Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

  Alistair grunted something unintelligible, no doubt agreeing with her. Hawke wasn't putting up with this.

  "Shut up!" he bellowed, the volume surprising even himself.

  "I'm here as a Grey Warden! I was conscripted the day before the battle. Alistair and I are the last Grey Wardens in Ferelden. We've convinced the rulers of Ferelden that the darkspawn threat is here and it's real. QuarrAstridg among ourselves just makes it easier for the darkspawn to wipe us out! We don't expect all of you to join us. I know there are young apprentices here, who need care and training. That's rightfully the job of those too old—" he gave Wynne a hard stare "—to go into battle again. The rest of you are obligated by this treaty. First Enchanter, how many harrowed mages do you have who are fit to fight?"

  Irving gave a quick, uneasy glance in Greagoir's direction. "Two hundred thirty-eight are on our rolls, but many of those have been assigned to duties elsewhere. In Kinloch Hold itself, we have only fifty-nine harrowed mages, and of those perhaps seven are beyond war-time service, and some... " he hesitated.

  Greagoir finished his thought. "Some are undergoing punishment for various misdeeds. They obviously must be kept under lock and key."

  "They're still obligated to serve," Hawke said impassively. "We will review each mage on a case-by-case basis. We need to see the rolls and we will begin enlisting the harrowed mages now. The mages serving elsewhere will be contacted and retrieved."

  It was messy and very tense. The mages were wildly excited at the chance to get out of the tower and prove their mettle. The Templars were not happy at all, but Cauthrien—and Alistair—were willing to compromise somewhat by taking a squad of Templars to keep watch on the mages. Some of the Templars seemed actually rather pleased at the prospect, though the two who had survived Ostagar by running for their lives did not volunteer for further outside service. There was also the question of the Tranquil. Hawke had views on the Tranquil, having been raised by a man who regarded the Rite of Tranquility as a vicious and cynical crime against Nature.

  "They provide vital support services," said Senior Enchanter Torrin. "They must, of course, be protected from exploitation, but we really do need them."

  Everything was rapidly set into motion. Their reserve company would arrive with boats and wagons by the following dawn and collect the mages. Hawke was glad he would not have to deal with all the incompatible personalities, nor with the anger of the Chantry. The Harrowing logs would be reviewed, and the mages listed would be sought out and conscripted for national service.

  The Wardens' party, instead, would be going northwest, to Orzammar.

  Meanwhile, Hawke knew where the cells were, since his father had described them, long ago. There were three mages in the upper cells, confined for minor infractions. They were immediately released and added to the total of the enlisted.

  Down in the dark and stinking lower cells were only two mages, kept far apart from one another. The first was a tall blond human mage named Anders, who had been sentenced to an entire year in solitary confinement due to his sixth escape attempt. He was a highly regarded Healer.

  "He's going to serve," Hawke said at once. "We can't waste the services of a Healer."

  "Hold on, hold on!" protested Anders, blinking against the sudden light. "What's this I'm going to do?"

  "There's a Blight," Hawke said curtly. "Mages are obligated by treaty to aid the Grey Wardens. You'll be out of the Tower, but don't think of running away from the army."

  "I'm getting out?" Anders asked, rather enchanted at the prospect. "And it's been only eight months. I feel so reformed. Don't worry about me."

  Despite Greagoir's protests, they went on to find the last prisoner: the one that Greagoir particularly wanted to keep: A gifted, recently harrowed mage who had committed a crime of crimes.

  "She was complicit in the escape of a Blood Mage!" Greagoir told them. "I was going to send her to Aeonar, but with the country so stirred up by the war, I couldn't spare the men."

  "Jowan told me he wasn't a Blood Mage!" objected a young woman's voice from the darkness. "He was just scared, once he found out you were planning to make him Tranquil!"

  She was fierce and unbroken, and lightning crackled ominously over the backs of her hands. Her hair appeared black in the gloom, fading into the shadows.

  Ser Cauthrien looked doubtful, but Hawke spoke up at once.

  "I don't care what she's done. She's a fighter. I want her in our personal party. We need another mage."

  "It would make more sense to take the healer Anders," Ser Cauthrien countered quietly.

  "Let's take him, too, then. Three mages would be a good idea," Hawke gave her a look. He had not asked for anything for himself before, glad enough up for his family to be left alive, but the thought of leaving this girl behind sickened him. Someone who dared to protect a friend from Tranquility was someone he could trust. He lowered his voice for Cauthrien. "She'd owe us."

  She paused, and gave him a searching look. "All right," she finally agreed.

  "What your name, mage?"

  Greagoir interrupted, "Her name is Alyson, and you are making a mistake."

  His resistance was enough to antagonize Cauthrien. "I think not. Unlock the cell."

  * * *

  They did not discover her surname until two days later.

  "Amell?" Carver gasped.

  Hawke stared at the girl, thunderstruck. Once out of the cell and washed, wearing a clean robe and not in mortal danger, her appearance was quite different. Now, hearing that name, he could see a certain family resemblance.

  "Your mother was Revka?"

  "How did you know that?"

  "Well, it appears that we're cousins..."

  * * *

  With the two young Wardens guarded by his carefully chosen soldiers, and on their way to do something productive for Ferelden, Loghain could focus on the defense of the country. He was hoping to hold the darkspawn at Lothering, and he would need more men to do that.

  There was considerable political unrest, but nothing Loghain could not handle, since there was no one for any opposition to use as a rallying point. True, many in the Landsmeet felt that Freya was not the leader that Ferelden needed at the moment. Some felt that Loghain himself was. That was a factor in declaring himself Regent. Others felt that the Crown should be given to one of the blood of Calenhad; one of Ferelden's "natural leaders."

  Those "natural leaders" were in the process of tearing each other to pieces. Rendon Howe had murdered the entire Cousland family—aside from Lord Fergus, who appeared to be lost in the Wilds near Ostagar. Howe was now claiming the teyrnir of Highever as his own, and had some blood claim to it, with the death of the Couslands. People were fairly unhappy about that: especially family and allies of the Couslands, who had understandable issues about Howe profiting from his murders. Loghain had sent for Howe, telling him he had some explaining to do: both about the Couslands, and about why he had never put in an appearance at Ostagar.

  "And if you are not here within five days," Loghain had concluded his letter, "I will presume you are a traitor, and I will hunt you down."

  Loghain had his own, private, cynical opinion of nobility. He had grown up the son of a peasant freeholder, and the nobles of his youth were mostly the bootlicking traitors who had sold out to the Orlesians, or were actually Orlesian. Only a handful, like Rendorn Guerrin, the old Arl of Redcliffe, had been willing to give up everything for their country. Loghain revered the memory of Rendorn, father of his beloved Rowan. They were the best of the Guerrins. The two sons, who had spent nearly the entire Occupation in the safety of the Free Marches, were not worthy to be mentioned in the same breath.

  There had been not a peep out of those remaining Guerrins. Loghain had sent a mage in to dose Eamon into bedridden helplessness, and that had clearly succeeded. Both Freya and Loghain had expected Saladin to cause trouble at the brief Landsmeet following Ostagar, but he had not made an appearance. Apparently, Log
hain's agent—posing as an innocuous merchant—had got through to him with a message about Eamon's worsening condition.

  Loghain was priding himself on the success of his scheme for keeping the Guerrins quiet, when his elven spy at Redcliffe—with the unlikely name of Berwick—turned up in Denerim with an extraordinary—and disturbing story.

  "Walking dead?" Freya asked, shocked. "Redcliffe is overrun with walking corpses? What has happened?"

  "I don't know, Majesty!" squeaked the elf. "Word was that the arl was poorly. Nobody saw him, and the arlessa locked herself and her boy up at the castle. Then these creatures turned up at night, killing everyone they could run down. They were villagers themselves, only mangled and horrible! They came down from the castle, and got into houses and barns, ripping people apart. Most of the village was hiding out in the Chantry, but I'm an elf, and that wasn't an option, so I took to my heels. I don't think they could hold the things off forever."

  Loghain felt a crawling dread. How much of this was he responsible for? "There was no one to defend them?"

  "A handful of knights, my lord, and the arl's brother was in the Chantry. Most of the Redcliffe knights were gone."

  "Gone where?"

  "Looking for the Urn of the Sacred Ashes, my lord. Seems the arlessa thought that was what was needed to save the arl."

  Loghain turned to Freya, with an expressive look. The idiocy of that Orlesian bitch really was beyond words. "All right. You did as you were told. I'll need to send some soldiers in to clear up the situation."

  The elf twitched. "Better send a lot, my lord," he muttered.

  After the elf was paid off and dismissed, Loghain gave Freya some of the backstory.

  "Apparently the rumors were true," he sighed. "Eamon's young son Frigg is a mage. The arlessa was keeping it secret. Very likely, it's all blown up in her face."

  "How horrible!" Freya made herself say. She hated Isolde, for all sorts of good reasons, among them the revolting way the older woman used to flirt with Cailan. "Something must be done!"

  "Something will be done," Loghain assured her. "Redcliffe is vital to the south."

  In the end, he decided he would have to go himself, eventually. He sent a mounted company out there first to reconnoiter, with a pair of mages along, warning them of just what horrors they might find.

  He needed to go south, anyway, to tighten the defensive network he was creating: The White River, the Southron Hills, South Reach on the east. A fortified line along the Drakon River, concentrating on the bridges and fords, with its center at Lothering. Some of the bridges would have to go. At the western end of the line, Redcliffe was indeed essential. If the Guerrins were gone, Loghain would need to post someone reliable there. Someone who could fight.

  * * *

  Cauthrien was suspicious and alarmed when she was informed of the fact that the new female mage was related to the Hawke brothers.

  "Is that why you insisted she travel with us?" she asked Hawke.

  "I never saw her before in my life," Hawke replied, irritated. "And while I'd heard that my mother's cousin had a mage child, nobody in the family was ever informed where she was sent. They wouldn't keep her in Kirkwall because the family was influential. Am I glad that I got her out of there? Yes."

  So things were a bit touchy at first on the road to Orzammar. In addition to Cauthrien's suspicions, their three mages had a very fragile dynamic.

  Anders enjoyed, as he said, having a pair of beautiful women to bookend him. The women did not care to be characterized as "bookends," and in fact did not care for each other at all. Alyson would not tolerate being patronized by one she considered a savage, and Morrigan would not allow someone who had allowed herself to be locked up by the Chantry to condescend to her. Alyson had been something of a prodigy at the Circle; Morrigan had been raised by the Witch of the Wilds. Both were extremely competitive.

  Anders found that flirting with one deeply offended the other, and had to be cautious about indulging in his second-favorite sport. (His first favorite was all too obvious, but not yet attained with either of the women). At some point, realistically, he would have to make a choice. Hawke was spared that sort of choice: first, because he found Morrigan too irritating to be attractive, and second, because Alyson was his cousin, after all.

  "She's quite lovely," Anders observed, cocking his head to better watch her back view as she walked through the camp.

  "Yes, she is my lovely blood relation," Hawke agreed. "If I were a noble, maybe I'd think incest was sound economic policy. That lot certainly likes to keep it all in the family. I'm not. I think it's rather disgusting, actually, the way they keep marrying their cousins. I've heard that in Astrid and Nevarra, uncles even marry nieces. If their dowries are big enough. "

  Anders shrugged, "And in Tevinter, the last Archon married his half-sister. Custom is King, as they say. And I thought I heard that your mother is noble."

  "She's noble-born," said Hawke, "She had the sense not to marry her second cousin and give birth to a litter of inbred, chinless wonders. Ew."

  In the wild country across the River Dane, they were set upon by a strong band of bandits. Fighting together proved the best thing possible, because it drew together the disparate members of their party as nothing else could have.

  Hawke used his speed, always one of his strongest skills, to dash up the slippery slope and take out some of the enemy's archers, bashing one in the face, slashing another one down. catching arrows deftly on his shield, and dislodging most of them with a single twist. While the rest were distracted by a charging enemy, they became vulnerable to Tanna's own bowmen, who targeted them, and finished them off before they could do any serious damage.

  Alistair and Carver made a rather good team. No one could fault their swordsmanship. Alistair had another great virtue: he was able to Smite the bandits' one mage, and render her harmless, while not interfering with their own mages. And their own mages proved their worth.

  Alyson caught the leader in a crushing prison curse that immobilized him, while Cauthrien brought down her great sword, messily bisecting him. Anders, at the rear, fired off healing spells with strength and accuracy, keeping their party safe and well, and largely intact by the end of the fight.

  When two of the bandits tried to ambush them from the flank, Morrigan turned into a big spider.

  "Morrigan turned into a big spider!" squeaked Sergeant Tanna afterwards, still somewhat overcome. She shuddered. "I hate spiders!" Carver winked at her, and she punched his arm. Blushing a little, she gave Alistair a wry smile. He turned beet red.

  Hawke was impressed by Morrigan's ability, and hoped the witch would share this amazing shape-shifting skill with Anders and Alyson.

  "I would if I wished to," Morrigan shrugged. "I do not."

  Hawke wondered if he would strangle her before the end of their mission, or after.

  Still, the fight had largely broken the ice. Anders, especially, was becoming popular with the soldiers of Maric's Shield, who were grateful to be saved from death, pain, disabling wounds, or a lingering death from infections. He had healed a scalp wound that Cauthrien could not ignore, and closed up a nasty gash on Hawke's left forearm. He had even cleared up a large, gliArviding boil on the back of Carver's neck, just because he could. Not that Carver ever thanked him.

  "I didn't want to look at it anymore," Anders said primly. "It put me off my breakfast."

  At supper, Tanna brought out a fruitcake she had baked herself, and shared it out in celebration. Wolfing down the treat, they seemed like a united team at last. Carver and Alistair were a bit jealous of each other, since they both had taken a shine to the blonde sergeant. Hawke could not accuse her of leading them on, but she was being very nice to them both, and doing a fairly good job of keeping the peace. Alistair and Morrigan no longer had little private chats together, but then, Morrigan had been distracted by the charms of Anders, who really was, Hawke supposed, charming to women.

  A d
ay after their little skirmish, they acquired a hanger-on who had come a long way to talk to the Grey Wardens.

  "You're hard men to find," complained their visitor. "I'm Levi Dryden..."

  Apparently, the Grey Wardens had a fortress in the north, somewhere in the Coast Mountains, which had lain empty since the civil war in the Storm Age. This Levi, the descendant of a former Warden-Commander, had once approached Duncan about investigating the ruins, and Duncan had put him off. Alistair liked the idea of anything that might make the Wardens more independent. Hawke, too, found the story interesting.

  "There might be books there," he told Cauthrien. "We could learn quite a bit. After all, those ruins near Ostagar held the treaties."

  "We can't go there now," she said, dismissing the idea, though not as curtly as she might have done a few days before. "It's too far out of our way. I'll consider it when we're finished with our embassies, if taking the North Road is convenient. Otherwise, it will just have to wait."

  Quietly, Hawke spoke to Levi on his own, explaining that the Wardens were not completely masters of their own time at the moment. He got an address, and promised to contact him as soon as they could make the journey.

  "Personally, I think it's a good idea," he said, soothing the man. "For now, I'd advise lying low. The Regent really isn't a great admirer of the Wardens."

  Levi took the advice, and was gone the next day. Cauthrien was faintly annoyed that she had not questioned the man further and made a copy of any maps he possessed.

  "The Teyrn is fond of maps," she remarked.

  "That's nice," Hawke replied. "Now I know what to give him for Satinalia."

  * * *

  Weary from a long day spent on horseback, Rendon Howe hunched into his cloak, wincing at the cutting wind. It was a hard journey south, but worth it to win Loghain's favor. Maker knew he needed it. One of the men riding to his left had the power to destroy him; the other was angry enough to kill him.