PARALLEL CONTENT: GENESIS OF A DRAGON CH 32
9:30 Dragon, 4th of Firstfall
Smoke clung thick to the air, dying the sun peeking through cracks in dark clouds a bloody red. The darkened clouds billowed over the hills born from fires set by the darkspawn on their warpath. It tasted of soot in his mouth. It stuck to the sweat of his brow and stained his skin.
The darkspawn did not relent. And neither did Duncan.
It was a bloody day.
He loosed an arrow from a bow lifted from a darkspawn body and struck down what might've been his hundredth hurlock of the day. Reaching back into the quiver he'd taken from a slain hunter's corpse his hand grasped at nothing as he found it empty. He did not even spare the extra breath to curse as his poor luck—if he was to survive this, every action had to be executed with masterful precision. He tossed the bow aside and did not even draw his daggers again as a genlock rushed at him, instead he caught hold of the creature instead, twisting and wrestling it's arms until it pierced itself on it's own weapons, then lifted the sword out of it's hand and slaughtered another that had tried to surprise him on his flank.
The magical boons granted to him by Reveka Hawke had long since faded, but when the auras failed, adrenaline and years of experience kicked in to make up the difference. A Warden could fight through conditions that would kill any ordinary soldier. And even among Wardens, Duncan was of an exceptional caliber.
There was a break in the surge of darkspawn. From the rippling whispers in his ears he knew the reprieve wouldn't last long. He started to move again, continuing in the opposite direction the Hawkes and Daveth had gone with Cailan.
It was a strange sort of blessing, that he was as near to his Calling as he was. The corruption inside him was developed enough that darkspawn were drawn to him like flies on dung. He was a veritable beacon for them to follow.
Duncan cleared the next hill and followed the path onwards only to find a lone figure slain on the ground. A small child. Duncan paused his march for the first time as he allowed himself a moment of stillness to catch his breath, and he knelt at her side in hopes he may find some sign of life. Her small blood-soaked fist was closed limply around a set of multi-sided wooden dice. The elven girl was not breathing. Her large brown eyes stared unblinking up at him.
He could only imagine what this child's last moments must have been—she was alone, likely sent ahead by her parents with the hope that their deaths would buy her enough time to escape. All for naught; the only mercy was that she had not been taken alive, that it was an arrow in her back that had stopped her heart rather than something crueler.
Duncan reached with a tender hand and closed her eyes. The ringing in his ears intensified to a buzz like hornets. He stood and braced himself as more darkspawn descended upon him.
. . . . .
The day was so dark from the swirling black clouds in the sky that he didn't notice the sun setting until night had already fallen.
The clusters of darkspawn he battled through were far less frequent, but Duncan dared not lower his guard for even a moment as he marched through the dark. His sore joints and muscles protested painfully—were he an ordinary man, and not a Warden, the fatigue might've killed him before any darkspawn got the chance.
Cold night air began to blow, and he tightened around himself the cloak he'd lifted from a butchered corpse. The fabric was stained with blood—the blood of it's original owner, the blood of darkspawn Duncan had slain, and some blood of his own from hastily patched wounds.
Considering the catastrophic nature of recent events, things were going better than Duncan had really dared to hope. He wasn't dead yet. And given the sheer number of darkspawn that'd flooded to him in these last hours, it gave him hope that Cailan wasn't yet either. Through the gloom and ominous despair he found the smallest spark of optimism.
It wasn't like things could get much worse, after all.
A wail on the wind broke the silence of the night. Duncan braced his blades in his hands in an involuntary reaction, but there were no darkspawn nearby that his senses could detect. This was something else. He stepped quick and quiet as a shadow around the next bend in the road, following the source of the sound that'd carried to him on the breeze.
Torchlight lit a small encampment in a small valley, alive with the sound of people. Duncan returned his weapons to their sheathes—these were survivors.
Despite the late hour the refugee camp was bustling. The few tents and makeshift shelters were not enough to cover the nearly fifty people who were gathered there, so most were out in the open. He heard the anguished cries of the wounded and dying rise above the sounds of people trying to organize or find their family members. The wailing of infants mixed with the voices of someone calling for more blankets or any spare medicine.
Duncan pulled his cloak to conceal his weapons and moved towards the camp. And it was as he drew nearer that he began to hear it, a subtle hum underpinning the ambient noises of despair. There was darkspawn corruption among the survivors.
Even though they'd escaped the horde, these people were already doomed.
He was almost unnoticed by the refugees moving around him. There were move people here than he'd initially guessed, and from more spread out an area than he'd assumed. He gathered by listening to the ambient conversations that most were from Lothering, but there were plenty from scattered farms and villages that'd all found their way here. All of them fleeing together in the same direction from the darkspawn.
He kept his hood up to obscure his face. He didn't want to risk recognition, not when it would draw unnecessary attention and possibly unnecessary confrontation.
"Form a line!" an elderly womans voice barked out across the camp. "No pushin, no cuttin."
Duncan found the source at the center of the camp—a weary-looking woman standing in front of a large pot over a fire with a ladle in her hand. She scooped out soup that looked like it was mostly water with a few sad-looking pieces of vegetable into whatever vessels people had to receive it.
"Hey! He got four chunks, I only got two!"
"Shut yer yap!" the woman at the pot scolded the protestor. "Ya get what ya get and that's that. So quit yer whinin an move along, there's folks in line behind ya."
The man continued grumbling but shuffled along all the same. The growling of Duncan's stomach compelled him to join the forming line. The stew the woman offered wasn't much, but he wouldn't make it to Denerim on an empty stomach.
Ahead of him in the line a man holding a wailing infant pleaded in tears to the woman ahead of him who had a young babe of her own.
"Please, you gotta take him. He'll have a chance with you! I can't keep him, I can't feed him!"
"I have three children of my own to feed, and one of them still nursin aside. If I take yours, I may not be able to feed my own daughter!" The woman replied. "And with my husband dead at Ostagar I'll have my hands full trying to keep me and mine alive without adding your son to the pile."
"He's not my son," the young man said, pale in the face as he stared down at the swaddled infant in his arms. "I found him. Left behind in a farmhouse I passed when me and my brother was runnin. Heard the cryin and took a look, found him in an empty house screamin in his crib. Suppose his mum must have fled and left him behind. Maybe I should've too… but Maker, I couldn't just leave him… he's just a wee little thing. Can't even be a month old."
The woman's steeled expression softened at that, more compassionate for this stranger and his predicament. Duncan looked from them to the movement of the refugee camp around them. This terrible story was surely just one among this unfortunate lot. A babe abandoned by his mother who was so terrified by the darkspawn that she left him behind. Children who'd been separated from their parents, parents who were now childless.
This was exactly the thing he wanted to prevent. If only they'd been able to hold Ostagar and stop the darkspawn from flooding out of the wilds, these people wouldn't have to suffer like this. But that wasn't reality. And now things would only get worse from here on out for the ordinary people like them.
"Look…" the woman said as it became her turn to accept food from the pot. "I can't take him. But I heard there's a gal helpin with the wounded that lost her babe and her husband just this morning to the 'spawn. I can't guarantee she'd agree, but she'd be able to feed him. It's worth the ask."
The despair weighing down the mans shoulder seemed to lift. He readjusted his hold on the baby in his arms and nodded resolutely, taking off towards where the wounded were kept before even bothering to accept the soup the woman at the pot was about ready to offer him.
The older woman tutted and shook her head as she watched him go. "Well, more for the others, I 'spose," she said, offering the bowl to Duncan instead.
"You think he is a fool for trying to save the babe," he said, looking at her curiously.
"I do. We're all fools, here." She gestured with her ladle to the camp around them. "He's a fool, that mama's a fool, it's all fools. Anything any of us does now is just prolonging the inevitable. Most won't say it aloud, but I think we all know it deep down."
"Quite the nihilistic approach," Duncan remarked, observing the meager portion she offered him. "If you are correct, then why bother? For someone who doesn't think they'll make it, you're certainly putting in a lot of effort to feed these people."
"Better to die with a little somethin' in your belly than nothin' at all," she said glibly, but her eyes were somewhere far away. "Or maybe I'm the biggest fool of all. Maybe because I'll sleep better knowin' that with some food those little boys and girls over there might be able to flee if they need to. That their paps will be strong enough for their deaths to buy time for their youngens to escape. Even though my leg's hurt and I can't run anymore, since I've fed them maybe a little bit of me will live on with them if they survive."
And that was what kept people pushing even through circumstances as bleak as these: hope. Hope in the decency of other people, in the spirit to survive, in a future for the next generation. Even this woman, who due to her age and her injury had resigned herself to her inevitable death, still saw something worthwhile in trying to enable others to survive.
Though given that the makeshift infirmary was positively buzzing with the sounds of darkspawn corruption, it was likely a false hope in these peoples' case. But Duncan didn't have the heart to tell them that.
"Ah, go on, get, you've got yer bowl. I ain't got time to keep yappin. There's more mouths to feed."
Duncan nodded gratefully and moved back into the business of the refugee camp. He sipped on the broth. It wasn't much, but at least it was warm. His body begged for rest, but it wasn't an option. He didn't sense any darkspawn nearby now, but the longer he stayed here the greater chance there was of drawing them to this location. These people had enough struggles to contend with already, he wouldn't condemn them to another darkspawn attack if he could help it.
But that didn't mean he was above taking advantage of this situation. His skill as a pickpocket had served him well over the years, and it would serve him well now. He put his misgivings about robbing from desperate refugees on the metaphorical shelf—his mission took priority. Above anything else, he had to accomplish his goals.
He lifted a canteen full of water from a wounded man trying to cheer up a group of children with funny stories. He nicked a utility knife from a teenager helping his younger siblings set up a tent. He grabbed some gloves from the pocket of one of the wounded while volunteering to help change her bandages. He took a pack and a bedroll from a bickering couple while they were preoccupied arguing over who would get to use it and who would have to sleep on the ground.
"... and that's all well and good, but where do we go from here?" asked a man to his companions as Duncan tailed them, waiting for the opportunity to swipe the dried jerky he spied in the man's pouch. "We could try Denerim but I reckon every other desperate soul out there will have the same idea. City might stop lettin people in by the time we get there."
"We could try Gwaren. That's Teyrn Loghain's land, and given how he saved his people at Ostagar he probably still has the men to protect it. Or worst case, there's a port there."
"Are you daft? We ran so far north that we'd have to cut south through the Brecillian forest to get there from here. Might even run into the darkspawn again, and then we'd be right back where we started."
"West, then. Move as fast as we can and try to cross the Frostbacks."
"Winter will be on us in full by the time we get here, we don't want to be in those mountains when it hits or no one will survive. And even if we made it across, what then? We'd be in Orlais. I'd rather feed myself to the darkspawn."
A murmur of agreement rose among the group of men. They seemed to be the ones keeping a watch out into the night for darkspawn, armed with pitchforks, torches, and woodchopping axes.
"We should make for the northern coast. Amaranthine and Highever, even the villages in the area like Crestwood. If nothing else, it'll put distance between us and those beasts."
"Damn Wardens," his target muttered angrily as Duncan's deft hand secured the jerky. "Blighted traitors are the reason we're in this mess. Damn them all to the void."
Duncan stilled, not even daring to breathe. Though he was standing directly behind their group none of the men had noticed his presence, and he'd just as soon keep it that way. Quiet as a ghost, he began backing away, only for the next man's words to stop him dead in his tracks.
"Should've killed the ones we saw in Lothering. Bounty aside, it'd be justice at least."
Duncan's mind raced a thousand miles a minute. Wardens. In Lothering. How recently? How many Wardens? Which Wardens? Were they okay? Was Alistair alright?
Had Edmund's promise been right?
"I hear ya," one of the men said with a commiserating nod. "But I think it's best left to Loghain's men, they'd have a better shot than us. Best thing we can do is give our information if we meet any of his knights. Who knows, maybe they'd even toss us a few coins for it."
"And what information would that be?" Duncan asked, striding back from the darkness towards them.
The men jolted in surprise at the sound of his voice, completely oblivious to his presence until that moment.
"Depends. Who's askin?" The man crossed his arms and raised a brow at him.
Duncan stared at him so intently that he began squirming under the weight of his gaze. "A concerned citizen."
"There's not really much to tell," another one offered a bit quickly. "Just that some Wardens came through Lothering a few days after their sabotage at Ostagar. Caused some trouble, grabbed up a murderous giant and an insane priestess, and left."
"How many Wardens? Describe them to me."
He started to answer, but a sharp elbow in the ribs from the man next to him stopped him.
"Don't tell him, that's our information! What if this bloke runs ahead and tells Loghain's people first? We can't let him steal the reward we might get," he hissed harshly.
"I have no intention of telling Loghain anything. On that, you have my word." Duncan said.
"Come on," said the man who'd been ready to share the information. "The more people on the lookout for that lot, the more likely Loghain's people can catch them and bring them to justice for killing King Cailan," he said, which was equal parts amusing and infuriating to Duncan.
The hesitant man frowned with visible misgiving, but eventually sighed and relented. "There was a couple mages and two pretty elf girls. Some big blokes in armor, a couple mabari, and a pair of dwarves. Also the murderous giant and the crazy Sister."
Duncan nearly collapsed from the sheer relief flooding his body. Edmund was right. They were okay. Now all he needed to do was find them.
"We confronted them when they left Lothering, but, well…" the man shrugged lamely, glancing at the pitchfork in his hand. "We figured tangling with magic and mabari might not go so good for us."
"Ah, come off. I think we could have taken them. Maybe not all at once, but if we'd managed to jump 'em individually they wouldn't be so tough," a man in the group said, a sentiment to which many of the others nodded in agreement.
"How long ago was this? Where did they go after?" Duncan asked.
"Oh, must have been a tenday ago now… no clue where they went next. Probably to go get the Orlesians to let them into the country now that there's chaos, if the rumors are true." The rumors were utter bullshit, and that was probably the last piece of helpful information these men had to give.
Duncan nodded his thanks and turned to go, his mind racing with this new knowledge. This… this could change everything. For the first time in what felt like ages, he smiled. Cailan was alive… and Alistair was alive.
Maybe he hadn't failed Maric, after all. He'd been given a second chance and he'd be damned before he wasted it.
Duncan was no more than three steps away when a voice from behind him ruined his good cheer.
"Wait… I recognize you."
Duncan stilled, glancing back to the group of men from over his shoulder. "No. You do not recognize me," he said, hoping the subtext was loud enough. Stop. Don't make me do it.
Unfortunately, it was not.
"I worked as a supply runner to Ostagar. I—I saw you there."
Duncan let out a long sigh. He got too greedy, lingering and asking about information about his Wardens. He should have just kept walking and left this camp behind him.
The world believed he was dead. He needed it to stay that way. He couldn't risk that man to talk.
The man, red-faced from rage, raised his arm and pointed a finger in accusation. "That's why you were asking about them! You killed King Cailan, you're the Warden Command—aaaa!"
His accusation turned into a strangled scream as Duncan's sword lodged in his chest. He twisted and pulled, cutting the man open. The mob of men scrambled to raise their weapons, but even as tired as he was Duncan outpaced them by miles. One turned, a cry for help towards the camp on his lips, only for the cold edge to slide against his neck the next moment, silencing him.
Another lunged at him with his pitchfork, but the move was clumsy and predictable. The part of his mind not focused on killing these men pitied them—this should not be their fate. They were meant to be farmers, fathers, and friends, not the desperate sorry men the Blight had made of them.
Duncan sidestepped the head of the pitchfork and caught the shaft, yanking it out of the refugees hands and quickly flipping it over in his grip before returning the favor and impaling his gut upon it. The rest fell almost as fast—it was almost too easy. Only seconds passed and seven dead men laid on the ground at his feet.
He couldn't stop—he had to move quick. Sooner rather than later, someone from the refugee camp would realize what happened, and he needed to be long gone by then as he'd just killed what was likely to be these peoples only protectors.
Duncan quickly rummaged through their corpses for anything useful, which wasn't much. A few more pieces of dried druffalo jerky and some rope. Without a second look back at the desperate souls gathered in the dark, he ran off into the countryside.
There were many things on his mind as he moved through the night, but the men he'd killed and the refugees in need he'd left behind did not number among them. His Wardens were alive. Where would they have gone? Given when he knew about them, what would make the most sense?
Aothor would have taken the reigns. Whether by his own assertion or the default dynamic established by the others, it didn't matter. The dwarven man was already one groomed for a path of leadership, and that he would be slotted in as the next Commander would not surprise Duncan one bit. And Aothor would have the good sense to go after the groups compelled by ancient treaty for aid.
He could see Rosaya wanting to go and find her people. She was certainly the most reluctant to leave in the first place. But the Dalish would be much harder to track down even with one of their own helping in the endeavor.
The Circle was an option… but the thought gave Duncan pause. The mage battalions had vacated the failing battlefield with suspicious quickness. To what degree, he couldn't be sure, but his gut told him there must be mages in on Loghain's plan. Going to the Circle alone could go badly for him, especially since he hadn't exactly left there on the best of terms last time.
Orzammar was the only place that made sense. Aothor knew the political landscape there and even if his departure form the underground city had been less than ideal it was still the place he would be most likely to go in search of aid against the darkspawn.
The only wrench in this thought process was Edmund. The mage was too unpredictable with what he knew and how he might influence the others decisions. And so no matter how sound his logic, he could not use reason alone to guess where they might go.
There was little point in it, anyways. He still needed to go to Denerim to regroup with Cailan and Daveth. That had to be his priority. For now, he would have to trust his Wardens on their mission to gather allies and believe they could see it through on their own. But just knowing they were out there was a weight off his shoulders.
Denerim would have problems enough on it's own. And he couldn't plan for what to do once he was there and he got ahold of some information. How deep and widespread was Loghain's plot? How many other noble houses were in on it? Had Cailan's supporters already been eliminated?
It would be wonderful if all they had to do was walk Cailan into the palace and prove that he was not, in fact, dead… but he suspected it wouldn't be as simple as that. Nothing ever was, after all.
He'd cross those bridges when he came upon them. Or maybe he'd take a page out of Edmund's book and burn them. At this point, whatever worked.
The sky was beginning to grow light and it dawned on Duncan that he'd been moving all night. He'd escaped the ominous cloud cover that heralded the darkspawn's approach, and faintest rays of light crept out over the horizon to color the blue-grey sky. Through a break in the trees he'd been moving through he spied a small farmhouse and barn in a field ripe for harvest. On a whim, he approached the building.
He walked past the front porch, where he spied a rocking chair and some small wooden toys meant for children. Equipment for farmwork was about as well as every indication that the family of this residence was still here and had not yet fled. In fact, they might not even be aware yet of the peril to shortly arrive on their doorstep.
Duncan bypassed the building where surely the residents were about to wake and tend to their morning chores and instead quietly slipped into the barn. Between the straw and the stacks of the grain harvest he found a plow horse
This was no steed meant for heroes, not a noble mount for riding into battle. It was a bulky beast of menial burden bred for farm labor and cart pulling. But it was sturdy and strong, and if he ran it into the ground he could break clear of the roving darkspawn and reach Denerim before the next sunrise.
Duncan untied the horse from its post. He mounted the saddle and turned the reins towards the road north. But he glanced back in his seat towards the little farmhouse.
The darkspawn horde would likely regroup further south again and underground before pushing forward more. The Blight operated like waves washing on a shore. Forward, back, and forward even further. It could be weeks before the monsters reached this location. Or… it could be tomorrow. Today, even.
There was no way to know for certain. And Duncan was robbing them of their best tool for escape.
With heavy understanding in his heart of what this action condemned them to, he spurred the plow horse on and rode into the dawn.