake Calenhad…"
Ryan shook his head. "That would add weeks to our journey."
"Agreed," Cousland acknowledged with a curt nod. "And before you ask, no I haven't considered marriage as a way to prevent my mother from interfering in my life. Even if there was someone I was inclined to wake up to every morning…" He slid sneaky glance towards his Captain. "Remember, it was you who disobliged me by marrying the only woman I would have been inclined to consider matrimony with, so under the circumstances, you owe it me to help keep me footloose and fancy free."
"Instead of leg-shackled and free of fancy, my lord?" Ryan asked with another lift of his eyebrow. "That, I must inform you, is as logical as a ferret on your head," Ser Ryan snorted.
Cousland frowned. "I don't have a ferret on my head."
"Exactly." Ser Ryan's attention drifted southwards on the map, towards a string of pale blue blobs marking the Hinterlands…Chasind country. Some of the Chasind had fled northwards. Most had escaped even more deeply into the unmarked territories; to land more wild and untamed than themselves.
"Travel across the Hinterlands at this time of the year is dangerous," he murmured to himself, though not softly enough for him not to be heard. "I hope Greagoir did not attempt it."
"Do you still hope to come across him?" Cousland asked, concerned that his Captain was concerned. While it was not unlike the man to worry in general, there was something Ser Ryan was not telling him. Cousland knew mages operating outside the Circle were frowned upon. Mages escaped from the Circle were even less of a laughing matter. Especially since many of them were quite frequently suspected of darker magic. Ryan had never spoken of it and Cousland had never asked. Chantry business was Chantry business and while it was part of his duties to play nice with the Grand Cleric and her minions, Aidan had no interest beyond that. What he did know however – of the little time he'd spent with young Greagoir – was that the boy was smart and far, far too well brought up to make a decision that would place others or himself at peril.
He was also damn good with a sword. If he hadn't shown signs of magic, he would have been squired to one of the knights in the Highever Guard at the earliest opportunity.
Beside Cousland, Ser Ryan shrugged. "As we discussed before," he sighed, "Greagoir could have ended up anywhere. Ferelden is a big country. There are any number of places he could be right now." If he is still alive…the more practical part of Ser Ryan added morosely.
"I heard…The Chantry have ways of…finding mages…?" Cousland began, receiving only a nod from his Captain.
Yes, Ryan sighed inwardly. There are any number of places Greagoir could be and few reliable ways he can be found. One of those methods involved lyrium and Greagoir's phylactery; neither of which were an option to him. It had been years since he'd had any contact with lyrium and knowing that he was now at the same age his own father had been when he'd started to show signs of lyrium poisoning made Ryan even more wary of the stuff. As for Greagoir's phylactery…He doubted very much whether the Denerim Chantry would release that to him.
No, the best plan would be to locate Alyce. She was familiar with the other way; a method only accessible to another mage, though it was not as efficient or as…clean as the one the Chantry preferred: Fade Walking.
Ser Ryan had witnessed the phenomena only a couple of times in his life and both of them had involved his mage wife. It was not common or a practice that was encouraged by the Circle. Mages could easily lose themselves in the Fade; become more susceptible to possession. Even if a mage avoided possession, detached from the passing of time outside the Fade, they might return to find their bodies no longer lived.
"Attemping to contact the Chantry ourselves would be seen as interference in Chantry business," Ser Ryan reminded the younger man.
"Well then…" With a soft grunt, Aidan Cousland pushed away from the table. "Orzammar it is…and not storming the gates of the Grand Cleric's marble towers as I'd hoped. Pity."
Ser Ryan had not been listening; his gaze – and mind – wandering over the map still. They would not be going to Jader, but the town Cousland proposed was close enough that some of Jader's Grey Wardens might be found there. At the least, he should be able to send a message from Littlehurst to the Senior Warden. Alyce would certainly expect him to.
Forcing his attention away and back to his employer, Ser Ryan faced Aidan Cousland. "We will be leaving immediately, my lord?"
"Immediately?" Cousland blinked, the hint of jest twinkling in the corners of his very blue eyes. "No. I thought we'd first head over to Amaranthine, board a ship to Kirkwall, play pirate for a few years then head up to the Anderfels to go searching for Griffons…" He rolled his eyes at Ser Ryan's cardboard expression. "I mean honestly Captain, did you really have to ask?"
-oo-
She was wrong. There was greenery down here that neither moved, floated or was as slippery as custard. In fact surprisingly, there was an entire forest down here; trees and leafy shrubs and tapestries of tiny-leaved creepers bearing scented flowers. Alyce picked her way over crumbled masonry to find her feet sinking into thick carpets of tufty mosses. The entire area smelled earthy and outside. If the space high above her wasn't composed of rock, she could very easily imagine she was outside and not still underground.
She paused at a wall, rifling through her waist pouch for her notebook, charcoal and knife. Senior Enchanter Ines would not forgive her if she found out there was such plant life down here and she didn't stop to take either notes or collect specimens, though she did hope that nothing she collected would actually turn out to be poisonous or react badly with the surface air and turn into something vile and wicked and…Alyce gave herself a shake. Those dreams she'd been having about Flemeth were starting to make her morbid again.
Well…even more morbid than usual.
"Ah…I've see you've found some Strangle Weed…"
Alyce jumped. So intent on cutting an appropriately-sized specimen from the wall had she been that she had not heard the Legion of the Dead Commander approach from behind. She fumbled her knife and the plant; cutting her finger in the process. Pinching the weed between the nails of forefinger and thumb, she dangled it warily over her notebook.
"Strangle weed?" she echoed faintly.
"Oh, huh. A single seed can form a wall of noxious green in a week," Commander Hirral told her cheerfully.
"And…they call this…'strangle'…why?" Alyce felt compelled to ask.
"Ah well that is," Hirral tapped the side of his rather commodious nose; the hairs of which had been cultivated and braided into his even more impressively-maintained moustache. Oddly, the man did not sport a beard…perhaps because that much facial hair would have been overkill, even for a dwarf. "Strangle weed have these little suckers that have a way of finding gaps and fissures in the stone," Hirral explained. Alyce nodded. "S'how they look for water you see." Alyce nodded again. "And when they find water…POOF! They grow even more, sending out more suckers."
Alyce frowned, uncertain whether the 'strangle' part would actually ever arrive.
"People have been known to wake up, covered in the stuff…grows over them when they're sleeping…looking for water…" Hirral's grin grew wider; a sure sign that he was enjoying stringing this 'little' explanation along. He leaned in closer.
"People are full of water, dontcha know."
Alyce stared, well aware it was rude. "Uh…"
Hirral inclined his head. "And those suckers are pretty efficient at finding…cracks. Even in people."
The full realisation of this was beginning to dawn slowly on Alyce, though she was having trouble accepting it.
"Course," Hirral said, plucking the piece of vine from her fingers and nibbling on the end with his teeth. "Good eatin'. Just have to cook it properly," he added helpfully. "Gotta make sure it's completely dead. A single live bit can strangle a person inside out in a day. Makes visitin' the lav a bit of a nasty surprise, I can tell you."
Alyce's gaze slid suspiciously towards the wall of green, then just as suspiciously back to the grinning dwarf Commander. "I'm…not too sure I believe you."
"Eh," He gave her arm a brisk pat, sending her sideways. "Ignore me at your peril, Mistress Mage…Ignore me at your peril…Anyways…"
"Anyways?" Alyce repeated weakly, wondering what other marvellous gem of information she would discover today.
"We seem to be a bit uh…lost."
"Eh?"
Hirral nodded acknowledgement. "Yeah. Turns out we've never been here before."
Alyce truly stared now. "Eh?"
Hirral looked about thoughtfully. He tapped the weed-covered wall like a long lost old friend. "Thought this might be Cadash Thaig. Turns out to be somewhat elvish. Think we might have taken a wrong turn back at that rockfall…and then maybe got turned around a bit trying to avoid that lava flow. I swear by the stone they weren't here the last time, but never mind we-"
"But dwarves never get lost underground!" Alyce interrupted with a cry.
"Now Mistress Mage…" Hirral waggled a scolding finger at her. "No need to be like that now. S'not like every dwarf gets imprinted with a sodding map of the entire Deep Roads at birth…well some of 'em do, but they get to be Paragons. Me, I'm just a dead 'un and-"
Alyce had just sunk her forehead into her hand when another cry rang out beyond a stand of unruly, underground hedge. Goylan came running down the path towards them, axe drawn and dripping with gore. "Commander!" he yelled. "Darksp-" He didn't get to finish. A Hurlock crashed out of the greenery behind him, blood-smattered pike descending…Alyce raised her hand, just as more darkspawn erupted through the ground at their feet…incinerated in moments as the fireball encircled each in a flash of deadly white flame. She paused to bend over the fallen dwarf, to find her arm being pulled along.
"Leave him!" Hirral ordered. "The stone has him now! The others, quickly!"
They followed the sound of battle; easy enough to do in the limited confines of the ruins.
"Up there!" Alyce followed the direction of the Commander's finger, vaulting up a flight of crumbling steps as the Legion of Dead Commander sprang into the centre of genlocks, scattering and dismembering them. On higher ground, Alyce lost no time, casting paralysis glyphs on injured Legion soldiers, peppering them with powerful healing spells while hurling boulders of conjured ice, fire and electricity into the darkspawn below. And then…a mighty roar behind her…An ogre stepped towards her, sending the structure they both stood on collapsing completely into the darkspawn below.
Pelted with rock and gravel, Alyce scrambled for escape – too late – the ogre seized her foot and swung her upside down…then abruptly dropped her when it found its head suddenly missing. A spray of heated, stinking darkspawn blood spattered her clothes. Alyce winced and ducked, hastily rolling out of the way as the ogre toppled to the broken ground beside her.
"Why…in Thedas…" said a new voice. "Would a mage – of all people – be doing here, I wonder?"
Alyce looked up. Through the smoke and dust emerged a slender figure in brown leathers. Pale green eyes regarded her curiously at first, then extended a hand. "And with a contingent of Legion of the Dead at that?" Alyce couldn't quite place the accent, though she took the proffered hand. Rising to her feet, she came face to face with the speaker; a woman roughly the same age as she, possibly a couple years younger, with hair of such a deep red it was almost black. When she smiled, twin dimples made her look younger. Alyce squashed very firmly the impulse to give the woman a pat on the head.
There was no mistaking the stamped emblem on the woman's chest piece…
Grey Warden.
-oo-