UPDATE: May 15, 2021

The author is not a soldier but has been fortunate to know many vets and trained with special forces vets.

They are a breed apart worthy of respect.

Whether you support the decisions of those who send them, please respect those who have taken on the burden of protecting and defending this nation and its citizens (and often citizens of other countries) and who all too often do so at the cost of their lives.

Warning, this story deals with complex issues. Although not written to be for "mature" audiences, it deals with some topics that might be considered in that category. The author uses very politically incorrect terms and phrases which may offend.

Thanks to CherryJamOnToast, Shadeslayer113, and Efion63 for their assistance and encouragement.

The Chantry Calls as Does the Desert

Ostwick The Home of Bann Trevelyan

Serrada Trevelyan was the fourth of the five children born to Bann Igor and Lady Katrina Trevelyan and was therefore irrelevant.

That is, until this very morning.

Serrada watched the sad pageant making final preparations to take her younger brother, the youngest of her siblings, away to the Ostwick Circle. It was painful in so many ways. Little Arin was trying hard to be brave; he kept repeatedly promising that he would be good, that he would not ever do it again. He was begging his mother not to send him away. Pled to stay in his home, not go with these strange people he had never seen before, all to no avail. His fate was sealed.

Serrada wished that she could take his place; it must be beyond terrifying for a child of only six winters to be carted off to some unknown future because of something he could no more control than his height or his eye color. She wished to be brave enough to take on his fate for him, but the ugly truth, the one she did not want to admit, was she was thankful it was not her.

In many ways, the Ostwick Circle, or what was left of it, was very different than it once was, and with the fall of the other Circles, the Ostwick Circle was far more dependent on the good graces of Bann Trevelyan than it had been in the past. It was unlikely that Arin would leave Ostwick to go to another Circle, as was the custom before the Chantry's current embarrassment, which meant that this was more of a transition than a loss.

There would be far less distance between father and son than father and daughter, given her imminent and much-anticipated departure for the University of Orlais. Serrada was sure her father would keep a very close eye on the Chantry, the Circle of course, but most of all - on the Templars. Having several family members in the Chantry and the Templars was an advantage for Bann Trevelyan. Still, the strain of Arin being a mage would undoubtedly cause a kerfuffle in those relationships.

Igor loved Arin with all his heart so much so that it created something of a rift with his other children. But what man would not love a child so much like himself? Now in his later years, Igor had time to be the father his father was not. Unfortunately, now the little boy was taken from him, and he could do nothing to stop it - his wife would see to that.

Serrada had little love for her mother; that indifference toward the woman who bore her was not improved by Lady Trevelyan's lack of sympathy toward her youngest child. To Lady Trevelyan, comforting the boy was Nanny Anna's duty, since as a mage, he was of no further use or value. Serrada considered her mother cold. She regarded her children as pieces on a board, much as her parents had looked upon her. The desires and wishes of her children were of little consequence, less important than the value that they brought to the Trevelyan Family name, and by reflection – herself.

Lady Trevelyan was also a pious woman, the type of self-righteous piety that made people walk more quickly past the Chantry if they had to pass by it at all. Having a mage in your family was such an embarrassment, a shameful thing at best, a curse of the Maker at worst. Katrina Trevelyan was concerned less with her children's feelings than how the pious noble women's group would react – for shame! Serrada supposed that she must have some good feelings for her mother somewhere in her heart, but for the life of her, she could not figure out where they hid.

She hurried to her seldom used dressing table; usually, she threw something on while running to the library and her studies; but today, she wanted to look her best for her brother. She snatched up the hog bristle brush her father had brought back from Ferelden and prepared to run it through the stubbornly tangled hair. As was often, she was surprised by the face staring back at her from the mirror. It was not the face of the young girl she somehow expected, but a maturing young woman of nineteen summers. Her gray-green eyes stared back at her, the same as when she was a child; still, she thought them too close together, but they were now set above high cheekbones and separated by the small narrow nose that was too sharp and common. Her lips were pleasant enough as such things go, perhaps too thin, certainly not as full as Alissia's. Her complexion was fair but was marred by freckles her mother blamed on too many days in the sun. Second, her mop of constantly unruly auburn hair was unchanged to her eyes except in length and was the worst of all her features. Hair that stubbornly refused to respect any bounds of civility or convention, hair that would defy the Maker himself if it chose to. Yet again, she tried to yank the brush through her hair before finally giving up to finish dressing.

Tying the last lacing, she checked the scene below through her bedroom window; it seemed that much of the family drama was ending. Serrada pulled on her cloak and moved to the door. She wanted to hug and kiss her terrified little brother before the chance was gone. She doubted she would see him for a very long time.

If a young mage were of noble birth, it was the tradition that a minimum of a year pass before a visit was allowed with their parents. Often commoners were not allowed to see their lost children at all. Serrada thought it cruel, and frankly, she wondered if the separation was a significant contributor to the present crisis within the Circles.

'How could they not understand that tearing a child from their parents would cause a rift between mages and the society? To whom would the children feel allegiance? Who would they resent? How could they genuinely care for the Maker if His representatives had ripped them from the arms of their families? If their families had abandoned them because of their magic, why should they care what the rest of society thought about their activities? Had not that same society turned its back on them? Hadn't the Chantry and Circles imprisoned them for the crime of being born?'

All these thoughts passed through Serradas' mind as she hurried down to see Arin before he left. Her mother had strictly forbidden her from doing so. Naturally, she planned to do precisely that and to do so as prominently as possible.

She burst through the front door to the courtyard, expecting to see Arin and perhaps his Anna; the scene that greeted Serrada was not what she expected. Her father on his knees in the courtyard muck, holding his son with tears in both their eyes.

"Don't worry, my boy; I am so proud of you. You must promise me that you will study hard and listen to your teachers. I can't wait to see what you will learn when you return next month for your birthday. I promise you I will visit you no less than once a month, and you will stay with us at least as often." Although he said the words to the boy, he made direct eye contact with the First Enchanter, Knight-Commander, and finally Lady Trevelyan herself. "Now, don't you worry, you will visit often, and I promise your room will always be ready for you, just as you left it."

"What about Dolly? She will be lonely, and who will feed her?" Arin worried not about himself and what all this meant for him but for a small rabbit that he had rescued only weeks before. Lady Trevelyan had been horrified that he had hidden it in his tunic. He had brought the "filthy beast" into her home.

On the other hand, Bann Trevelyan was delighted when he saw the rabbit and ordered that the old cage in the attics be found, the one he had used for just such an animal many years ago. That outcome vexed Lady Trevelyan; she took to her bed and refused to speak to her husband for a week. A smile crept across Serrada's lips at that memory. At dinner, during the Blissful Week, Bann Trevelyan said to those all seated at the table, although his eyes were on Serrada, "Quietest few days we have had in ages, my dear." He smiled, raised his glass, and saluted the rabbit.

"Don't worry, my little prince, I will see to it." The Bann immediately called to the Guard Captain, "Go get my son's rabbit, its cage, food, and treats. Toll off four men to guard it and ensure it accompanies my son to the Circle safely." After the Captain left, he rounded on both the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander, "I do not suppose there will be any problem with my son keeping a small animal for comfort, do you, gentleman?"

The Knight-Commander's face showed he might explode. The First Enchanter spoke eagerly, but honestly, "I am afraid it will cause some concerns between your son and some of the other young mages, it might be better to follow tradition…" he never got to finish the thought.

Bann Trevelyan fixed both men with his gaze, "You are taking the most precious thing in my life from me First Enchanter; I frankly do not give a shit about the inconvenience, problems, or issues that this might cause. Let me make myself clear then, my son will be afforded every privilege, right, and opportunity that you would and should extend to me. If I hear otherwise, I am certain that I will take steps to ensure both his safety and his future through whatever means necessary. Am I clear?" Both men nodded. They knew that at this point, they had no options and had no other resources, the Ostwick Circle was one of the few circles still functioning in Thedas, and if the support of the Bann were lost - they would all be dead.

Turning again to his son, "Now you be a good boy, mind Nanny Anna, and your teachers. Dolly will be going with you, so you will have to be strong for her. Will you do that?" On his knees again, a heartbroken father said goodbye to his son.

Arin nodded his head; tears flowed, as did his nose. "I will try, papa. I will be brave."

It was all Serrada could do to hold back her tears.

Igor's voice breaking, he stood. "I know you will; you are my bravest boy." Wiping Arin's nose with his best handkerchief, he ruffled his son's hair and turned toward the house while passing Serrada. "Say your goodbyes; I will see you in my office in ten minutes." He did not meet her eyes but walked past her resolute in keeping what little decorum he had; he did not even glance at his wife.

Serrada made a great show of saying goodbye, which utterly disgusted her mother. It was not difficult to be emotional with Arin. Serrada loved him very much; it heartened her to hear her father's words, and she knew he meant all of them. In some ways, she now envied Arin; he was setting off on a great adventure, a little earlier than tradition required. If not for his magic, in a few years, he would have been bunking with the soldiers and learning to take care of horses, chopping wood, and doing many things to prepare him for the training that would enable him to defend himself and the family. His departure was now a little earlier than it might have been, only now he would not be in the walls of the hold, not available for meals, hunting trips, goodnight wishes, but at least he would still be within Ostwick, which was a good thing.

Serrada waited for Anna to have her trunk brought down, hugged, and kissed her cheeks, for Anna looked as frightened as Arin, perhaps more. Serrada was sorry Anna was leaving; she had been her nanny as well, but Arin would need his Nana, and who else would keep Bann Trevelyan informed? They all waited for the bunny's honor guard to assemble, waiting for Dolly herself to appear, then to watch with some joy as they had to remove the door from the coach to fit Dolly's abode through the door. With Arin, Anna, and Dolly inside the coach, the First Enchanter would have to ride outside on the buckboard - all the better. She watched as the final Templar guardsman of the entourage left across the drawbridge. She turned to the door; only then did she see her father watching the same procession from his office window. At the exact moment, he looked directly at her. The look in his was of loss for Arin - or herself? In an instant, she froze with the realization; her dreams of the University were now gone. Arin was the youngest, the one destined to join either the Chantry or the Templars. With Arin in the Ostwick Circle, Maritin would inherit, Alissia was married to Teryn Fergus Cousland in Ferelden, with Koranna in service to the King of Nevarra, which meant Serrada was now the only one left for the Trevelyan family to give to the Maker. She watched her father, his eyes on her, as she felt yet another tear, a tear for dreams, slowly creep down her cheek.

Deserts of Iraq

Commander John Jerald Gray was annoyed. Annoyed that he was in Iraq — again, babysitting civilians, but most of all, annoyed that he actually cared about their mission. The mission reminded him of his ex, who had kindled his love of art; she had nurtured the embers of that interest until they burned bright. His home in Missouri had once been filled with her art, now those walls were bare, the studio he had built for her was empty, but the love of beauty imagined and made manifest by human hands had remained even when she departed. The part that irritated him most is that he would not abandon this foolish mission, even at the cost of his life, in hopes of protecting and preserving from mindless destruction, something someone had once lovingly created.

Perched on the edge of a narrow rock shelf halfway up a cliff that was the western wall of a narrow ravine, his steel-gray eyes surveyed the stark but strangely beautiful vista. The ravine's rock walls were unremarkable examples of the craggy wind-swept features of this part of northern Iraq. Layers of tan and gray stone from the valley floor to flat tops above, a stark counterpoint of vivid green from an occasional stunted bush struggling to grow in the tumbled down rock and sand that passed for soil near the base of the cliffs. Bushes too small to cut for firewood; the refugees having already stripped any larger plants.

"Mariah would have loved to have painted this." He caught himself again, 'What am I doing here?' A rhetorical question, the here being Iraq, doing his job, such as it was. The truth was his job was nothing more than something to do; he didn't do it to pay the bills but to keep gloom at bay. He nurtured a vain hope that by some miracle, those paintings might return, and her studio might again be occupied by the person for which it was built.

"I'm babysitting a bunch of eggheads looking for a fucking archeological site in the middle of a war zone – that's what I am doing here." His head shook, the windburned, rugged, and bearded face broken by a slanted wry grin as his bass voice rolled off the nearby stones. "The poor bastards sent to recon were probably half-crazy from sunstroke! I bet there is nothing there at all."

He had voiced his disbelief so often it had become his mantra over the last few days. 'Even if she is right, no one will believe her!' The Her, of course, was Her Highness, Professor Samantha Turpids, leader of their intrepid expedition to the biggest shithole on Earth.

'Looking for an ancient building that everyone thought was just a hill.' John's bronze tanned brow wrinkled at the memory of her speech. 'An ancient ziggurat temple thousands of years older than it should be.'

John had studied engineering before joining up, and he dimly remembered ziggurats being discussed somewhere in architecture, or was it, archeology? Neither were his best subjects. He had a vague memory of them, a lesson long supplanted by more pressing ones. All he could recall about them was Professor Sam's presentation.

"Erosion caused map makers to assume it was a natural hill. We now know it is an artificial structure. It appears to be the remains of an ancient ziggurat. One far older than any of the earliest known traditional ziggurats. Traditional ziggurats are constructed in layers of sunbaked clay bricks covered with an outer layer of fired baked bricks. The mortar is made of pitch and tar that holds the bricks in place and acts as waterproofing.

This one is very different; it is of roughly cut stone. We believe the structure is genuinely ancient because of its location and extraordinary weathering. This is likely the first ziggurat, and there is none like it. I believe it predates the pyramids, perhaps by thousands of years…"

It was one thing to propose that this discovery was older than the pyramids; it is broadly accepted that the ancient ziggurats of Assyria inspired the early step pyramids; that claim would not be very controversial. However, it was entirely another to make the extraordinary claim that this new ziggurat was of stone and worse, at least a millennia older. That claim would cause a firestorm, and proving that would be a hefty lift.

Just taking samples would never be enough. Denial, disagreement, and debate would rage till the sun went cold. Dr. Turpids wanted to capture overwhelming and indisputable proof. The catch, of course, was gathering that proof would take time. The time it will take to gather evidence, time to analyze results, time to prepare and protect the artifacts, and God willing the time to do it safely. Such astonishing claims needed incontrovertible evidence, constant monitoring of samples, the chain of custody, all that took time. The demand for proof explained all the equipment in the backs of his trucks, it would make things go faster, but John and his people were there to buy time.

Usually, such investigations were made in tidy academic labs in relatively safe cities like Boston, London, or even Cairo, but not this one. No, this site was in the middle of ILAI territory, with a dozen other terrorist organizations vying for position, scores of freelance bandits, and of course, a civil war with tens of thousands dead and millions displaced.

"Fuck, and us in the middle of all of it!" John's calloused solid fingers absentmindedly threw the rock. "Getting drones in to get photos and some samples was one thing, but this was going to get people killed!"

On the surface, John had no problem with the mission in theory. He loved art and readily agreed it was a noble idea to get photos and samples of the temple before the ILAI zealots destroyed it. Many ancient sites across the Middle East from Syria to Afghanistan had been bulldozed. He did think that Her Highness was honest in her desires to save something before it was destroyed, but he doubted the politicians in Washington or London were so altruistic. He also knew that most of them were cowards who would cut them loose at the first sign of trouble. He also understood that his people could only do so much, and there would not be enough time for anything beyond photos and grabbing anything lying around.

His sweat-soaked back was against a cool sandstone slab on the cliff. It was a little cooler than the valley floor, but not much. He took out an oft-folded photo and gazed at the faded, creased, and almost unrecognizable image of his daughter. Only he could recognize her now; in fact, most people could barely pick out any face at all in the photograph. He could because he had taken it on the last day before his final deployment — almost four years ago, the deployment that destroyed his world.

They were celebrating Sarah's 4th birthday, three months ahead, so he could be there with her. No one could see the 'Daddies Little Princess' t-shirt or the glitter glue-covered crown they had made together for the party, but he could still make out the radiant smile; it was the last time he had spent time with his daughter.

It was not the last time he had seen her, however.

"Boss … boss!" his comm jolted him back to Iraq. "Boss, I don't have eyes on the handlers or the baggage." Paddy's Irish lilt sounded thicker than usual, he was worried, and his concern burned through John's melancholy.

"Listen up, sound off." John's focus was back where it should have been - his people and job. "OIC, check."

The new radios were being what he expected — flaky. It seemed to him that every glitchy piece of shit that all the geeks in the world could imagine got dumped in his lap. Right now, he would have pitched all of it in a latrine for a decent old-fashioned, reliable walkie-talkie.

"Second, check." Eric's voice was clear, at least. No real names were used; the comms were supposed to be top-shelf ultrahigh-frequency encrypted digital shit, but who knows who took a bribe or used a compromised chip to save a few pennies a unit. The communications were always iffy at best. At their insertion point, they started great, five-by-five, but the closer they got to the destination, the less reliable it got. Pretty much how it always was. When the tech guys are close by, the equipment works, but when you are in the shit storm? It never works.

As hard as he tried, he could not stay in the moment. The roll call of nineteen tags, thirteen of his team, the escorts or handlers, as they called themselves, and the rest were Dr. Turpid's team of six scientists who his team had dubbed the luggage. As the labels rolled by, his mind drifted back to Sarah and their last encounter just weeks before. He thought of the park out west. He could not help smiling; he remembered how she had grown and was still the same. It had been years, but the emotional part of him hoped Sarah would recognize him; of course, she didn't. A kindly grandmother tipped John to Sarah's location, and she was there with her grandchild, one of Sarah's classmates. She saw what happened, saw John's pain, then she and John chatted about kids, hers, his, and finally, when the conversation faltered, John had turned back to the remnants of his life. Unknown to him, even as his return flight left the ground those weeks ago, lives were changing elsewhere as well.

Somewhere in Ferelden

Serrada watched the rabbit move through the small patch of light in the meadow, munching happily on grasses and clover, with no idea that it was in any danger, that it would know no tomorrow. She felt sympathy for the animal. Sometimes killing was necessary, but she took no joy in it. She distrusted those who did.

She slowly raised the bow while drawing back the shaft of the blunt. The rabbit was small, but with the one already in her bag, it would be enough to make a simple stew for her small group. It need not be a feast; they would be in Haven mid-morning on the morrow. She took one deep breath, let it slowly out, held it a heartbeat, then loosed the shaft. It flew straight and true, but hit a thumbs length back from her intended target; the poor thing squealed, kicked, and fought before it was still, not the quick, merciful kill she had intended.

"Damn, I am out of practice." She was not happy with herself for the rabbit's suffering and not satisfied in general. Picking up the animal, she placed it in her bag next to its twin, swung the bag over her shoulder, and headed back to camp. No, she was not happy; she was not happy since Arin left; she was not happy with her father, not happy at all.

She was no huntswoman, but she could at least bag a couple of rabbits; a sad smile touched her lips; she doubted Arin would approve – certainly, Dolly would not. She wondered how Arin was fairing; at least he was still in Ostwick; she was now in the ass-end of Ferelden of all places as far from the University of Orlais as was imaginable. Yet again, Serrada was wondering what she had done to make the Maker so angry with her. The sudden crunch of branches beneath her boot made her aware that she was marching more than walking.

'It is a good thing I've finished hunting. Everything in the forest knows I am here now.' She mindfully lightened her footfalls and where she placed her steps.

The little group was almost to Haven - then the Conclave? What exactly she was to do there, she still did not know. Her resentment had not receded in the least since leaving Ostwick weeks before; whatever hopes she might have had quickly died when she understood that this was now her life. She and Sister Amalia occasionally sat at the fire and engaged in lengthy discussions of life in the Chantry. They had driven her to despair. She knew her duty, and she would do it; she would try her best to represent the Trevelyan Family. Her father had made the point very clear to her as he stood staring out the window looking at the gateway through which Arin had departed. His words rang as loudly in her memory now as they had when they left his lips.

"Serrada, with Arin in the Circle, I now have no choice." With a deep sigh, her father turned away from the window, his head dropping as he gazed toward the floor. "I had hoped to grant your wish to go to Orlais. Please believe me; it would give me great pleasure to see you attend University; after all, no Trevelyan woman has since my grandmother."

The unsaid truth was that no man had attended since his great-grandfathers day. Serrada noticed his posture; he stood straight now, hands behind his back, shoulders squared, head held high, with his eyes directly on her, he now stood before her in what she had come to call his 'Bann Trevelyan' pose. She had seen him use it when dressing down an errant freeholder, or worse, considering a capital sentence. She had never given him cause to use it with her.

"We are becoming stultified. I had hoped that bringing your mother here would change that, but …" he paused, then drawing a deep breath, his head and shoulders drooped, then glanced at Serrada, "well, we both know how that worked out. I love her if for nothing else but giving me you and your siblings. She is not the breath of fresh air I had hoped for."

For the first time in her life, her father seemed old, tired, worn by his responsibilities; it was a shock to her. He had always been so strong, so forceful, so self-assured. Her heart went out to him; he was passing judgment on her life - executing her dreams - and still, her heart went out to him.

"With Arin in the Circle, we must meet our family obligations in another way. I am sorry that burden and opportunity fell to you. I realize that it seems more burden than opportunity, but my dear, I know in my heart that there is more than burden here. You, of all my children, are the one most capable of finding it. My prayers go with you, and you have my support in whatever you do. May the Maker keep you." He turned back to the window, and Serrada left his office.

With that, she had packed. Her father assigned a contingent of guards who would return once she was safely in Haven. She then discovered that one of the Ostwick Chantry sisters would accompany her as she had been "called" to Haven for the Conclave. Serrada suspected she was in Ostwick to gather information for someone, perhaps even the Left Hand of the Divine.

Serrada, of course, knew about the Hands; who did not? After all, Lady Cassandra Pentaghast was the most famous of the two. Serrada had read every account of the Seeker's extraordinary rescue of Divine Beatrix from an army of dragons, no less. It was humbling to think that Lady Pentaghast was the same age Serrada was now; Serrada felt like a babe in diapers by comparison.

All the young women she knew, friends and family alike, high or low born, had heard every Cassandra Pentaghast story available both real and imagined. Most of the accounts were – exaggerated, of course, but they were compelling and romantic.

The fact was that if anything about her situation captured Serrada's imagination, it was the chance to see or even meet one of the Hands! At the University of Orlais, she might have been able to glimpse one of them as they visited the city, but now she would be in the same small village as both of them! If she were to admit it, which of course she never would, she was giddy about the prospect. It was in many ways a dream come true, maybe not one she could imagine herself fulfilling like the University of Orlais, only a few days ago, but still an incredible opportunity.

"I wonder if this was the opportunity father spoke of?" The house mouser Smiles had taken this question as an invitation to come into the room and claim it as his own; however, he did not answer the question, but he had jumped into the clothing that Serrada was packing.

"Shew, you mangy beast!" Her words were angrier than her tone, so Smiles simply circled then lay down in her unmentionables. "Great, now I will smell like a cat. Not that it will matter, given I will be sitting on a horse for weeks."

She had resumed her packing; her thoughts inevitably returned to the Hands. As storied as the Right Hand was, the Left Hand was much more a mystery and personally more exciting. Serrada knew from the reports written in Ferelden that the Left Hand was intimately involved with Ellana Cousland, The Hero of Ferelden, and married her after the Blight. The union meant that she – Serrada – was now related to the Left Hand by marriage, however distant it might be.

"I can't believe I might see her!" She had said to Smiles as he moved to lounge on the sunny windowsill of her room while she packed. The yellow tabby had seemed relaxed since the standoff between his royal highness and Dolly now officially decided – Dolly had quit the field. "You know we are like sisters." She had retrieved a dusty book given to her by father after their return from the wedding; its cover was a fanciful depiction of the Hero and her lady love in combat back-to-back; she held it to her breast, turning to the cat. "Well, sort of related." The tabby was not impressed and began to clean himself for a moment, then fell asleep in his sunny domain.

Distantly, of course, Alissia had married Fergus Cousland, who was the Hero's older brother. Serrada could only imagine what Orlesian level of maneuvering it had taken for Mother to arrange that match or how large the dowry was. However, her sister was gorgeous, which did not hurt.

Mother said she was too young to travel; Serrada had not thought that twelve was too young and vigorously protested to father. Still, as usual, mother's opinion had won the day, and her parents were away for weeks. The dowry required many things to be sold or mortgaged, with some of the debt yet to be paid. Still, Alissia was well established in Ferelden, confidant, and lady in waiting to Queen Anora. Alissia's last letter had hinted that there was happy news in the offing, which probably meant her fourth child was due. The financial strain did mean there would be no dowry for herself, but since Serrada was going to Orlais to study, it had not mattered as much. Her smile disappeared, now that she was to meet the family's obligation to the Maker – a dowry would not be needed.

Her smile reappeared when she focused on the hope that she might actually meet the Left Hand!

Accounts of the Left Hand's adventures in Ferelden were less numerous than those from Orlais; Serrada trusted them more because the Orlaisian versions of the stories painted the Fereldens as unwashed barbarians, which the Orlaisian Empire had to rescue through its own Gray Warden named Riordan.

Brave to be sure, after all, Riordan fell to his death after leaping on the back of the archdemon itself. How exactly he accomplished the final blow against the archdemon was not clear. The Orlesian insecurity was understandable after their humiliating defeat by the "Dog Lords" of Ferelden. For all, she had learned, either from common knowledge or family sources, the Left Hand was a mystery, which Serrada assumed, is what the Left Hand wanted.

Her speculation on the Left Hand was the finale of the play of her memories as she entered the camp. She bordered on a deep melancholy as she entered the clearing, and she could see the peaks of the Frostback Mountains rising above them. Tomorrow would mean a long slow climb to Haven.

In the Desert of Iraq

Eric followed the path up the steep-walled valley John had blazed earlier.

"That man is a mountain goat." Eric, taking a moment to breathe, looked ahead to see where John was. "Shit, now I am talking to myself!" His voice was only loud enough for his ears.

He could just make out the figure against the rocks. Luckily Eric knew where John had headed; just John's sandy-blonde beard contrasted with his desert camo. Otherwise, Eric would have missed him entirely. "Fuck, that man can hide in plain sight!"

John was sitting back against the rock face looking at the photo of his kid — again. Eric shook his head and took two steps forward, and slid down another. "If I fall and break my neck, I am going to fucking kill him!"

John had been quieter than usual since getting back from Cali. Eric had noticed him looking at that photo of his daughter more often; he had been doing that regularly since his return. He wished John could move on; it had been years since the bitch had dumped him.

'Sure, he was missing his kid. Who wouldn't? But you can't stop living because people fuck you over.' Of course, Eric was not dumb enough to badmouth Mariah to John; you only did that once. She had fucked him over, but John still loved the bitch. Eric had no reservations about hating her, for his friend's sake if nothing else.

Wrapped in his thoughts and memories, John did not hear Eric's approach, at least not consciously.

"John, what the fuck are we doing here?" Eric spoke in a forceful but low voice to get John back to the now. "You know I hate sitting around." He wanted to get moving; otherwise, they were sitting ducks. He constantly glanced around as if expecting an attack from the very rocks around them.

John knew Eric, as well as Eric, knew him. Eric was bitching again; he had bitched that they were wasting time burying the bodies, he had bitched that they even stopped, bitched that they had searched for all the corpses, even bitched because it was hot. Eric bitched because it did not hurt as much when he did.

Eric's bitching did bring John back to the present. John looked away from Sarah's photo; he automatically put it back in its protective sleeve and stuffed it under his chest plate, all as he worked his way to standing. "We are here because we are giving those people a decent burial, not leaving them for dogs. Do you understand?" His voice was quiet, cold, and brutal like a knife-edge, more demanding than necessary.

His face and voice softened, he added. "Eric, we can't do more for them than that."

Eric nodded; he understood on many levels, then turned toward the valley below.

Eric stood by John as both looked down at the car some 200 meters south along the valley floor. It was the horror that had caused John to bring the convoy to a stop. The car was an old beater like most of the vehicles they had seen in this pit. There were a half dozen holes through the right side of the engine compartment. They had come across the wreck late in the afternoon. It was not until they got close that they saw the body. It was a woman, 35, maybe 40, hard to tell, this part of the world ages people fast. She was naked, staked to the ground, not dead long since there were no scavengers. They scouted the area, found lots of tracks leading to a wall maybe 40 meters away; behind the wall were three bodies, all clutching each other, a boy maybe 12 or 13, trying to shield his younger sisters from the death they knew was coming. It was pointless; once the car died, the little family would follow. What got to John was the little girl, maybe 4 or 5. They usually were battle-hardened enough to leave the bodies. The truth was it took time to dig graves, gather corpses, and bury them. It was time that they did not have, and time in which the killers could come back – John checked his M4 – some part of him hoped they would.

John started moving back down the slope, with Eric behind. Following the path John had created, slowly working down the western side of the small valley that ran roughly north-south and was maybe a few hundred meters wide. They used the stumps on the valley slopes as handholds, the only evidence that trees had once grown there. Scrub trees his father had called them; the stumps were denser along the dirt road that snaked along the valley floor. The route followed the bed of a long-dead river that cut the canyon, the last evidence that a small grove had once grown along the road, all gone now to feed not someone's belly but the empty pots on cooking fires in the camp a dozen klicks down the road. All that was left now was rock, sand, and dust. All the dust a man could ever want.

You might expect the valley's colors to remain unchanged, but they didn't; as he carefully worked his way down the slope to the valley floor, the colors shifted and changed. The light and shadow of the setting sun molded and shaped them, and they were more diverse and vivid; what were once just tans or grays became soft red to yellow, even an orange of sorts. More delicate layers of rock peaked out from the pulverized stone, pretending to be soil. Had there been water, the farmer in John thought it would be pretty good ground. Of course, there was no water, and it was hot, hotter than hell's fires. Loose rock tumbled down before them as they finally made their way down to the valley floor.

His men were finishing up the graves by covering them with the bricks from the wall, the derelict car still gently smoking, and his trucks sitting ready to go. Some of the eggheads were helping; others watched and wept; the rest were mucking around with the wall. He had ordered the men to dig the graves and use the wall bricks to cover them so dogs would not dig them up, not that it was likely way out here. His order was a formality; as battle-hardened as they were, the guys had started before he had "ordered" them. They had families too. It was getting dark, and they needed to bed down anyway – but not here. Down the road a bit.

John started walking toward the little graveyard. Halfway there, José jogged up. 'How the hell does he jog in this heat!' John wondered since he could barely walk.

"Found this in the car, up under the driver's visor." José handed John a photo.

It was a very different scene than the one surrounding the car now. He did not know their names; never would, but it showed a once-happy family, the littlest one in a princess dress and tiara, the younger boy in mouse ears – probably at Disney Paris. Father, mother, and four kids, all with beautiful and happy smiles - the dad and the oldest girl were missing from the bodies.

Of course, the dad had to be dead somewhere else. Reflexively, John briefly looked up as if the man's body might suddenly appear in the distance. No living father would have sent his family out into this desert alone, hoping to reach the refugee camp about 12 klicks up this road. The problem is that the ILAI bastards knew about the refugee camp too. Made for easy pickings of the desperate, he looked again at the oldest girl, smiling at the camera. He could not imagine the hell of watching your family slaughtered; your mother raped, then forced to leave her to die. They found what was probably the older girls' clothes, too small for Mom, too big for the little ones, all strewn around the car, her dress used to light the gas tank; not much gas meant not much fire. John wasn't the praying man he used to be - he prayed for her.

"Alright, we're done! Let's get a move on! We are not camping here." He did not shout; English shouts attracted unwanted attention. Unfortunately, the academics he was babysitting did not speak Pashtun, Farsi, or even Arabic, so English it was since he did not speak French. "Fuck I can't wait till this job is over." He muttered to himself, and not for the last time. Not that he had anything to get back to in the States. Yet again, he briefly looked at the graves and thought his own family might as well be as dead as this one.

He shook himself, 'No, Sarah is still alive and growing, and Mariah is surely alive, the bitch.' He realized he was holding his breath and focusing on the ground. He stopped, took a deep breath, lifted his head as he did so, watching the color change on the horizon as it approached sundown, knowing somewhere out there, Serah and Mariah were living their lives. 'No, Mariah was not a bitch, just a lonely woman who needed her man to be with her, and he was not.'

Mom had warned him that Mariah meant bitter. He should have listened, but then he would not have had Sarah. He wanted to hate Mariah, but even after she left him, he couldn't. Mariah was and would always be the love of his life. The cruelty came when she made it impossible for him to see Sarah. The divorce he might have lived through, he was continuously gone, but it was the crap she told the court that nearly killed him. He could not even defend himself initially; he was in the sandbox; hell, he did not have a lawyer at the first hearing. He did not realize he was in a divorce! It is not supposed to work like that, but courts are funny things run by little dictators with gavels. The papers were waiting for him when he got back to camp. He had been doing his job, a job she knew about when he asked her on their first date, and a job she knew well when they got married, a job she was all too familiar with when she had Sarah. His rage started to boil. He swallowed it - anger did not help, and sure as fuck did not fix anything.

"Let's mount up and get moving." John moved toward the nondescript herd of trucks. They were not anything that would attract attention, just the regular white Toyota pickups and SUVs all over the sandbox, except these had bullet-resistant glass and Kevlar plates in the doors. "Professor, are you ready to move? We got to get away from here before nightfall."

Professor Turpids stood up, looking at some markings on the wall bricks that she did not recognize but were revealed when the wall blocks were moved. Sam was, in any other situation, a really "easy on the eyes" woman. Not overly beautiful, an eight maybe, since she kept fit. That was part of the problem; she insisted on wearing desert-chic clothes that showed her curves to anyone within sight, attracting just the wrong kind of attention in this part of the world. Dr. Turpids looked at John with an expression of complete exasperation, less than if he were ill-educated brute, which he was not, but more of a misbehaving young boy, which John would grudgingly admit sometimes he was. "Do you have to use these? I have never seen these markings before; they are remarkable and ancient." Sam took photos, grabbed GPS coordinates, and made notes. Never even looking at John, she yelled, "I need several of these to take back…"

John shook his head with a joyless smile, "No chance - they weigh 30-40 pounds each." He saw the look on her face, and he smiled again. God help her if she got captured; he could not help but think yet again, 'I can't believe we are here because of some bullshit report of some half-crazy bastard who says he saw something. God, I hate the brass.'

"Listen, you can take one, and I mean one!" His index finger was up for one; she used a different finger to reply. "Good Professor, you can count. Now get your ass moving. We leave in 5." He turned away before she could retort.

It is funny how a sunrise could be so beautiful in a place that was often so ugly. In the morning, John was riding shotgun in the lead. It was doubtful that there would be an IED out here in the middle of nowhere, but it happened in Afghanistan so it could happen here. There were no regular UN patrols here, so it was doubtful that they would waste an IED, but landmines were another matter. Thanks to decades of war, land mines were everywhere and easy to make in almost every little town. Which meant that the lead was the prime target; it would stop the convoy. His place was in front; besides, he hated eating dirt. Even with the filters on all the trucks, the fucking sand and dust got everywhere and into everything.

He looked at the sat link and watched their dot start to converge with the GPS location. Just two more klicks, take few photos, and maybe get a bird out of this hell. A flight out was not likely, but a man can fantasize. His mind wandered as he gazed out the side window, the cradle of civilization – really? There were occasionally beautiful vistas, not enough to keep him here, and some of the women were amazing. He was not a womanizer, he was smart enough to know that was just asking for trouble, but you would see a lovely young girl once in a while. Some would even smile at him. Many had sad eyes; he did wonder why, after all, this was all they had ever known, why were they unhappy?

He never got an answer to that question, as the tracker announced that they were near their intended destination. Sure GPS could put a bomb through a window, at least on YouTube anyway. Still, in practice, unless you have an excellent set of coordinates from a reliable GPS unit, you were lucky to be within a dozen yards. If the conditions were adverse enough, it was a quarter-mile, and there always seemed to be bad conditions. The destination was on the left; John dismounted and climbed the ridge that bordered the road and blocked their path. He cleared the rise; he could see something in the distance; the terrain was not too bad on either side, but they would be blazing a trail for the vehicles up and over the rise. John was not happy about that.

'Might as well leave flairs and confetti.' He hated the idea, but there was nothing else to do. The map did not show any roads or trails of any kind, which was pretty strange; there were almost always smuggler trails all over this area. 'Why aren't there any here?' He would get an answer to that question, but not just yet. Once they topped the ridge, they dropped down into a circular depression, maybe three klicks across, surrounded by an unbroken wall.

"Well, with that shit." John yelled at Eric, gesturing to the barrier, "If you did not know there was something here, you would drive past it on the road and never know."

"What say we not test that theory? You know those tire tracks are going to lead them right to us. This is going to be a shit-show; you know that, right?" Eric was correct, of course; John just did not want to hear it.

"According to the box, it shouldn't be far; let's find the location, then you and the guys come back and cover our tracks." That would teach Eric to 'volunteer' things that John already knew.

Eric smiled ear to ear, "Great, I will leave you and LJ to unload the trucks and take orders from Her Majesty Princess Tight Ass." He would have whistled, but his mouth was too dry.

John just flipped him off, drawing a spate of laughter from Eric.

In the center of the depression was their target, which looked exactly like any other hill, well maybe hill was too grand for what he saw, more of a mound perhaps a hundred meters high, three hundred across, not a mountain by any means, but why would they build this out here? John was not an archeologist or geologist, but he knew that there had to be a reason for it to exist; people seldom just built things in the middle of nowhere. The area did not look volcanic or anything that would inspire worship; at this distance, it did not even resemble anything artificial; it looked just like any other sandstone hill he had seen all over the Middle East.

Suddenly it dawned on him. "Crap, this must be a meteor crater!" John looked around the rim as if seeing it for the first time. "We are headed for the hill in the center."

It was heavily weathered, almost like the Badlands of the Dakotas; deep-cut ravines exposed layers of multicolored stone. Strange, the same hill mapped a hundred times, scanned by orbital radar dozens, and photographed from land, air, and orbit thousands of times, but still until the 'quake a couple of weeks ago, it had not looked like this. A third of the hill had collapsed, cascading off the east side. Rubble lay stretched out along the crater floor, leading to the mound itself. As they approached the little hill, it began to resemble for all the world a pile of gray, red, and tan construction paper ripped to make jagged edges and carefully piled up by some gigantic toddler. From this distance, he could see a half dozen dark spots that could be caves, roughly midway up the slope. Strange, they all seemed to be on the same level. He groaned; even though it was only fifty meters, it was going to be a bitch hauling the stuff up there. From experience, he knew the stone looked solid but could break free easily. The stone was nothing but compacted sand, after all. Not to mention that the good doctor will want to haul every single fucking piece of equipment up that damned hill. Oh yes, including the 200-pound solar generator, backup diesel generator, and fuel she needed to power all her favorite toys. Her toy box stuffed with all the latest compact NASA, DARPA, and who knows what all instruments for testing out - why didn't they bring a fucking long extension cord or maybe a crane! Yet again, he wondered who in Heaven or Hell he had pissed off.