A/N: I keep forgetting! Thank you to Gaspode for the suggestion of 'Connormination'. I've stolen the phrase and now I'm going to use it forever, bwa ha ha ha ha ha! {lightning strikes across the sky etc etc}.
Also apologies this chapter has taken so long…
-oo-
Chapter 10 – Unwelcome
"Pst. Senior Enchanter."
Alyce grimaced, wiping the last of the brownish, stinking slime from her heel. She had no idea what Deepstalkers ate down here but whatever they did smelled foul. Her time in the Teyrnir of Highever as Mage in Residence to the Couslands had reacquainted her with the many rustic, rural odours she thought she'd left far behind in her childhood. Muddy cow pats, slippery piles of pig poo, showers of bird droppings…never mind what the various visiting duck, geese and who knew what else visited and left on the green areas around the garden ponds for unsuspecting, early morning walkers. There was no denying it. The air in the country smelled…pooey. It was fresh and untainted by smoke, unwashed crowds and the greasy, oily fume of industry, but the freshness of country air only allowed the pooeyness to…shine through.
As it were.
She'd gotten used to it, in her own way. It was better than the acrid smell of magic, the cookery scent of apprentices setting each other on fire and the cheerful but ever-present aroma of disapproving, looming Templars.
Still.
The stuff that came out of Deepstalker bottoms? That was something altogether.
"Pst."
Sure she had gotten rid of almost all of the poo, she put her foot down only for it to land in another little heap of Deepstalker droppings. Well…the word 'dropping' was perhaps not quite accurate.
"Pst."
Perhaps 'splatting' or 'heaping' or even – at a pinch – 'goo-ing' might be a better description. Also 'invisible and sneaky' because she was pretty darned sure that that spot of moss had been completely faeces-free a few moments ago.
"Pst!"
Alyce sighed and turned her attention to the League of the Dead soldier crouching behind the fungi-dotted wall. "Corporal Sorli…" she began, narrowing her eyes. "Either you have something to say to me or you've sprung an unexpected leak."
A pair of beetle black eyes twinkled at her. "Eh heh…that's a good one, Senior Enchanter." He wiggled his armour clad fingers at her, indicating she too join him behind the wall. Alyce hesitated. It was a low wall and if he expected her to attempt to hide behind it, she would have to suggest he have his eyes tested urgently. Seeing her give the stone a pointed look, Sorli grinned, then jerked his chin sideways. "Commander has some important things to discuss," he told her sotto voce. "Away from certain people who like to listen in to conversations that don't concern 'em."
"Oh. Well, alright then." Side-stepping another pile of Deepstalker globbings, Alyce followed Sorli to the other side of the stone wall. He didn't stop there, but continued on past a worn obelisk. She'd had a look at it previously, having spotted some writing carved into the stone, but it had been chipped in old dwarvish; a language she was completely unfamiliar with. She did take a rubbing of as much of it as she could, however. When she returned to Orzammar, she'd take it to Dagna. It was high time she visited that woman and if anyone could read ancient anything, it would be Dagna.
They found Commander Hirral at work sharpening the long curved blade of his favourite battle-axe; a weapon that was honed to such a state of sharpness Alyce could imagine an enemy need only look at it and be slain without any actual contact with it whatsoever.
As they approached – Alyce carefully not allowing her eyes to linger too long on the axe blade just in case – the Legion of the Dead Commander nodded towards them. His own eyes remained fixed on the watchful Seeker across the cobbled road. Hirral had taken a professional dislike to the Chantry representative and was as keen as the edge of his battle-axe to show Giles Moreau how unwelcome the man remained as long as the Seeker stayed anywhere near their party.
Alyce crouched by the Legion Commander. "You wanted to speak to me?"
Hirral nodded again. "Aye Senior Enchanter," he told her, not bothering to keep his voice low. "We appear to have made progress trying to figure out what that old map of yours means."
Alyce blinked. Her eyes widened in surprise. "You have?"
"Aye Senior Enchanter," Hirral replied, still staring across the clearing; the sound of his whetstone skimming the edge of the axe blade punctuating his sentences. "As I thought, the river and those of rockfalls we came across a couple of days ago have opened up a few new passages. Seems to explain how we've been turned about so many times. I'm not so battle-addled that my stone sense has gone wanderin'. Yet."
Crossing her legs neatly beneath her, Alyce made sure her back was placed quite firmly towards Moreau. Wait…"River?" she asked.
"Lava," Sorli informed her cheerfully.
"Oh…that river…" Alyce nodded in obedient acceptance.
"Way I have it figured," Hirral lowered his voice only a half-notch, noting as he did so, the Seeker inclining his pomaded head towards them. "If we cross over here, then take the southern road for a league or two we should find the turning we missed. Soon as we're back on track, it won't be long until we get to where we should be going."
Balancing her chin between forefinger and thumb, Alyce pursed her lips. "That would add two more days of travel and…" Giving Hirral a keen look from between her lashes, she added; "take us dangerously near Darkspawn-held territory."
Hirral shrugged. "Eh, what's a few Darkspawn between friends, hm?"
"A short, miserable death by tainted dismemberment?" Alyce suggested.
Hirral chuckled. Reaching up, he patted the tall mage on the top of her head. "Eh, you're a good lass Senior Enchanter, but your sense of humour needs a bit of fine-tuning."
"Must be the thought of death by darkspawn making me that way," Alyce sighed, wondering whether Hirral's intent to take this particular route was to discourage Giles Moreau from following them or because he wanted the Seeker to die in a battle outnumbered by Darkspawn. Either option was likely down here. While she pondered Hirral's information, she noticed a flapping sound; belonging to a piece of scorched vellum being waved in front of her nose. It was a map, viewed in double-vision thanks to her crossed eyes. Blinking, Alyce put a bit of distance between herself and the parchment before reluctantly taking the offered document. Hirral – and the other League of the Dead no doubt – had made so many scribbles and notations on the bit of cured nug skin that it took Alyce a few minutes to pick out the direction Hirral had mentioned.
When she did, she held the parchment flat in the palm of her hand, peering upwards at the roof of stone above them.
"Wonder where we are in relation to surface Ferelden?" she wondered out loud.
Cocking an eyebrow at her, Hirral snorted. "Antiva," he muttered then tucking his whetstone and cleaning cloths into a pouch, hoisted his battle axe over a shoulder and stood. "Best get some rest Senior Enchanter," he suggested. "The more ground we can cover tomorrow, the better."
"Fine, fine…" Alyce stood too, rolling up the parchment. She'd lost track of time underground. The dwarves had a longer 'day' cycle…and she wished she'd kept a log of how many of those days had passed so she could calculate how many of her own had elapsed. She supposed she could ask Hirral, but as the Commander had already moved on; his fellow League of the Dead following like armoured ducklings, she could only make a note of it for later. To be honest she wasn't even tired, only anxious to find this place Phineas had documented. Not that she expected to find Neria there…which was the reason why she had agreed to this whole thing in the first place.
Maybe…not even a trace…?
The whole story about Neria and the fascinating but extremely talented marsh-witch and an ancient Elvenhan device known as the Eluvian seemed like a badly-written fairy tale to her but Alyce knew well that fairy tales – especially Ferelden ones – tended to start in something real.
Neria had been missing for almost three years now and Alyce knew in agreeing to the search she was clutching at straws but it was better than not making any attempt to know at all.
That – in Aunt Mildred's words – would have been sheer laziness on her part.
As for the Grey Warden Anike's (timely) appearance? Well, having an early warning darkspawn detector in their party had been a good thing so far. Anike and her fellow Grey Wardens kept to themselves, looked after themselves and there wasn't a creepy stare between them. The Seeker on the other hand…
Alyce was quite aware that she was not the sort that 'took' to people easily. Nor had she ever mastered the other art of 'getting on' with people or reading them. For all she knew Giles Moreau was a wonderful human being who spent all his free time performing charitable work for the community; rescuing orphans out of trees, helping whales to cross the street…who knew? Perhaps in different circumstances the two of them might be the best of friends; spend their free evenings discussing the latest Tethras novel, braiding each others' hair…except that the sight of the man made her skin want to crawl inside her body cavity just so it wouldn't have any chance of making contact with him.
What Alyce did know however was Templars. Living with them made her hyper-aware of them. Moreau was trained. The thought that he wasn't just a mere Templar, but some kind of Super Templar…?
Not just creepy, but dangerous too.
And the fact that the Wardens and the League of Dead agreed with her instinct worried Alyce even more about Moreau's presence. With that in mind, she could certainly understand Hirral's glee when the next morning, when their little group packed up camp, they found not only Giles Moreau missing, but the map as well. Nor was it a surprise that the League Commander and his men were eager to move along as quickly as possible.
The sooner they were away from this place, the more time they would have before the Seeker discovered that the 'ancient' map of the Deep Roads Hirral had been referring to was actually only a couple of days old and completely fake.
-oo-
The Templars were still with them. Greagoir was in two minds whether that was a good or a bad thing. On the one hand it gave him an idea how awkward the traditional Wintersend family get together would be. On the other hand…Why the Fade are they still here? Don't they have important things to do? He was beginning to wonder whether Templars in fact, had nothing much to do all day but perfect their glare, stand around pretending to be statues and growl at the odd apprentice. Life as a Templar must be incredibly boring. It was no wonder his old man gave the job up.
"I see the two Chantry blowflies are still with us," snorted a scornful voice beside him.
Aaaaaand, speaking of two minds…
"Oh the large one is decorative…"
Greagoir rolled his eyes.
"You are not to make any attempt whatsoever to seduce either of those two!"
"Well, I wasn't going to, but now that you've put it into my mind…"
"Whose mind?"
"Ours of course, my reluctant but amusing vessel."
Connor's hand gripped Greagoir's shoulder tightly. Between gritted teeth, he pleaded: "There must be some way to separate me from this…this…thing!"
"I am hurt! So very, very hurt…"
"Shut up, fiend!"
"You know perfectly well," Greagoir addressed Connor - the both of them - while inching sideways surreptitiously, "the only way to do so is to kill you and if I do the Senior Warden'll probably be humorous at me." Folding his arms, his chin jutted stubbornly. "Let's not go there. For the love of all that is good and wonderful and for all the small, cute furry children everywhere I refuse to provoke Alistair into making any jokes." Argh, why did Uncle Alistair ever think he was funny? It wasn't as if anyone encouraged him to try.
The Connormination half pouted at him. Greagoir felt sorry for the Enchanter, really he did – hope to the Maker nothing like this ever happened to him blah, blah, blah – but when Connor tried to look grim while the Desire Demon twisted the rest of his face into an eyelid-batting moue the resulting combination of expression was so comical it was incredibly difficult to keep his own face straight.
"You're enjoying this aren't you?" Connor growled.
"After the piles of Bronto poo you've put me through?" Greagoir snorted. "Mage-knapping me, nearly drowning me, getting us lost in the wilds of hostile Ferelden; attacked by Darkspawn and by the way involving me in the murder of two men in cold blood…two men who'd done nothing wrong but go about their daily duties and then attempted murder of an honest businessman…? No, why in Thedas would you think that?"
Shoulders slumping, Connor presented a most un-Enchanter-like posture; even if the Demon appeared to have gone wandering elsewhere for the moment and human Connor was indeed the current, dominant resident. Rubbing tired, scarred knuckles into an eye, Connor frowned. "If I had asked you, would you have helped me?" he asked.
"Nope. Not a chance," Greagoir replied stoutly.
"To remove a demon?" Connor asked, his scowl redirected sideways. "You would not have chosen to assist a fellow Mage overcome possession?" he demanded.
An eyebrow jumped on Greagoir's forehead. "I know I look mostly dumb," he stated flatly, "But after lying to me through your teeth, you surely don't expect me to believe now that I'm going to feel sorry for you?"
"Being possessed was not my decision!" Connor snapped.
"Well I was taught otherwise," Greagoir retorted. "Mages have power. Demons desire that power and it's up to us to resist them."
Fists clenching by his sides, Connor stared angrily ahead of him. "I was a child."
"Yeah and I've been wondering how you've managed to keep your little…guest a secret for so long." Greagoir narrowed his eyes at his fellow log-companion. "Especially considering how keen Templars are to root out all the bad lemons in the Circle."
"It was clever," Connor growled.
"You should have been cleverer…er. Smarter at the least." Greagoir threw a mocking look at his now fellow-Warden. "Huh, your credibility's gone down a few notches. Are you sure you're not just mad that people might actually think you're the stupid one for a change?"
"Shut up."
Uh huh. Just as I thought. With a sigh of superiority, Greagoir made a show of polishing his nails on his leather tabard, inspecting them for possible damage. They were a mess, but he was a male and didn't much bother about those sorts of things. All that preening and making sure one wore the correct colour of pantaloons this season so as to make the most of one's shapely calves…hogwash. What he was doing was a piss-take. "Sometimes," he said, getting back on topic. "I amaze myself with how insightful I can be."
"Enjoy it while you can, boy," Connor said coldly, the inbred nobleman taking a stand where the arrogant know-it-all Mage wouldn't. "It won't last long."
"I intend to, thanks," Greagoir grinned, enjoying himself – and Connor's discomfiture - immensely. "Anyway…" Stretching his legs out before him, he leant back, looking down his nose at the clump of miserable Templars across the camp clearing. "Why are they still here? I would have thought with the Maker's Shield to protect them, they would have braved the Korcari Wilds and darkspawn to return to wherever they came from."
"Why are you asking me?"
"I'm not," Greagoir cocked his head to the side, taking a moment to poke his tongue out at Myfanwy when she bestowed upon him a look that would have curdled an entire Dairy's worth of milk. "I was asking the more helpful half of you."
"It got bored and went away," Connor harrumphed testily.
"Well if they think they're going to mooch off the Grey Wardens indefinitely," Greagoir continued, "they've got another-"
"Darkspawn!"
A metallic thunder preceded a whoosh of jangling armour over the Mages' log. The walking mountain of a Grey Warden, Gunnar landed with a surprisingly light thud on the other side - joined shortly by the Senior Warden – mere minutes before the ground erupted in a shower of moss, rock and squelchy sand. Scrambling to his own feet, Greagoir experienced a brief moment of dumb until he located his swords; two single-handed long blades enchanted to feel light to the wielder. Meanwhile, Connor had cast a shield of armour about himself in less time than it took to blink an eye; the older mage's eyes glinting red as the Demon took over.
Despatching a Genlock, the Senior Warden paused to nudge Greagoir towards his fellow mage. "No offence lad!" Alistair told him, "but stay with Ser Personality Crisis! Keep the darkspawn off him and the both of you stay at range!"
"What?" Greagoir pushed back. "But I can fight!"
"Keep him safe, that's an order!" Alistair pushed right back, heading off into the thick of battle.
Biting back another protest, Greagoir nevertheless tugged Connor to higher ground, until he was knocked flat by another darkspawn emerging from between his feet. A moment later a conjured ball of rock pelted into the side of the darkspawn's head. Regaining his dignity, Greagoir stood and swung the blade of his sword around at neck height, on the premise that cutting off a darkspawn's head first thing generally saved a person having to go back for another go; a gout of stinking blood spraying his cheek. Greagoir ducked but had little time for an impromptu groom. Another Genlock barrelled into him, knocking the air out of his lungs. Inhaling sharply, he did the only thing he could think of; he head-butted the creature, rolling out from under the tainted beast when it hooted in surprise. His foot shot out, catching the darkspawn in what he hoped was the same vulnerable area in a man that size, surprising himself by managing to rise more quickly than his opponent. Two slashes and all Greagoir had to do was kick the now-dead creature from the end of his sword.
"Ogre!"
Connor stood a little way to the side on a slight rise, fireballs shooting out from the end of his wooden staff. It had been he who'd shouted the warning. The Ogre had appeared from the marshes, heading straight for the Templars…
The Senior Warden was the first to see it. Changing direction, he began sprinting towards the two Chantry soldiers until a barricade of Shrieks exploded around him, preventing him from reaching his target. Connor conjured an Expulsion Glyph around the Senior Warden; the Shrieks could no longer reach the Grey Warden, but neither could Alistair leave his circle of protection, having to now concentrate on clearing this new enemy.
Greagoir cast his gaze about the battlefield. Gunnar was nowhere to be seen. Denny and Diele stood back to back fending off another wave of Shrieks and Hurlocks. The larger Templar, Ser Bertram was performing a pretty good job of fighting the Ogre, until the beast lowered its head and charged. The Templar went flying but the Ogre did not pursue Ser Bertram. It turned its attention instead to the diminutive armoured object attempting to whack its knees.
"Oh for the love of…! We have to get over there!" Greagoir shouted, lunging sideways to make another darkspawn kabob.
"You're mad!" Connor responded. "You'll never get there in time! That little Templar's pulp!"
Andraste's smoking coals…The Senior Enchanter's going to rip me a new one if I let anything happen to Myf…Making a rapid calculation in his head, he tapped Connor's shoulder. "Another Expulsion Glyph!"
"What?" Connor huffed irritably. "Where?"
Greagoir pointed with the end of his sword. "There!" he yelled. "Six paces from the Ogre!"
Connor scowled. "You're out of your mind! There's nothing the-"
"Now!"
Greagoir was already running across the marsh. He thought he heard an understanding, demonic chuckle behind him, but it might have been his imagination. Vaulting over the log he and Connor had been sitting on moments before the attack, he detected the tell-tale glow of Connor's Glyph splaying across the ground seconds before he hit the Glyph, angling his body and bringing the blades of both swords up and forward as he was propelled through the air towards the Ogre. He was quite aware that if he missed, this would probably be the single most embarrassing moment of his relatively short life.
He didn't.
He landed hard; momentum and his weight used to good effect to drive both swords between the Ogre's shoulder blades. The enchanted iron ripped through the armoured scales and toughened hide, slicing through the Ogre's spine. The beast roared in agony and fell; clawing the ground in a vain attempt to escape. Greagoir had merely to step up to the Ogre's side, plunging his sword into its heart. It shuddered, convulsed, clawed hands gouging clumps of ground some seconds before it stilled, dead.
Swivelling, Greagoir sought out his next target but as he hoped, the Ogre was the last enemy to have arrived on the field. Several unhappy screeches behind him indicated the darkspawn surrounding Diele and Denny were being finished off.
"Well, that was…" The Senior Warden clasped a blood-spattered hand to Greagoir's shoulder. "Unconventional, to say the least." Looking about, trying to locate his surviving Wardens, he added; "I'd say it was foolish too…if it hadn't worked so spectacularly well."
"Right…right…" Greagoir nodded, his knees feeling a bit like jelly. I killed an Ogre…Whoa. I. Just. Killed. A. Bloody. Great. Ogre…
"Wardens!" Alistair bellowed, startling the shaking mage-warrior beside him, "Report!"
The other Wardens located a mostly conscious Gunnar; his shaggy head of hair and beard soaked with his own blood. At least the rest of him was intact. Ser Bertram they found had not been so fortunate. The Templar had landed face down in a pool of putrid water, his neck at an even more unfortunate angle. Even Connor cast the deceased a pitying look, unable to discern whether the Templar had died from a broken neck or had simply been unable to rise because of his injury and had drowned in that tiny puddle.
"What do we do with the left over?" Denny asked, adding because despite the still-defiant stance of the Ser Myfanwy, the girl looked on the verge of tears at the demise of her colleague. "Nothing personal…of course."
Lifting her chin Myfanwy stared coldly back at the Wardens around her. "I don't need your help…" she began when a bruised and scraped fist landed on the top of her braided head.
"Stop being such a bloody idiot." In case she Holy Smote him again, Greagoir pushed at the Templar's shoulder in what he hoped was a brotherly way. "We could turn you loose and make you go back to wherever you came, but quite frankly both the Senior Enchanter and the Captain would have my guts for garters if I let you do that." Attempting to bat his hand away only made Greagoir persist. "I mean, do you really have to be such a bitch?" he asked, because he was puzzled by how much of a stiff-necked, thin-lipped harridan his cousin had turned out. Maker, both her mother and older sister were the sweetest people in Ferelden. What went wrong with this one? "These people aren't bad. They've protected you and they're going to keep protecting you whether you want to or not. Unless you want to join-"
"Of course not!"
Clasping her hands tightly in front of her, Ser Myfanwy scowled darkly, her resentment at being beholden to the Order of the Grey quite obvious. "I want nothing more to do with you criminals!"
Greagoir sighed. He was quite sure he caught her muttering, sheltering Apostates under her breath. Instead of slapping her as he really wanted to do, he rolled his eyes. "Psht. Is that the best you can do?" he enquired, "because you're not convincing anyone. The sooner you take that stick out of your bottom and accept the fact that four consecutive Kings endorsed the rights and authority of the Order of the Grey in Ferelden, the better." Draping an arm over her twitching shoulder, Greagoir purposely leaned heavily on her, knowing full well that despite his weight Myf would rather die than give in to such a childishly administered gesture of dominance. "Or do you believe yourself better than King Bryce?" Waggling a finger in front of her face, he added: "Think carefully before you answer now! Treason is such a difficult thing to live down."
Lifting her chin, Myf attempted to push away. "The Chantry answer to no one!"
"Ding! Ding! Ding!" Greagoir exclaimed. "Wrong answer!" Waving a hand at the Senior Warden, he smiled beatifically. "Ser?"
"Not that I care," Alistair sniffed, "Because you know…more important things to tend to…" Turning briefly to Diele, he instructed: "Gather up the wounded, make sure their injuries are attended to." Copying Greagoir's waggling finger, he told the Templar grimly; "I'll not say this again little miss…You are here under my sufferance. And I'll not tolerate your Chantry arrogance and the assumption that you are here solely to save Thedas from the evil of mages run amuck. You've seen darkspawn. You've witnessed what they can do. One of them just killed your colleague – not an apostate – a darkspawn. There are far worse things in this world than a mage outside the Circle. And by the way…" Alistair turned next to Greagoir. "For the record, I'm done discussing this. Can we move on please? Denny!"
Snapping her heels together, the dwarven Warden saluted smartly. "Senior Warden!"
Dragging his eyes from Greagoir, Alistair half-turned towards the young dwarf. "I know you're surface-born, but I also happen to know that you're a bit of an expert on Dwarfanity."
"Uh…yes sir…?" Denny acknowledged slowly, storing the word the Senior Warden had used for later. Her Da would love that one.
"Where's the nearest entrance to the Deep Roads from here?"
Taken aback, it took Warden Denny a few minutes before she could supply an answer. "Why…sir?"
Wiping the blade of his longsword with a cloth, the Senior Warden resheathed it and shouldered his shield higher. "I think we've pretty much answered the question about the darkspawn presence here. I'd normally suggest a cross-country trek to the Peak but with so few Wardens right now to fight them, our best bet would be to go where there might be fewer darkspawn right now."
"I suppose," Denny began thoughtfully. "Here, actually. Or Ostagar, more accurately. Where the darkspawn first appeared during the Bl-"
"Yes, yes, I know the one," the Senior Warden interrupted impatiently. "I thought the dwarves closed off those tunnels."
"Never underestimate the curiosity of dwarves, Senior Warden," Denny sighed.
Alistair nodded. "Right. As soon as the injured are ready to travel, we leave."
"But what about Ser Bertram!" Myfanwy protested. "He needs a decent burial…The proper rites must be performed…"
Having already turned his back on her, the Senior Warden merely raised a dismissive hand. "Uh huh," he called over he shoulder. "Good luck with that."
Retaining his hand on Myfanwy's shoulder, Greagoir gave the little Templar a nudge. "You perform the Rites," he suggested quietly. "Connor can burn him."
"But!"
"Shsht!" Denny pressed a gloved finger to her lips. "Everything here has to be burned anyway," she reminded them all. "Darkspawn," she added. "We can't leave anything tainted behind, including your Templar friend, I'm afraid." Perching her fists on her hips, she gazed up at Greagoir. "Heard a terrible rumour you might be a mage," she grinned.
"Well I…"
Denny jerked her head back towards the corpse-littered battleground. "Because we could use the extra help healing."
Right…Healing. Think I can do that, Greagoir grimaced, pausing to ruffle the top of Myf's head before following the dwarf Warden. When he felt it safe to talk again, he allowed his curiosity full rein. "So…why the Deep Roads?" he asked. "What's with the darkspawn that's gotten the Senior Warden all…grr-argh?"
Denny glanced over her shoulder at him, rolling her eyes. "Darkspawn leaving the Deep Roads in large numbers," she stated. "What do you think it means?"
-oo-