Chapter 13 – Nugs and Templars
"Alright folks, take ten…"
Lifting an arm, Greagoir wiped at his sweating forehead. Rather than drying, the action merely served to shift the sweat and dirt from one place to another. He dropped to the ground, spreadeagled and looking up at the distant, shadowed ceiling of rock above them. The Senior Warden's countenance swam into view, Greagoir felt a hard nudge on his hip and a water flask dangled in front of his grimy face.
"Spend too much time like that," Alistair warned. "And you'll find it harder to get up."
Greagoir glared. Did he care? Let me see. Ah yes. No. Not really.
"Leave me here," a melodramatic, high-pitched voice called out of the gloom. "You and the Sarge go on without me. I'm sure I can make it out on my own. You save yourselves…"
Where he lay, Greagoir rolled his eyes, too tired to even tell the Connormination to shut up. From the slightly more lacklustre delivery in any case, it seemed even Connor's internal best friend was exhausted too.
"Come on lad..." Yanking on his elbows, Alistair forced Greagoir into a half-sitting position, pushing the flask at him again.
"Listen," Alistair tossed one of those 'I hope no one's looking our way' glances over his shoulder. "I'm not too sure what's going on here…" His voice trailed off as Denny came skipping past, grinning her grin at the two men. Out of all of the travellers, only she managed to maintain a relative cleanliness that even her normally fastidious elf colleague found difficult underground. Her armour sparkled, her boots were only slightly dusty and every single flame-red hair on her head remained in place.
Alistair cleared his throat. "What I was about to say was…" His gaze remained warily on the younger Warden skipping merrily about their brief resting spot as though she were having a casual trot through a field of hygienically clean daisies. "After Grey Wardens undergo the Joining," the Senior Warden continued in a voice that was barely audible, "they…change."
Having accepted the flask for a long drink, Greagoir now lowered it, narrowing his eyes at his godfather. "Change…so you mentioned before," he sighed. A few hundred times, Greagoir added to himself.
"How's your appetite?" Alistair asked.
With a pained grunt, Greagoir arranged himself to sit upright. "You've already asked," he reminded the Warden, his expression turning thoughtful. "Wait, if it's about that deepstalker jerky stew…"
"What?" Alistair frowned. "No…what? Hey, that was good stew."
"Fine, fine," Greagoir extended an arm to pat the Senior Warden comfortingly on the shoulder, because despite its reputation, deepstalker did not taste like chicken as advertised. "If you feel that way, we'll keep letting you believe that." A mouthful of deepstalker was really, enough for one lifetime, never mind regular meals.
"Anyway," Alistair continued grumpily, "Grey Wardens are lusty eaters," he stated. "Given the chance, they wouldn't stop eating. Do you get my meaning?"
"Until they explode?" Greagoir enquired. "Is this a hitherto unknown, secret darkspawn attack strategy; hurling stuffed to the gills Wardens at-
"And then there are the nightmares about darkspawn," Alistair interrupted in a hiss. "Wardens also take sick far less, take less time to heal, become more robust, stronger…"
"And able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, yes, yes, I know all of that," Greagoir interrupted also with a wave of the flask, which Alistair retrieved with a single swipe.
"Look, I don't know why the Joining hasn't affected you the way it has other Wardens," Alistair grumbled. "But right now, I think you ought to at least pretend it has."
Greagoir sighed yet again. "Fine." Did it really matter? I'm too tired to care. "The next tall building I see," he promised in a tired voice, "I'll make a jump at."
"Uh huh…" Alistair said, taking a drink of water himself. "Because if you don't, little miss Templar over there will think you aren't a Warden after all and turn you into the nearest Chantry."
Greagoir followed the Senior Warden's pointing finger to the dirty lump of fabric and metal heaped a safe distance from the rest of the Wardens. Myfanwy looked miserable and so out of place, he almost felt sorry for her. "Because they're everywhere down here in the Deep Roads," he told Alistair wryly.
"And it'll prevent any unwanted gossip amongst my own Wardens," Alistair all but snapped at him. Replacing the cork on the flask, the Senior Warden reattached it to his belt. "More…gossip," he corrected himself. "Unless you'd rather explain to everyone here why darkspawn and Archdemon blood doesn't affect you."
Greagoir's response was a returned glare. "And how you were involved in that too, Senior Warden?" he asked coolly.
Unfazed, Alistair wagged a finger at him. "Ooh, you're learning. I'm impressed."
Greagoir curled a lip at him.
Straightening, the Senior Warden glanced about at his Wardens – completing a quick head count because one never knew when travelling in the Deep Roads – and clapped his hands for attention. "'kay folks, tea and macaroons are over. Time to get moving."
Greagoir watched the older Warden walk a little way past the group to what looked like a marker by the side of the paved highway they'd been travelling on for the past few days. There were lots of them around. Some were even legible. This one appeared to have the Senior Warden flummoxed, judging by the body language: fists on hips, bending over to peer more closely followed by more clenched fists. This was in turn followed by a great deal of frowning. After a short while, Alistair beckoned Denny to have a look.
The younger Warden obediently peered at the marker then gave an expansive shrug. From the look of things, Greagoir noted, it appeared they were lost.
It was an effort, but Greagoir rose to his feet, tired muscles protesting. Hobbling towards the Warden duo, he offered a keen look of his own.
"We're lost, aren't we?"
"Not at all," Alistair responded confidently.
"We just don't know where we are," Denny grinned at Greagoir with a wiggle of her ginger eyebrows.
"Which is the same thing," Greagoir stared at Alistair. "Usually."
The Senior Warden shot them both a glare. "Watch it," Alistair warned, "or I'm grounding the both of you."
"Aww, Daaaad…!" Denny mock-protested, her amused chuckles petering out under the Senior Warden's unchanging, stern expression. "Sorry, Senior Warden," she added in a smaller, less bold voice.
Alistair ignored her; ignored them both, walking a little further along the cracked pavement, crouching at the next road marker. He produced a map – studied briefly – then bent down, inspecting the ground around the stone slab. When he approached them, his expression was still grim with more than a touch of angry.
"These markers have been tampered with," he told them causing Denny's dent in her sunny countenance to buckle further.
"That's illegal," she blinked. "Even a surface-born like me knows that."
"But who would do something like that?" Greagoir enquired. "Darkspawn?"
"Darkspawn aren't known for their penmanship skills," Alistair scoffed. "And I very much doubt a dwarf would have done something like this. Certainly not one born down here. The Deep Roads are treacherous. I don't need to remind you of that. It's very easy to head down the wrong tunnel and end up lost underground, fall into a hole, a lava pit or a spot prone to rock falls, not to mention very rapidly running out of supplies while trying to find your way out. Good markers and maps are pretty much what stands between life and death down here." He paused, as though listening to something in the tunnel breezes. "Well," he included cautiously, "Life, death and darkspawn."
Greagoir's head snapped around. Maker…again?
"So we keep moving," Alistair instructed, raising his voice so the others could hear too. "The sooner we get to Soldiers Peak." He shot a pointed glare at the tagalong Templar, "the better."
The party formed a line, preparing to journey on through the wide tunnel road, the Senior Warden at the lead. Greagoir happened to glance back, catching – with a harrumph of frustration – the small lump fast dwindling behind them. With a muttered curse, he doubled-back, the effort to move his tired limbs fast enough to reach Myfanwy before the others were lost from view making his head swim.
"Idiot…" he grunted at the Templar, grabbing one of her arms and slinging it awkwardly about his shoulders.
Myfanwy pushed at him with a noise of irritation, one hand automatically going towards her sword. Greagoir slapped at her gloved hand and, winding his own arm around her waist, gripped the bottom edge of her chest plate, yanking her forward.
"Do you honestly think my father's going to forgive me if I left you here, fool girl?" he snapped. "Not to mention, the mother of all fireballs aimed at my head from my mother."
"You don't have to…" Myfanwy began, to be cut off brusquely.
"Shut up," Greagoir snapped this time. "Just shut up. If you have the energy to argue," he added, "then you can damn well make an effort to not die down here."
Myfanwy stumbled, shaking her head. "…'postate…" Greagoir heard the half-hearted mumble and frowned. Deeply.
"…impossible…"
She was slurring her words, Greagoir noted, one hand picking at his on her waist but feebly; with more annoyance than strength. Damn…what the Fade is wrong with…?
He cast a look down the road. The rear of the Warden's group was only just visible. That is to say, Diele's rear was visible, which was neither a happy nor particularly life-extending thing in his view. A moment later however, the Senior Warden himself came jogging back towards them, looking even more grim and impatient than before.
"…apossible…" Myf growled, lips curling back over her teeth at the sight of the Grey Warden.
Alistair did not bother with preliminaries; taking charge of the little Templar and throwing her over one shoulder. He shot a now more than familiar glare at Greagoir.
"When was the last time she had lyrium?" Alistair asked, increasing his pace so Greagoir had to make an effort yet again to keep up.
"Maker's nuts…" Greagoir slapped the side of his head. It should have occurred to him before. Why hadn't it occurred to him before? He should have thought of that when they were in the marshes. Did Myf grab any spare lyrium from her dead comrade? Would she?
No, she wouldn't, the idiot.
"She's probably run out," Greagoir replied instead of the cursing and swearing he really wanted to voice.
But…a voice in the back of his head whispered…Deep Roads. Home of Lyrium. Right?
Unprocessed lyrium, a slightly saner voice reminded him. What was the kind that they gave to the Templars anyway? He didn't know. All he knew what that the dwarves did something to it that made it safe to ingest and not say…kill on first taste. He knew what it did to his father and he knew what it had done to his grandfather. As for the effect lyrium had on his mother…
"Great," Alistair's voice interrupted Greagoir's mental discussion. "Well at least if lyrium withdrawal kills her, it'll solve one of our problems."
Greagoir cast a sharp look at his godfather…and when had Alistair – his jovial, humorous godfather – become so ruthless? He wasn't too sure he wanted the answer to that particular question.
-oo-
"You. Have. Got. To. Be. Joking."
Captain Tremayne stared in bemusement at the tiny, slightly rheumy black eyes and twitching pale pink nose dangled in front of him. The creature – a nug – quite calmly returned his gaze. It had breath – oddly – like a dwarven distillery. The kind that made wine or ale out of Deep Roads lichen and fungi; pretty much anything resembling vegetation underground. The smell, combined with the hairless, blob-shaped body, scarred floppy ears and feet clearly stolen from a family of dead Blight-infected moles somewhere along its evolutionary (or, more likely de-evolutionary) path, made for a disconcerting, diseased vibe, like a hibernating grub found while turning over soil.
While the diehard Andrastian in Ryan Tremayne told him this assessment of one of the Maker's creations was uncharitable, the practical side of him argued quite loudly Well, it's TRUE.
"Please don't tell me you fellows eat those things," the Cousland stated hopefully, leaving Ryan to continue staring impassively. "They're…no. You don't eat those things. Right?"
Dagna grinned unapologetically. "Good eatin' on one of these," she replied, her grin turning evil as the Fereldan Prince's complexion began to turn green. Aidan Cousland was arguably one of the most gorgeous non-bearded men Dagna had ever encountered and so she took great delight in discombobulating him at every possible opportunity. Beautiful men in her opinion needed to be poked regularly with sharp sticks. Even royal ones. Or, in the case of Aidan Cousland, especially royal ones.
"Bleargh," the Cousland spat delicately.
"Your loss," Dagna sang, hugging the creature close to her aproned chest. She proceeded to attach what looked like a light cloth harness to its middle, securing it snugly with a metal clasp.
"And this will reach the First Enchanter?" Ryan finally spoke. "Are you…sure?" he added as the creature extended one of its paws? Claws? Feet? Perambulatory devices towards him in what appeared to be a…friendly way.
Dagna shrugged. "Well, nugs aren't known particularly for their intelligence," she admitted, lifting a pocket flap on the side of the harness and inserting a folded piece of parchment inside. "But they can be trained to return to certain food sources." She winked at Ryan. "In this case, to a certain supplier of…um, alcoholic beverages for medicinal purposes."
"So you're saying it's not just a nug, it's a homing nug?" the Cousland asked, scepticism all but shouted in his voice.
"If you want to call it that, yes," Dagna said, tickling the nug's ears. "There's just no guarantee," she added, moving the nug from her lap into a caged pen and picking up another. "It'll get to where it needs to."
"Because…it's not particularly bright?" the Cousland asked. "Prone to falling down unexpected ravines? Likely to find another nugette on its very important journey and be lured by promises of Nuggly Ever Afters to stray from its course?"
Looking up from securing a harness to the current animal, Dagna's eyes twinkled. "I did say there's good eatin' on one of these."
"So is there any point?" the Cousland threw up his hands.
Dagna placed the second nug in the pen, looking over the collection of wiggling tails and twitchy noses. "Well, I figure if I send enough, one of them will get through," she told him. "Plus," she added after a second's thought. "They're wearing the symbol of the Orzammar Circle. Most dwarves by now know if you interfere with anything wearing this can pretty much end up going through the rest of their lives with a mysterious, but persistently dreadful rash on their person that no amount of turpentine or steel wool is going to remove." She smiled the smile of one who has taken great pleasure in performing this particular feat several times previously. "If we get to find out whoever it is…" That hint of pure evil reappeared. "And believe me…we usually do."
Lifting up the nug to eye level, Dagna all but touched the nug's nose to hers. "Don't we, my iddy widdy, toxic little friend?"
It was then that Ryan realised how carefully Alyce's favourite dwarf was handling the nugs: with thick gloves; the clasps and ties on the tiny harnesses Dagna was attaching clearly designed to snap together with little effort and dexterity required.
In all there were about half a dozen of the things that Dagna carried – with their help – to a narrow chute clearly designed for the nugs' passage in and out of wherever the creatures needed to go.
"And now…" This time, Ryan noted Dagna removed the gloves and her leather apron just as carefully and deposit all items into a sturdy metal bin…locking the lid tightly with an affectionate pat.
"We wait," Dagna concluded.
Ryan couldn't help but turn his attention back to the chute. Well, that took care of things at this end, but at the other…? But…the dwarven alchemist and researcher was right. All they could do at this point was wait. Right?
Again.
And hope one of those creatures reached the First Enchanter.
-oo-