Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

  "At the moment," Zevran groaned, "I am not much impressed with the Maker." He clutched at Tabris arm. "Do it, my friend. Leave me a shred of dignity. I do not want to die mindless and raving."

  Tabris had killed many men—and women, too, for that matter—but having to kill a friend in cold blood was not something he had ever expected. He glanced at Wynne, wanting to ask her for some potion that would kill without pain, but she refused to look at him. Her lips were pressed together, perhaps so she would not burst out with a diatribe about healing arts never being used to bring death. It was hypocrisy, or willful blindness, since Tabris had seen Wynne kill with her magic; but everyone had a line they would not cross.

  So he made it quick and not very messy, slipping the blade under his friend's arm and finding the heart. Zevran had only a moment of intense pain before he relaxed with a faint, grateful smile. Then Tabris turned to Wanda.

  "Don't!" cried Alistair.

  "Do it," Morrigan snarled, her voice hard. "'Twould be cowardice to hesitate, and do her no good at all!"

  "That's the Stone's own truth, and it's what we do in the army," Oghren agreed. "Get it over with."

  Alistair backed away. "Don't expect me to help you!"

  "I don't," Tabris replied. He had had precious little help from anyone in his life.

  Wynne did not try to oppose him physically, but her face was implacable. Tabris ignored her, and tried to make Wanda's last moments as painless as possible. He was not entirely successful, but she was so far gone that she did not understand what was happening to her. It was pitiful—it was unspeakably pitiful—that all her beauty, all her talent and wit and charm should be reduced to this decaying flesh.

  It was done, and he sat back on his heels.

  "Not going to rob their bodies, too?" Alistair gibed bitterly, distraught and tearful.

  "Not just at this moment, no. I was going to move them to that little crevice over there, so the darkspawn won't paw at them. Where's Arvid?"

  They found him after a short search, helped by Wynne's magical wisp-light, and more by Arf's superb sense of smell. They thought him in deep meditation, for he sat as he usually sat for that; legs folded, hands clasped, head bowed. His back was to a wall. Tabris looked again, and then crouched down to look closer.

  "Arvid?"

  The dog whimpered.

  Tabris realized then that he was standing in blood. The Grendle was quite dead, his hands folded over the dagger that had taken his life. Tabris got up and walked away, scraping the blood from his boots.

  Oghren nodded with approval. "Took care of it himself. Good man. That's what I'd do." The dwarf nodded again, and stalked back to the others.

  Tabris had no idea what he would do in such a situation, but it was useless even to think about it now. If he lived long enough to face his Calling, would he march boldly and alone to his death in the Deep Roads, or would he follow Arvid's example, and choose his own death?

  He glanced over his shoulder, and then quietly relieved his Grendle companion of his purse and some odd valuables. No point in leaving them for the darkspawn. He would keep the miniature portrait of the Rebel Queen to preserve the memory of a brave man. Zevran and Wanda had some things in their packs he would want, as well.

  * * *

  A dismal, diminished party of five people and a dog arrived at the gates of Orzammar without fanfare.

  It was late, as the dwarves reckoned it, and so they would sleep first, wash, and then report to the Assembly with a crown and a Paragon's testimonial. No one else had fallen ill. Wynne's meticulous habits and healing ability appeared to protect her, and Oghren's resistance had done likewise for him. It was Morrigan who worried Tabris.

  "You're still feAstridg all right?" He asked the witch for perhaps the twentieth time.

  "I am perfectly well," she answered, impatient with him. To make him stop his well-meaning hounding, she said more than she had intended. "My mother gave me a charm against the Taint."

  He stopped, and stared at her. "A charm? Nothing you could have shared?"

  "No, I could not share it," she said, crossly. "For then I would not have it myself. There is the inn. Must I sleep in the same room as that tiresome old woman?"

  "No."

  There was no reason not to indulge her. Their dead friends had bequeathed them enough for such a luxury. Enough for a substantial wake, too. Tabris said as much. Alistair winced, and Wynne grimaced in disgust, but Oghren took it in stride.

  "I'm with you! We'll drink to them all: Red, the Assassin, and the Giant. Tough luck for them, but the Deep Roads never play fair."

  Chapter 18: Over the Edge

  Loghain strode through the doors of Arl Eamon's Denerim estate. He was framed on either side by his most trustworthy allies: Arl Rendon Howe and Ser Cauthrien.

  Ahead was the enemy. Could he be talked down? Intimidated? Coerced? Bought off?

  Obviously, the frightened mage whose name he could not recall had failed in his mission. Eamon was here, in sound health, and making trouble as only a Guerrin with no regard for Ferelden and a sense of personal entitlement as big as the sky could. Hardly a surprise: any noble who married an Orlesian was automatically suspect, even one who had done it out of childish rebellion against the sacrifices of his sister, Queen Rowan.

  She had fought tirelessly for Ferelden. Eamon, on the other hand, had come in at the end of the Rebellion, long after his father's death in battle, and had smugly inherited the arling without spilling a drop of his own blood. He and his brother had undermined Maric—and Loghain— at every turn. They had ruined Cailan—filling his head with rubbish, puffing up his delusions of grandeur, encouraging his fascination with all things Orlesian. If one thought about it clearly, Cailan's death could really be laid at their door.

  Marching forward, allowing the enemy no opportunity to think him weak, Loghain's thoughts were whirling, but he never broke stride. With Eamon was a motley gang of thugs and rebels—and a big, battle-scared mabari. There was a red-haired dwarf and a pair of mages: one young, one old. There was the reported Grendle mercenary, another young woman who might be the Orlesian contact, and—Maker's Breath!—there was that sleazy Crow assassin he had paid good coin to kill the Wardens! Saladin was not among them, interestingly. Eamon was not so sure of himself that he was going to risk his brother.

  No: instead there was the bastard pretender to the throne, whom the Grey Wardens had obviously been grooming for just this opportunity. From all his spies' accounts, the boy was a nonentity: a decent warrior, but easily led; without ambition, without drive, and without the intelligence to make him a danger in himself. Loghain knew that he should have followed sound advice some four years ago and had the boy killed. It was only loyalty to Maric that had prevented him. He had made a mistake in showing mercy, clearly.

  With the bastard was the Cousland girl, also a Grey Warden. Howe insisted that the Couslands had sold out Ferelden to Astrid. It might be true, or it might not: it hardly mattered now. Howe was a useful tool. The Couslands were dead, and of no use to anyone at all; and the only remnant of the family was this renegade girl who had managed to become a serious thorn in his side.

  "Hard to kill as a cockroach," Howe had complained, and there was some truth in that. There was a thin, silvery scar across her cheekbone, so at least someone had given it a serious try.

  She was, from all reports, the brains behind the bastard. She had survived the disaster at Ostagar, the chaos of the Circle's collapse, and had won a diplomatic victory of sorts in Orzammar. The current king apparently owed her his throne. She had sold herself to Astrid and to the Grey Wardens, body and soul, and need to be exterminated, like the rest of her gang.

  He had met her briefly at Ostagar, where she had approached him about her family's murder and her Conscription. She had seemed lost and desperate, still in a daze of grief. He had had a great many more important things on his mind at the moment, and had brushed her off with the assurance that Cail
an would see justice done in due course. About her Conscription, of course, he could do nothing, and told her so.

  She had clearly got over any objections to being a Grey Warden. And as to Howe's accusations... If her parents had indeed been traitors, as Rendon believed, how could she not have know about it? The wounded dark eyes had been used in a pathetic attempt to gain his sympathy, and Loghain had had little to spare. Now he had none.

  The dark eyes were fixed, not on him, but on the man to his left. They were not wounded, now, but glittering like unsheathed daggers. For the first time, Loghain felt faintly uneasy. Should he have flaunted his alliance with Rendon today? Eamon... he knew how to talk to Eamon. Could Eamon restrain his hangers-on, as Loghain could his?

  "Loghain," the arl greeted him. "This is... an honor...that the Regent would find time to meet me personally."

  "How could I not?" Loghain replied. "A man so important that he calls us all to Denerim while a Blight claws at our lands!"

  "The Blight is what brings me here," Eamon shot back, seemingly sincere. "With Cailan dead, Ferelden needs a king to lead it."

  Of course. The vile old opportunist.

  "Ferelden has a strong leader," Loghain snarled. "It's Queen. And I lead her armies."

  The Cousland girl impertinently interrupted him. "So where is Freya? Nobody's seen much of her. Not since you announced she needed a Regent. Can't she speak for herself? Can't she call on us for old times' sake?"

  Loghain sneered. "Ah, the Grey Warden Recruit. I thought we might meet again. You have my sympathies on the fate of your order. Pity they chose to turn against Ferelden."

  "Really?" she asked, deceptively wide-eyed. "Your sympathies? I got the impression that you couldn't stand Duncan, and that you despised the Wardens. Thought we weren't 'relevant,' whatever that's supposed to mean. The faint praise you gave the Wardens at Ostagar was something of a big giveaway. So is the scathing way you always say—" her voice dropped to a baritone growl "—'Grey Warden.'" She cocked her head. "You really don't have a clue how to fight the darkspawn, do you? Is that why you're killing Fereldans instead? Because I've been fighting darkspawn for nearly a year now, and I haven't seen you around."

  Furiously, he hissed, "You should curb your tongue! This is my city, and no safe place to speak treason!" With another sneer, he turned away from her, toward the arl.

  "There is talk your illness has made you feeble, Eamon. Some worry that you no longer have the strength to advise Ferelden."

  Eamon's carefully diplomatic demeanor cracked at that.

  "Illness?" he countered. "Why not call your poison by its true name? There are still those in the Landsmeet who are loyal to this country, and not to you and—" he glanced contemptuously at Howe and Cauthrien "—your sycophants."

  There was a ripple of approval from the Wardens and their allies.

  "Good one, Eamon!" said the Cousland girl.

  Loghain shrugged. "How long you've been gone from Court, Eamon! Don't you recognize Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine, and—" he added, for the benefit of the Cousland chit "—Teyrn of Highever?"

  Rendon smirked. "And Arl of Denerim, since Urien's unfortunate fate at Ostagar. Such an embarrassment of riches..."

  The Cousland girl was staring at him, an odd smile on her face. Loghain wondered if she was right in the head.

  "Yes, I recognize you, Rendon. Gutted any more children lately? That seems to be about your speed."

  Cauthrien, flushed with indignation, could no longer keep still. "You should hold your tongue before your betters!"

  Loghain grew even more uneasy at the malevolent mask that was turned toward his loyal lieutenant.

  "Was I talking to you? Were my words aimed in your direction? I don't think so!" Regaining her composure, the Cousland girl smiled again. "My betters? What a laugh. I was catching up with my godfather, not that it's any of the hired help's business. So, Rendon, who have you assassinated lately? Better get those crimes committed while you can, because your time is just about up. The Landsmeet still hangs murderers."

  Howe was not intimidated. "The Landsmeet will do as it's told. You have no rights there. Your family surrendered them when I revealed them to be traitors to the king. The most you can hope for is to crawl off and die under a rock in the Anderfels."

  The Warden mob shrank back in exaggerated terror, peppered with snorts and giggles. The big mabari lowered his head. Loghain eyed him warily.

  "He's your godfather?" asked the bastard, in a horrified undertone.

  "Sad but true," confirmed the girl, still laughing. "He actually gave decent presents. I guess the betrothal with his son Thomas is a no-go now. Just as well. You're much nicer. Tommy Howe is a sloppy drunk when he's in liquor, which is always."

  "Sounds like a fun guy," rumbled the red-haired dwarf.

  "If you think someone vomiting on your shoes while you're dancing with him is funny."

  Furious, Howe narrowed his eyes. "The last thing your father saw was your mother kissing my foot!"

  He glanced at Loghain, hoping for an appreciative audience, and so missed the lightning-fast, flat-handed blow coming his way.

  A smack!—a cra-a-a-ack!—and he was down, his ruined nose squirting blood. The girl stood over him, still smiling.

  "Are you hurt, Rendon?" she asked sweetly. "That looks terribly painful to me."

  Taken aback, Loghain's hand went for his sword.

  The girl kicked Howe in the head, and dragged him up by his thinning grey hair, a dagger to his throat.

  "You pull your fucking sword, Loghain, and he's dead, and so are you."

  Eamon seemed rather shocked, but the girl's thugs looked more than willing. The mabari was growling softly, tensed to spring.

  "What do you think, Eamon?" the girl asked. "Should we off them now, or later? Because one way or another, Loghain, I am having justice for my family, and if you say one fucking word against them I will fucking cut you down where you stand. Howe is a fucking liar, and as far as I'm concerned you're a fucking idiot to ally with him and give him the entire fucking North."

  Cauthrien, enraged, lunged at her. "How dare you speak to Regent like that!"

  "Enough, Cauthrien!" shouted Loghain, hauling her back. They were seriously outnumbered, and the girl before him was clearly over the edge of sanity.

  "That's right," she said, with the same faint smile. "Shut her up, Loghain, because I am totally uninterested in the opinion of your cocksucking campfollower. I'll tell you what going to happen. You are not going to pull your sword, but are instead going to effect a strategic withdrawal, just like you did at Ostagar. Remember Ostagar? Unfortunately for you, I was there, too, and somehow I just don't remember it the same way. I remember the Grey Wardens down in the valley dying to the fucking last man defending the King, while you scarpered off to become Regent. Handy, that."

  "Eamon," snarled Loghain, his eyes on the young lunatic, "do you countenance this? I had hoped to talk you down, but you've allied yourself with traitors as you grasp at the throne—"

  "Oooo!" shouted the girl, bursting out laughing, echoed by her friends. "What a hypocrite! Pot, meet kettle. And just so you know, I'm the one who stole your crown. It was tacky, anyway."

  "Eamon..."

  "Actually," Eamon said, still surprised, but trying not to laugh. "I find it all very refreshing, and a foretaste of what you richly deserve. No, my dear," he said to the girl. "We won't kill them now. We'll face them in the Landsmeet—all together—and destroy them. We will do what must be done openly, without secrets."

  "Good," the girl chirped. "Destruction would be nice. They didn't mind destroying my life at all. Then we'll go after the darkspawn. Too bad these idiots forced us to waste time on them."

  She shoved the groaning Howe at Loghain's feet. "Get out and take this trash with you, Loghain. So much better to have it all out in the open, isn't it? I didn't want to have to pretend to respect you anymore. Were you in it with him from the firs
t? Did he tell you he was going to kill everyone in the entire fucking castle, including six-year-old children? Did you get a big laugh out of that and slap him on the back? Is that why you sent Fergus out where he'd be sure to meet the horde?"

  Howe was in too much pain to be of any use. Loghain got an arm under him and began backing away, Cauthrien close at hand. Her hand hovered at her sword hilt, ready to draw and defend him. Eamon was still smiling.

  So were the Wardens and their friends, advancing slowly, seeing them to the door.

  The girl and her dog were in the lead, prowling after them like wolves stalking wounded deer.

  "You really don't get it, do you, Loghain? You've lost. Even if by some fluke you killed us all tomorrow, you're a dead man. The darkspawn are coming for you, and you have no hope of defeating them without us. And you know what? I don't think we really want anything to do with you, so you're out of luck. Enjoy your last days, Loghain. See you at the Landsmeet."

  Chapter 19: A Small Consequence

  "I promised that I would never return to Ferelden. I promised nothing else."

  Loghain read through the letter, thunderstruck. He read it again, and then was brought back to reality by the awful old woman tugging at his sleeve, demanding payment.

  He had private quarters here in Montsimmard. After too many murder attempts and too many fights that ended badly for the attackers, the commander had assigned him this cubby of a room in one of the ramshackle outbuildings: a narrow bed, a chest, an armor stand, a weapon stand, some self-made shelves, and a small table he used as a desk. The old woman peered at the place from the doorway, looking disappointed.

  "Her ladyship said you'd give me summat for bringing the brat t' ye."

  It took some time to decipher the dialect. Loghain's Orlesian had become fluent and idiomatic since his forced transfer to the Grey Warden fortress of Montsimmard, but country dialects were another matter.

  Perfectly clear, however, was the vile old hag's hand out for coin, and even clearer was the look of abject misery on the face of the sad little boy at her side.