Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

  Why should she die? She was a Grey Warden by happenstance only: because her swine of a brother had manipulated her into a death sentence that miraculously was commuted to exile. A cold smile tugged at her lips. Bhelen had suffered the just fate of the betrayer and kinslayer. He had learned what it was to rouse the wrath of Signy Aeducan. If she survived the Blight, nothing now prevented her return to Orzammar. She could go there freely, as a respected Grey Warden. If she slew the Archdemon—or even if she was a party to its death—they would likely make her a Paragon. Yes, she could go home. Why should she not?

  She was no trembling maiden, who would sink down to death, heart-broken, because a man had cast her aside. She would live on and prosper, in spite of them all.

  Fereldans. as as a people, had done absolutely nothing for her, and she likewise owed them nothing. This was not her country, and these were not her people. They were parochial and ignorant; they sneered at dwarves and anything unlike themselves. They had largely pretended that everything was perfectly normal for as long as they possibly could, evading military service, convinced that fighting the Blight was not their responsibility. Did they really not see how bad it made them look that the one who led the campaign that could save their lives was a dwarf? No, they probably did not. They were just that willfully blind and self-satisfied. Loghain had accused her of being some sort of Orlesian agent, which was simply laughable to any dwarf of Orzammar. None of the Fereldans, unfortunately, had quite got the joke.

  Surfacers—especially humans, the dominant species on the surface—were curious creatures. They deprived themselves of the uses of magic, hiding it away in prisons because of their ridiculous, made-up religion. They despised the elves, not because elves were particularly despicable, but because it was a way to make themselves feel important. No, she had little use for most Fereldans... for most humans, for that matter. Individual humans could be brave, generous, clever, and interesting; humans in general were no better than sheep. She could live perfectly well without humans.

  She had seen the surface now, and while travel was indeed very broadening, there was only one place that could ever be home to her.

  No doubt if she perished destroying the Archdemon, they would put up a statue to her in Orzammar, but she would not be there to enjoy the applause. Harrowmont, her chosen king, was old and narrow-minded. Orzammar was going to need her in the coming years, for one less Archdemon did not mean the end of the darkspawn threat to the dwarven realm.

  What were Blights, anyway, but a breathing space for Orzammar? For a few years, the surface dwellers experienced what the dwarves had endured for long ages. In a Blight, the dwarves were pledged to help the Wardens, but Signy had not read of any surface kingdoms coming to Orzammar's defense! Why had the dwarves signed the treaty at all? It was infuriatingly one-sided. Yes, Grey Wardens trickled in, arriving to commit suicide by darkspawn, but there was no concerted effort to destroy the darkspawn—a plague created by surfacers!—at the root.

  The recent battles in Aeducan and Ortan Thaigs and the horde's rise to the surface had left the Deep Roads comparatively clear. This was a great opportunity. Most of the darkspawn that had risen to the surface would not find their way back down below again. The time just after the end of this Blight would be crucial. The regular army and the Legion of the Dead could strike, clearing out the remains of the spawn in many of the closer thaigs; the smiths could erect new barrier doors. A great deal of territory could be reclaimed. Harrowmont had not the vision for the task. Signy Aeducan must live for her people.

  Yes, she would remain a Grey Warden, but why could there not be a post of Grey Wardens permanently established in Orzammar? If she survived to tell of it, she would include such a proposal in her report to Weisshaupt. And she would establish it anyway, whatever Weisshaupt said. It was clear from the structure of the Grey Wardens that they valued only the surface lands ruled by humans. Nonetheless, she felt she could convince them of the value of a such base. Plenty of elves and mages would join her there, free of the stupidity and prejudice of the surface lands.

  The stupidity and prejudice of her own people gave her pause. Yes, Bhelen had had some good ideas, especially about the casteless and the surface dwarves. Harrowmont would not live forever, and Signy could work slowly for reforms, especially in newly reclaimed thaigs. It was simple-minded to waste the strength of the casteless. She would find a use for them. She would likewise find a way to receive the surface dwarves who wished to return to Orzammar.

  As to Morrigan and her crazy scheme to give birth to an Old God reincarnate, Signy shrugged. The dwarves had never worshiped the Old Gods. Those powerful dragons had made themselves important in Orzammar only since the darkspawn first rose. Instinctively, they sought the surface, even as Tainted creatures, being creatures of the surface. There had been four hundred years since the last Blight. There might well be such a long interval again. Signy could not see that the dwarven realm had much to fear from Flemeth—who had never once been underground, from what Signy could gather. Flemeth cared no more for the dwarves than did Morrigan. Nor was there anything to fear from an Old God in the form of a human child, who must be kept as far away as possible from the Deep Roads and the Taint. The scheme seemed far-fetched to begin with; let Morrigan hang herself with her own mad ambition.

  That was it, then; that was her plan. Alistair would lie with Morrigan and get a child on her… if he could. The two of them deserved each other. Signy Aeducan's odds of survival would significantly improve. And if she lived, she would go home.

  * * *

  "I can't believe you're asking this of me?" Alistair moaned. "It's... Morrigan!"

  Signy did not voice her honest opinion. Honest opinions were best kept to oneself. Honest opinions got one killed. She wondered how she had ever found this weak, whining, spiteful creature attractive.

  She said softly, "I can't believe you would refuse me, after all we've been to each other... after how you've hurt me. Do you really want me dead so much?"

  "No! Of course not! Riordan said he'd strike the final blow..." His voice trailed off. Even Alistair could hardly miss the fact that nothing was certain. His shoulders slumped. "If you really think this is the right thing..."

  "I do. Ferelden needs its king. The Grey Wardens need a leader. I don't think that either of us can be spared. In other Blights, there were many Wardens. Here it's just down to us. Nobody has come to help us... except Riordan. We have to help ourselves, and make the best decisions available. It needs to be done. Kings have to do all sorts of things they'd rather not, but you owe it to your people to survive. If you don't, they get Freya. Is that what you want?"

  "Maker, no!" He shuddered. "Well..."

  "Come with me. If it must done, it's best to do it quickly."

  "Ewwww..."

  * * *

  Less than a month later, the Landsmeet Chamber glittered with festivity. People laughed and talked as if there had been no Blight; as if the Market were not still a charred ruin, as if thousands had not perished. In this place, the stone walls softened with silken banners, the nobles and their priests congratulated themselves on "their" victory. The women threw admiring looks at their young King, who was clad in gold-chased armor. Alistair himself seemed very uneasy as Arl Eamon presented suitable marital prospects to him. Signy laughed to herself. In such garb, Alistair strongly resembled his half-brother Cailan, whom Signy had also thought a very great fool.

  The band of comrades who had faced the Blight with her was breaking up. Alistair, of course, was King. Or he was called King, while that wily old fox Arl Eamon quietly pulled the—almost—invisible strings. No doubt Eamon had wanted to be rid of Loghain for years and years, and the Blight had given him his chance. Former Queen Freya was a carefully guarded prisoner in Fort Drakon. Cynically, Signy wondered how long she would last there before "natural causes" carried her off — for it was perfectly natural for anyone poisoned with deathroot or smothered with pillows to die. Eamon, of course,
would never tell Alistair, who might prove squeamish. And there was that pleasant, agreeable Bann Saladin, sliding effortlessly into the role of King's companion. Alistair had been mistreated by the Guerrins in childhood, and now would be manipulated by them as King. He seemed utterly oblivious to it. Eamon would definitely have it all his own way. Signy did not envy the young woman the Guerrins would choose to be Queen. Someone malleable, certainly; probably someone very young; someone who would be a childbearer only, sidAstrided to the nursery, the chapel, and the sewing-room.

  Wynne was staying with Alistair as Court Mage, to coddle and comfort him in her motherly way. Signy was not jealous: she remembered her own mother very well, and would not do her memory the insult of replacing her. She had her Aeducan cousins and her little nephew Endrin. She would very much enjoy taking charge of the boy's future. Alistair, on the contrary, had no family. His only blood relation, his laundress half-sister Goldanna, had been killed by the darkspawn, along with all her children.

  Morrigan was already gone, Ancestors be praised. She had left shortly after the battle, but apparently she had thought the ritual a success. She had promised never to return to Ferelden, but Signy had made her append to that an oath never to return to Orzammar as well. Signy was glad to be alive, but she had no desire to see the witch ever again. Morrigan had hated being underground for her part, and swore the oath willingly.

  Arvid was returning to his homeland. Signy approved of that, and of him. Home and home customs were always best.

  Zevran, too, was going home: going home to confront the Crows. In a sense, he was going home to confront his family; to show them he had made good elsewhere. Signy did not begrudge him that. Perhaps he would end up ruling them. That was not so different from her own ambitions.

  In a sense, Wanda was going home as well: going home to the Chantry, where she seemed to be most comfortable. There was no accounting for tastes. Signy thought that the doctrine the Chantry professed was ridiculous and its ideas imbecilic, but Wanda took comfort in them. Privately, Signy swore that she would not allow the Chantry to take root in the dwarven realm. If the human priests and Templars tried to make something of it, then she would cut off their supply of Nacronite, and they could see how they liked it. Signy was not afraid of Templars, and she was most especially not frightened by the image of Templars bumbling about in the darkness and silence of the Deep Roads.

  Signy had assured Oghren of an honored place in Orzammar, but he had too many bad memories. He had found himself a surface girl—with Signy's help—and seemed determined to make a new life here. His drinking would probably never stop, but for a while, at least, he had a good reputation among people who knew nothing of his past. Perhaps it was for the best.

  To her surprise and pleasure, Gorim made an appearance at the Landsmeet. He had survived the sack of Denerim by the wise tactic of not being here at the time. He was richly dressed, and carrying a letter from Harrowmont. All was forgiven. She was welcome in Orzammar. She had been acclaimed as a Paragon. Harrowmont intended to make her his heir. Everything she ever wanted—and more— was hers to take.

  "And are you coming as well?" she asked.

  "For a time," Gorim said, looking torn. "I'm told that I'm restored to clan and caste, but I've made a life here. I have a child. I can't simply leave him."

  "Take him with you. He'd be warrior caste, and your wife would be accepted as well. Your son should know his heritage. Orzammar cannot spare its sons."

  He laughed his rich, warm laugh. "Or its daughters, like you. It's all turned out for the best, after all."

  The herald thumped for attention. King Alistair had something to say.

  "Friends, we meet here to honor those who fought against the Blight. Above all, we must honor the one who led the charge against the Archdemon. Grey Warden Signy Aeducan, Ferelden thanks you!"

  Signy stepped up on the dais, bowing and smiling, diplomatically gracious. She might need these people someday. It did not hurt to be tactful, however much she despised them.

  Alistair was still talking, grinning at her as if he was about to give her the finest present in the world. "The Arling of Amaranthine, once Arl Howe's, will be given to the Wardens. There, they can rebuild!"

  Signy had not been consulted about such a move, and kept her face blank. Give away part of his realm to the Grey Wardens? Was he mad? No, he was a fool. Signy wanted Grey Wardens in Orzammar, but was not about to hand over a thaig to them. Was this some sort of consolation prize? A bone, thrown to a cast-off mistress? Did that ass Eamon think she should be grateful to be made a vassal of a petty human king?

  Evidently so.

  "Warden Aeducan," Alistair beamed at her, "what boon can I grant you worthy of your service?"

  A number of amusing ideas popped into Signy's head: all equally impossible. She savored the moment, and then simply said, "I ask only that the sacrifices of the Grey Wardens be recognized and remembered."

  Alistair was incapable of hiding his thoughts. He was puzzled/pleased/displeased/disappointed/confused in quick succession. The expressions flitted across his face like wind over a grassy meadow. Signy maintained her pleasant countenance, her laughter unheard and unseen.

  "But…" Alistair tried again. "What are your plans?"

  "I am returning to Orzammar. The dwarves need me."

  He was thunderstruck. He gaped for a moment, and then hissed, "The Grey Wardens need you! Ferelden needs you! I'm offering to make you Arlessa of Amaranthine!"

  "Well, there is but one of me, and I am not a human noble, but a dwarf. I shall indeed continue my work as a Grey Warden, but in the Deep Roads. I think the First Warden will like my ideas."

  He sputtered for some time. Signy smiled and bowed, and joined the rest of the dwarves for a farewell round of drinks.

  Home. She was going home.

  Chapter 12: The Last Cousland, Part 1

  What kind of Ferelden was this? Fergus Cousland looked about the Landsmeet and found little he recognized. It could not simply be the damage to his head from a darkspawn war axe.

  Many longtime nobles of the Landsmeet had been swept away by the civil war and Blight. Most echoingly empty were the places held by his own father, by Arl Rendon Howe, and by Teyrn Loghain, who had practically been a Fereldan institution from Fergus' earliest memories. He was dead, killed by their new King. Queen Freya was a prisoner in Fort Drakon, from all reports not held under the mildest captivity. No one was permitted to visit her, which Fergus thought cruel and excessive. Theoretically, even if she were no longer Queen, she was the rightful Teyrna of Gwaren.

  At least he himself had been confirmed as Teyrn of Highever. After a year of slow recovery among a savage tribe of Chasind Wilders, he had made a lonely, arduous journey through the south, seeing death and devastation at every step. He learned scraps of wild rumors at isolated farms and tiny villages. He had lived like a scavenger, looting the bodies of bandits who had tried to rob even one so destitute as he. There had been a period when he had fallen into a black spiral of anguish and apathy, when he finally could no longer deny the overwhelming evidence that his entire family was dead. Revenge, finally, had put him back on his feet and on his way north: the drive to make those culpable pay for their crimes. In time, he learned that Howe was already dead. Someone else he had wronged had dealt with him. It was disappointing not to strike the blow himself, but at least Howe was no longer in the world, triumphing over the Couslands.

  In the backwash of the horde's march on Denerim, he had come across some officers he knew, and who were in turn astonished to see him. He joined them, showing them with wry laughter the crease in his skull. His hair had grown over it at last, but it was still easy to feel. He had a nervous habit of running his finger along it when he was thinking. Newly outfitted and armored, he was able to take at least some part in the battle in the Denerim streets and share the joy with his fellow soldiers when they knew the Archdemon was dead. Other officers dragged him along with them, and
finally, at one celebratory campfire, he came across fellow nobles, who regarded him in astonishment, as one who had returned from the dead.

  For just a moment, he had wondered if Arl Eamon was going to claim he was an imposter. That had proved impossible, however, for Fergus was recognized first by kinsmen and the old Highever banns: people like Leonas Bryland and Alfstanna Draven. They welcomed him so warmly that any question of his identity had died aborning. Had he been mistaken, or had he seen a flash of anger on Eamon Guerrin's face? The Great Seal of Highever was located at the estate of the Arl of Denerim, and had been formally returned to Fergus, with many good wishes.

  Highever House, the seat of the Couslands in Denerim, was damaged by the battle, but had not been polluted by the darkspawn. It had, of course, been looted by Arl Howe, the murderer of his family. Howe had not destroyed it, probably keeping it as an investment. There were still some furnishings there, though very few valuables, aside from a hidden cache that Howe's men had not been able to detect. Thus, Fergus had coin enough to buy some of what food there was for himself and the handful of men who had gravitated to his service. Servants, too, were easy to come by, as many had lost homes and livelihoods, and were thankful for a roof over their heads.

  For the moment, he seemed safe enough from court machinations: safe to return to a much-diminished Highever. Its principal vassalage had been given to the Grey Wardens without a by-your-leave. It must have seemed easy pickings, with the Howes gone and no Cousland in sight. At the morning Landsmeet session, Fergus glanced at Arl Eamon, and gave him his pleasantest smile. No use tipping his hand too early, but he would have his revenge.