Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

  Harry sulked, hating being called a child. Hermione took a breath to object, and then thought better of it. They caught each other's eye. They were certainly not going to go hide, most especially since none of these people had any right to tell them what to do. They had been fighting a Dark Lord for years, really, and they were not going to slink away from a mere dragon.

  "Just as you like," said Hermione blandly.

  There were embraces and last words before Loghain shoved the heavy door open and they rushed out to confront the Archdemon. Seen at much closer range, the dragon was terrifying: bigger than the Hungarian Horntail Harry had faced at the Tri-Wizard Tournament. It was sick and foul, with blank white eyes and diseased scales. The two friends let the mages and warriors rush past them and then each took a deep breath.

  Hermione said, "Let's cast the patronus charm, and then disillusion ourselves."

  "Sounds good. If all else fails, we have the cloak."

  "Expecto patronem!" rang out in unison, and stag and otter sprang forth to challenge the darkspawn.

  Then the disillusionment spell trickled down Harry and Hermione, shielding them from sight. They slipped away from the doorway and climbed up on a ballista platform. From there, they had a clear field of fire. Within a few moments, a crowd of archers burst out from the doors below. They were elves: tattooed and fierce, and their arrows were a terror to the darkspawn. Further away, the Grey Wardens and their friends had engaged the Archdemon, which was ineffectually attempting to flame the mocking patroni. The two youngsters grinned, and then began casting spells where the opportunity offered.

  Darkspawn fell, and some elves, too: more reinforcements arrived. Harry reached out for Hermione's elbow and whispered, "We need to get closer to the dragon!"

  They edged cautiously around the perimeter wall, now and then shielding from a stray arrow or spell. Their new acquaintances were finding the Archdemon heavy going.

  Zevran was down, knocked flat on his back; and only a quick roll saved him from being trampled by a gigantic draconic foot. Loghain ducked behind his shield to avoid purple, arcane flames, and Lesley, taking advantage of the Archdemon's distraction, had vaulted onto the creature's neck, stabbing at the horned head.

  Harry and Hermione tried a unison stunner, and it seemed to them that the Archdemon slowed briefly, just enough to let Lesley get a better grip, and for Loghain to rush in and slash at the lowered neck. It was endless cut and thrust, and the exhausting fight was only possible because Wynne kept casting rejuvenation spells at her friends, though she herself was reAstridg with the strain.

  "Let's try another one," whispered Hermione.

  "Stupefy!"

  Yes, the Archdemon really did stumble a bit that time. They were winning. Between them, Lesley and Loghain were about to finish off the dragon. The rest of the darkspawn lay dead, and the allies had turned bows and swords on their common enemy.

  The Archdemon uttered a head-splitting shriek, its mighty tail knocking its foes flying. At that very moment, Lesley's sword found its brain, and Loghain's its heart. A white light split the darkness, and a shock wave slammed out like a hammer.

  Harry and Hermione sprawled on the rooftop pavement, as stunned as everyone else. The patroni faded away, and in the ensuing silence, people tried to comprehend what had happened.

  Lesley staggered up, wiping blood and matter from her face. She stared at the dead dragon in disbelief, and then fell to her knees, sobbing.

  "It's done! It's done! It's over!"

  Loghain stumbled over to her, and patted her awkwardly on her armored back. They said something to each other in low voices, glancing back at Morrigan, who was leaning on her staff, apart from the rest. Wanda rushed up to hug Lesley, and then Wynne. And then Zevran, too, giving Loghain an impudent grin that neither Harry nor Hermione quite understood.

  "Finite incantatem," murmured Harry. "Come on. Let's join the celebration."

  "I hope it involves a way for us to have baths," said Hermione. "I'm absolutely filthy."

  They came forward shyly, hand in hand, and were promptly hugged, too. Hermione accepted it more gamely than Harry, who blushed scarlet.

  While the others gasped out their relief, Loghain took the two youngsters aside to speak to them seriously.

  "I don't know where you're from, but I suspect you made all the difference today. You have my thanks. I didn't think we'd make it—or at least not all of us. I give you my word that we'll do our best for you. You won't be given over to the Chantry: not if I have anything to say about it—"

  "Please, sir," Hermione interrupted. "Why would that be bad?"

  That brought him up short for a moment. It was clear that he was surprised at her ignorance. He scowled—once again like Snape.

  "The Chantry," he said, speaking low and swiftly, "believes that mages are dangerous creatures to be imprisoned and watched. Wynne over there," he gestured, and it was clear that he did not much like her, "is only with us because she's been a good girl all her life and won the trust of the Templars, who guard the mages. If you don't do that, you spend your entire life locked up, or rendered Tranquil to make you docile. If you try to escape, they can kill you, and they do. I wanted the mages to be able to fight for Ferelden, but that turned into a political mess. Mostly my fault, I admit. If the Chantry finds out you're mages, they'll take you away and question you, and if they don't like the answers, they can do anything they like to you. Some mages evade the Chantry, and they're called apostates. Templars have the right to kill them on sight if they resist arrest."

  "All we want," Harry protested, "is to go back to our own world. We have a Dark Lord to fight! People need us!"

  "Well, I wouldn't know how to do that," Loghain shrugged, rather curious to hear the whole story when they had the time. "It's all I can do to deal with this world. And don't go talking about other worlds: it's Chantry doctrine that there's only one. Maybe somebody else knows something about your world, but in the meantime, I'll do my utmost to keep the Chantry's paws off you. It'd be best if you stayed with us. We can always say you're Grey Warden recruits, if we have to. You'd be safe that way. Come on, stay close to me... or to Lesley," he added grudgingly, "she's in better odor at the moment."

  He went immediately to have a word with his fellow Warden. She nodded, and made a point of pulling the two youngsters into the middle of their group. More mages appeared, and they were tasked with gathering and preserving the Archdemon's blood, scales, and bone. Wynne oversaw some of that. Harry looked about for Morrigan, but she had disappeared.

  "Where'd Morrigan go?" he asked Lesley, when he could make himself heard.

  "She's gone. She told me she was leaving. She never cared much for thanks, and even less for being thwarted!" Lesley managed a smile, and gave Harry's shoulder a squeeze. "Don't worry about her. You stay with us. Once this is taken care of, we'll try to find a way to send you home."

  "After a bath," muttered Hermione.

  Lesley laughed. "That, too!"

  Chapter 17: The Deep Roads Never Play Fair

  Even after their success in tracking down the Paragon Branka, it was hard to be cheerful. They had a long slog ahead of them back to Orzammar. They were tired, all of them, and not just of fighting darkspawn.

  The Deep Roads were far worse than they had imagined. And really, who could imagine them? A vast world under the surface, a network of mighty roads and noble cities, now crumbling and foul, blighted with Taint, overrun by darkspawn: who could conceive of it, save those who had seen it for themselves?

  "Orzammar spoiled us," sighed Wanda. "It was so… bright. And now… this..."

  Her voice trailed off, answered by whispering echoes.

  Oghren snorted. "Nobody'll ever mistake Ortan Thaig for the Diamond Quarter, no lie!" His supply of strong drink had long since run dry, and had taken much of his good humor with it.

  Mal Tabris said nothing. This was the worst experience of all, so far. He had found ways to cope
with his conscription, with the shattering violence of Ostagar, with the creeping evil of the blood mages of the Circle, even with the walking dead of Redcliffe. The Deep Roads were another matter.

  He hated being underground. Hated it. He tried not to think about the tons of stone and earth overheard, and how easily it could crush them all. He hated the darkness, he hated the stink. He had a horror of enclosed spaces, which made the connecting tunnels a special misery to him. After the disaster of his wedding in the Alienage and his subsequent killing spree, he had hoped for execution, rather than the slow death in the Arl of Denerim's dungeon cells. unable either to stand or lie down. The Deep Roads were that fate raised to the next order of magnitude. Sometimes it was hard to breathe, especially where it was darkest...

  Here and there, some of the ancient dwarven crystals still glimmered feebly. That light was supplemented by the bonfires the darkspawn kindled. Occasionally, Tabris had to ask Wynne for magelight. This was a world without sun, and Tabris loathed it. Perhaps it was his elven heritage, though he had come across elves who lived in the dwarven realm on a permanent basis. Mages, of course. The dwarves had no problem with magic; and mages, whether human or elven, could hire themselves out down here without fear of Templars. Of course, that meant that they gave up forever the sight of the sun, the moon, and the stars; that they would never again smell a flower, or see a tree in full leaf; that they would never feel the clean, fresh wind on their faces. It was a steep price for freedom. Tabris was not a mage himself, and so could not judge if it was truly worth it. A mage in the Circle gave up all those things, anyway, and had no freedom, either.

  But this world below was not for him. He could not get out of here soon enough. It was all he could do not to scream and run.

  Alistair and Morrigan did not much care for Oghren, but Tabris took a great deal of comfort from the dwarf's presence. Oghren's crudity was no problem for Tabris: he had heard far worse from elves in the Alienage and from the humans who exploited them. The dwarf had stone sense: absolutely invaluable underground. Tabris could be sure they were on the right road back to Orzammar. The dwarf was a fine warrior, too, and Tabris was glad to have his axe in between them and the darkspawn. Dwarves were resistant to Taint, he'd been told. That was something of an issue down here, where Taint was black on the stones under their feet, slimy on the walls of the tunnels, dripping down above their heads.

  In fact, were it not for the fact that he was a Grey Warden and therefore already infected with a slow form of Blight Disease—for that was the honest way to describe what the Joining had done to him—he would feel himself in serious danger.

  He glanced at his companions, silhouetted in the dim light. Alistair was keeping up easily, buoyed by Grey Warden stamina, as was his mabari Arf, sustained by what Tabris suspected was an accidental, canine version of the Joining. The others—aside from the indomitable Oghren—were showing serious signs of fatigue and stress. Even Wynne and Morrigan, with their magical skills, were not immune: Morrigan seemed to loathe the Deep Roads as much as Tabris himself did, and Wynne was worn out with having to constantly heal or rejuvenate the party.

  Zevran saw him looking, and his weary expression immediately transformed into a jaunty smirk. He was the one member of the party that Tabris actually regarded as a friend. They were both elves: they both comprehended the degree to which the whole world was hostile to their kind. Besides, Zevran was simply good company, and had never shown himself to be either condescending or clueless. Tabris liked Wynne and Wanda, but they often said things to him that showed how much they took the privilege of their humanity for granted.

  "Not much farther to go, my friend," said the other elf, clapping him on the back. "Oghren says that three more camps should see us to the gates of Orzammar. Then, at least, we will no longer be burdened by the new king's most resplendent crown."

  Tabris managed a wry smile. "Hideous, isn't it? There's no accounting for lack of taste."

  The other elf laughed. "Some would say that one can never have too much gold or too many jewels!"

  Oghren overheard them. "That pretty much sums up deshyr 'taste,'" he agreed.

  Tabris shrugged. "Everybody's different. It just seems overdone to me."

  Perhaps it was reverse snobbery on his part. It was easy to despise riches if you'd never had any.

  After a long and tiring trek, they moved into the cavern of Ortan Thaig, and the general illumination was improved by dwarven crystals. His companions looked even worse than he had thought. Oghren was simply filthy from battle and dried blood, but Alistair himself was a bit pasty, and the mages greenish-pale. Arvid lumbered along, lavender eyes dulled to a muddy purple. Most alarming, Zevran and Wanda were haggard and hollow-eyed, though both of them put up brave fronts.

  "I hope we can rest soon," Wanda murmured. "I feel as if I could sleep forever." She stumbled over the uneven stones, and Alistair quickly put out an arm to catch her.

  "Maybe we should camp here," he suggested. "Wanda's pretty done in. Morrigan and Wynne don't look so good either."

  Morrigan huffed indignantly, annoyed at the way he put it. "I am perfectly capable of continuing for hours." Her voice was too loud in the vast space, and unnaturally shrill. The witch herself shrank back a little at the sound of it.

  Wynne sighed, "I, however, am not ashamed to admit that I am not."

  Well, it was no wonder they were exhausted. They had fought past mobs of darkspawn and golems, through long-lost dwarven thaigs and past fiendish traps. They had seen the Archdemon from hiding. They had met the mad Paragon Branka, and had made a deal that Tabris hoped did not come back to bite them. They did it on strange-tasting water and unfamiliar, unpalatable food, in the twilight—sometimes pitch dark— world of the Deep Roads.

  They made their way to a dim little alcove and Tabris, Alistair, and Oghren up something resembling a camp. Their companions were too weary to help. Nobody actually needed tents in the Deep Roads, and their food supplies were almost gone. Even the deepstalkers and nugs had been hunted out of this place. There was nothing to do but try to make themselves as comfortable as possible and eat cold bits of their remaining food. Alistair fetched water from a little pool in the hollow of a boulder, which was fed by a slow drip from the ceiling. They could hope that trickling through all that stone filtered out the worst of the nastiness.

  "I'll take the first watch," Tabris said. "Alistair, you'll be next, and then Oghren."

  "Fine by me," rumbled the dwarf. He curled up among the stones and was snoring almost instantly. The rest were mostly asleep already.

  * * *

  Mal Tabris slept poorly, hounded by gibbering darkspawn and the whitened, searching eyes of the Archdemon. It was something of a relief when Oghren nudged him with a steel capped boot. He opened his eyes to dim light and the dwarf's grim face.

  "Something's happened," said Oghren. "Thought you'd better know the worst."

  For a moment he thought they must be under attack. Then he sat up and saw the little knot of people a few feet away.

  Alistair and Wynne were on their knees, leaning over prone, twitching figures. Morrigan stood apart, her back to a cavern wall, her face utterly blank. Arvid, too, had withdrawn from the group. He was watching Wynne intently, and then noticed that Tabris was awake. The Grendle's face was a mask of assumed calm, much like the expression he had worn when imprisoned in the little cage outside Lothering, awaiting death by thirst or starvation or exposure or darkspawn.

  Tabris got to his feet, sick with dread, and walked closer. Even in this light, he could see enough of Wanda and Zevran's faces to know. Bruise-like patches marred their skin. Wanda moaned, and her eyes opened. The bright blue was gone. Instead, they were pale and filmy, presaging a terrible metamorphosis.

  Alistair looked up at him in wretched despair.

  "There's nothing we can do!" he blurted out. "Nothing we can do..."

  Zevran stirred, and licked his lips. Tabris grabbed at a canteen, an
d knelt to help him drink.

  "Thank you, my friend," croaked Zevran. His eyes rolled toward Tabris. "All things considered, I'd rather be in Antiva."

  "Zevran..."

  "How very strange. Of all possible deaths, this is one I never imagined. You will see to it yourself, my friend? You will not leave us here, to slow death in the darkness?"

  "Maker, Zevran! We're not going to leave you! Either of you! We can carry you... make a stretcher... a travois. We'll get you back to Orzammar... back to the surface..."

  "The surface?" whimpered Wanda. "I should like to see the sun again.."

  Wynne shook her head at Tabris, just a little, but he had no trouble understanding her. There was no cure for the Blight Sickness but death.

  Tabris had seen it in Ostagar. Once contracted, Blight Sickness was always fatal. Some it took slowly, and others with frightening speed, but the end was always the same. Surely if Duncan had known of some way to help those dying in fever and delirium, he would have done so. Not even Grey Wardens, it seemed, could offer any hope.

  Where had they become infected? Anywhere... everywhere... That they fell sick at the same time suggested it might have been the same place. Tabris instantly thought of the Broodmother's lair, soft matter squelching under their feet, spattering everywhere as they fought, getting into their armor, their hair, their skin, their mouths... His head spun, and he thought he might vomit.

  He controlled himself. This was not about him. The disease progressed rapidly. Wanda was feverish and soon babbling of darkspawn coming to take her and make her theirs. Tabris wanted to clap his hands to his ears to shut it out.

  Alistair said, "I can carry her away so she doesn't bother Zevran..."

  Zevran heard him. "No. Better that we not die alone. Finish it, I beg you. It is pointless to prolong this torture."

  Wynne was shocked. "We cannot kill you, Zevran! It would be murder! The Maker forbids—"