Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

  Glaring at her, he very carefully formed the words. Speaking was the only movement he seemed capable of at the moment.

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome. And leave the Wardens alone. They're a good bunch. Don't think I'm any admirer of the First Warden—I'm not. He's a useless dick. Nor am I saying that you should let the Orlesians use the order for infiltration. What you've got are some decent Fereldan Wardens, so stand back and let them do their job. And don't look at me that way: you should be ashamed of what you did to Wanda. I'm very fond of her. Don't ever bother her again. Do you understand me?"

  "She thinks you're Andraste."

  "Ha!" The girl rolled her eyes. "She's not the first who's thought that! I'm not, though. It doesn't matter. I did the job I was sent to do, and they had to let me go home."

  "So you're not from the Free Marches?"

  She huffed a laugh of contempt. "No, I'm not from the bloody Free Marches. They're all crazy there. I'm from Highever, of course."

  That raised about a thousand questions, but he decided not to pursue that, and asked about something else instead.

  "She said you knew everything about everyone," he growled, narrowing his eyes. "Prove it. What do you know about me?"

  She smirked, and leaned closer.

  "Rowan."

  He twitched. The hair on his head prickled.

  She shrugged. "I know everything about that. I didn't give my own Loghain a hard time about it, but I'm not happy with you, so I'm not going to spare your tiny feAstridgs. Rowan, Rowan, Rowan. You were Rowan's lover until you so generously gave her back to her betrothed. You and Maric really did a number on that poor woman, batting her back and forth between you like a shuttlecock. And by the way, Maric's not dead."

  "What!"

  "Not. Dead. He was locked up in the Crow prison in Antiva for awhile, but he's playing house with a witch in the Tellari Wilds at the moment. If you want to rescue him—and if he really wants to be rescued, because he won't be happy about you killing Alistair, and that witch is mighty alluring— you'd better get your arse up there, because there's a Tevinter magister who would love to get his hands on Maric to use him for blood magic. And that's all I'm telling you about that."

  He narrowed his eyes again. "You could be a demon—"

  Her eyes blazed, and she slapped him yet again. Hard.

  "Oh, for fuck's sake! You're a complete idiot! I'm wasting my time. I've got enough on my plate without worrying about alternate Loghains!"

  She grabbed him by the shoulders. "You liArvid to me. You are never to sell anyone ever again."

  He was silent. She scowled, and dug in her fingernails. It hurt a bit, and it was simply humiliating.

  "Repeat after me: 'I will never sell any sentient being as a slave ever again."

  He blew out a breath. "I will never sell any sentient being as a slave ever again."

  "Good. And that includes mabaris, too."

  He relaxed a little. No demon would say such a thing. Only a Fereldan would.

  But she was not done with him.

  "If Fergus Cousland is alive, you should arrange for Freya to marry him. Seriously. It will settle everyone down, and he and Freya will be very happy and have adorable children. Otherwise, she'll be a bitter, barren, lonely woman after you die, and there'll be a huge war of succession and the Orlesians will move in. Got that?"

  He could see it, all too vividly.

  "Is Fergus Cousland alive?"

  "Yes. I was promised that. Give him the Crown Matrimonial, and the Landsmeet will be your best friends again. He's a descendant of Calenhad, after all." She sat back, still frowning. "Look, I think I'm done here. Stop fucking up. Not all of it is your fault, because of the blood mages—you'll find out about that—but you still think you know more than the Maker. You don't. Leave Ferelden to Fergus and Freya, and go find Maric. Maybe he'll kill you, and maybe he won't, but he should come home and do his fucking duty for a change. Not that he'll want to. Thus the importance of Fergus and Freya. Anyway, I'm out of here."

  A hiss, and a sucking sensation, as if the atmosphere were imploding…

  Loghain opened his eyes in his own room, with a curious sense of loss.

  He sat up.

  Tellari Wilds?

  He stumbled out of bed, groping for the nearest map. He paused, thinking of the girl...Maude...

  Then he shook his head, and was soon absorbed in Antivan geography.

  Chapter 23: Dog Warden

  Black clouds roiled over Denerim, blotting out even the memory of the Sun. On high, the Archdemon shrieked in triumph. The Horde surged through the streets and alleys, dragging out those who had thought to hide, or were too weak, too ill, too pregnant, too old, too young, too poor, or too foolish to flee before them. They were not few in number, but as they were not noble or wealthy, their fate was considered acceptable collateral damage by their betters.

  The Wardens and their loyal companions fought their way through the Gate, the Market, and the Alienage, in pursuit of the Tainted Old God. It was not going particularly well. Their leader, Kundry Amell, a Circle Mage who was currently wondering how she had ended up in this situation, wiped her face, trying to catch her breath.

  "Missing Morrigan?" Alistair asked her, rather snidely. Back in Redcliffe, Kundry had tried to talk him into some sort of horrible ritual involving the witch, but he had refused. No way was he going to touch anything as scary or creepy as Morrigan, even if the witch took her toys and went home in retaliation. Not even if it meant that someone would die. He had enough to worry about. Being King was a serious undertaking. At least Loghain was dead. Remembering that always made him smile.

  But Kundry Amell was not smiling. At the moment, she felt played. Alistair had publicly cast her off, and then had refused to do the one thing that would make them safe. He had been busy at Redcliffe, talking privately and at length with Arl Eamon and Bann Saladin. They were making plans, and Kundry was certain they did not include her.

  No, indeed: it seemed more and more certain that the plans were to get rid of Kundry Amell, and with her the embarrassment of the King's dalliance with a despised mage. No doubt Eamon already had a proper, unmagical, noble bride waiting in the wings. The populace would love a royal wedding...

  "Yes," she muttered, after a brief, angry pause. "I'm missing anyone who might help me live through this, rather than throw me under the turnip wagon."

  "You knew what you were getting into when you became a Grey Warden!"

  "Excuse me?" She stopped dead, standing on the blood-soaked cobbles, considering regicide very carefully. "I knew nothing about the Grey Wardens, it seems, until three nights ago when Riordan told us the worst. And neither did you. Or so you claim."

  Alistair was outraged. "Hey!"

  Sparky, Kundry's big mabari, uttered a long, ominous growl. Alistair backed away, hands up placatingly. Sparky had never growled at him before.

  Except for that one time, long ago, when Alistair had cast aspersions on his intelligence.

  "Just how smart are mabari supposed to be, anyway? Do you think they understand everything we say?"

  Sparky yipped agreeably.

  Alistair was not satisfied with that answer.

  "Oh, is that so? You could just be liArviding to the tone of my voice. You could be an utter moron, for all we know."

  Sparky growled, a low warning rumble

  "Hey, now... There's nothing saying that a moron can't be cute and adorable. Who's the cute and adorably puppy?"

  A cheerful bark, and the quarrel was over.

  But Sparky was not playing now. He knew perfectly well that the young cur had wounded Pack Mother very deeply. He was an Un-friend, and Sparky had no intention of letting him trouble her further. Last night, Sparky had considered finding the cur's lair and ending him, but they had more important things to do. They must destroy the Filthy Ones and their Leader first, and then they would drive the treacherous cur from their
Pack. At the moment, It was for him to fight at Pack Mother's side, and keep her safe while she worked wonders. There was no one as strong, as beautiful, as powerful as Pack Mother.

  Kundry smiled, rubbing Sparky's ears, and they moved on. More darkspawn fell to them as they cleared the area around the palace, and then moved on to Fort Drakon. Far above them, Riordan sacrificed himself to cripple the Archdemon, and for the first time, Kundry felt they had a chance at doing what needed to be done.

  She knocked back a Nacronite potion, and planned their next move carefully. The courtyard outside the Fort Drakon gate was the worst so far, and they almost lost Arvid, but the dragon thralls fell at last, and the way was open before them.

  Up the long stairs they fought, from floor to floor. Fort Drakon was tall: the tallest structure in Ferelden by far, taller than Kinloch Hold; taller even than the Tower of Ishal. It accordingly held many more darkspawn they had to kill.

  Kundry sensed her doom approaching. She knew she was being stage-managed into killing the Archdemon. Alistair would do just enough to help, but in the end, he would leave it to her. He had always left everything to her before, so she should not be surprised. No doubt he would put on a good show of grief afterward, and say nice things to her companions, and then promptly forget about her once she crumbled to ashes. No one was likely to put up a statue to a mage, either, except in Weisshaupt, where no one but Grey Wardens would look at it.

  She felt trapped. She could not hold back, hoping to trick Alistair into striking the final blow. First of all, she did not hate him enough to want to kill him, and more importantly, she had to focus on destroying the Archdemon and ending the Blight, not obsess over her failed romance, which was pretty unimportant in the larger scheme of things.

  By the time they reached the top of the tower, she had resigned herself to her fate. What did it matter? What place was there for a mage is this world, anyway? She gave it her all, with dear old Sparky beside her, and she cared nothing for anyone else.

  Sparky was brilliant, as always, barking and lunging, distracting the Archdemon, giving Kundry the change to attack from the side, as she poured herself into her curses, whittling away at the Archdemon's obscenely swollen life force. Her friends hacked and slashed away. With the arrival of the Dalish elves to combat the last of the darkspawn, they could concentrate entirely on the Archdemon, and the Archdemon could not escape them.

  She cast a crushing spell on the Archdemon, briefly holding it in place, giving the warriors a chance to do some damage. Alistair hewed at the tendons supporting the neck, and the head drooped low.

  —And Sparky charged, a brown-furred terror, fangs bared. He leaped, and tore open the offered throat—

  And the world went white and brilliant.

  * * *

  "I still don't understand it," said the Second Warden, shaking his head. "How was it possible? He never had a proper Joining."

  The Chief Warden Archivist shrugged. "That we know of. The Dog Lords have their secrets. Clearly he had been exposed to a great deal of darkspawn blood over time. More research needs to be done. And the mage had a Joining amulet. Perhaps he got at it somehow... It's a mystery, I grant you."

  "The monument... The First Warden decided to go ahead with it?"

  "Of course. He slew the Archdemon. He perished in the deed. He deserves the credit. The Fereldans, of course, have put statues up to him all over their wretched little country."

  "Ha! I can imagine! Still, I imagine they'd rather honor a dog than a mage. The First Warden thinks the Amell girl is working out quite well as Warden-Commander, so it's all for the best. And a Warden King! Ferelden has gone in a year from being a place where Wardens were barely tolerated, to our greatest bastion outside the Anderfels. Very satisfactory."

  "Indeed. Come, you should see the monument."

  They climbed the twisting stairs up to the open mountain peak, where the tombs of the heroes were ranged about like shrines to ancient gods. There was the tomb of Garahel, there the monument to the band of Wardens who killed Dumat. The slayers of the Archdemon were assembled together, remembered for all time.

  And there, in deep bas-relief, was the image of the latest of the saviors of Thedas: a great hound, ornamented all around with arms and banners and wreaths of honor, and under the urn, the words of tribute:

  Chapter 24: Prodigal Son

  So this was the Hanged Man.

  Saladin had seen his share of taverns, but this horrible Kirkwall dive was not a place he would otherwise have patronized, had necessity not driven him here. Even the name was ominous.

  Not quite as ominous, though, as the stink as he crossed the threshold: sharp ale, sour sweat, and stale urine (which indicated that the regulars used those dark corners for more than just drinking). Saladin thought he had never seen such a hive of scum and villainy.

  The usual suspects lurked at the tables: shifty, unwashed, and ready to kill their grandmothers for a copper. Some of them, Saladin was sorry to note, might even be Fereldan, like the big fellow with the mabari and the lean, hungry look, plotting at a filthy table with a dwarf, a half-naked Rivainni harlot, a white-haired elf with a huge sword, a haggard blond man—obviously an apostate— in Tevinter robes, and a pretty young woman whose oversized walking stick also marked her as an apostate on the run. Sellswords at best, outright bandits at worst. Maybe a bit of both.

  Glad that his bodyguards were within call, Saladin skirted the unsavory gang, heading toward the back wall, where his quarry sat, hunched and miserable, face in a tankard. It was a wonder that drinking the stuff sold here hadn't already killed him.

  "Alistair."

  The drunken sot at the table lifted bleary eyes toward him. Oh, Maker! What had drink and the past three years done to the innocent boy he had known at Redcliffe?

  "Bann Saladin?" Alistair swayed on his bench and wiped his mouth. "What are you doing here?"

  "I've come to take you home," Saladin said, his heart breaking. "It's time to return to Ferelden."

  "Uh..." Alistair seemed unable to process this, but was unable to put up any resistance. Saladin pushed the emptied tankard away, and put a calming hand on Alistair's shoulder.

  "Come."

  "Uh... all right." The boy smirked, waving a nonchalant farewell to the loathsome wretches crowding the tavern.

  "See?" he croaked. "Told you I was somebody! Prince of Ferelden, me! This is Bann Saladin, my friend, a very 'portant noble. My friend."

  "Not very particular about his acquaintance," muttered the leader of the sellswords, with a sneer.

  Saladin bridled, but it was useless to make something of it. It was hard enough to get Alistair on his feet and walking to the door. The boy stumbled and nearly went down, while the denizens of this blot on the city looked on with utter indifference. Had no one here ever tried to help him?

  "I told you, Hawke," said the dark-skinned Rivainni woman, "He really is a Prince. I met him in Denerim during the Blight."

  "Then clearly," Hawke pointed out. "Birth isn't everything."

  "A runaway Warden, too," remarked the blond male apostate. "Not that there's anything wrong in that, except the part about leaving just as the Horde was marching on the city."

  The big man... Hawke... returned to his ale with a shrug and a curious look of shame. "None of us is in a position to throw stones..."

  Blessedly, Saladin got the door shut behind them and was free of the riffraff's unwanted observations.

  "Here," he told his men. "Help Prince Alistair. We're going straight to the ship."

  "Ship?" Alistair bleated. "A ship? We're going to sail the sea? I get seasick, you know—"

  And with that, he made a quick half-turn, spewing in a reeking arc onto Saladin's doublet and the men's armor. Being professionals, nobody swore. They had been briefed about this young man's importance. The Bann needed to get him back to Ferelden in one piece.

  Alistair sagged in the men's arms, still feebly vomiting. When he wa
s done, he let out a long sigh, and passed out.

  What to do?

  "Take the top of one of those market trestle tables," Saladin ordered, "Put him on it and carry him that way."

  Perhaps it was just as well that Alistair was out for the count, because it was quicker and easier to carry him than to chivvy him along. Four men handled the makeshift stretcher, while the rest kept their eyes open for the robbers and vermin that lay in wait along Kirkwall's twisting streets. The sooner they were out of here, the better.

  Down the long stairs they went to the city docks, past the Grendle Compound. Saladin eyed that guarded gateway with some concern, wondering if the Viscount had gone utterly mad to permit all those armed heathens to occupy his city. They turned to the right and were over the gangplank and onto the good ship Queen Rowan in short order.

  "Take him to my cabin," Saladin instructed them. "Put him on the other bed. No. Wait. Get the stinking clothes off him first. Throw them away. Have the cook prepare some tea and bring it when it's ready."

  They quickly removed the remains of a once-fine Kirkwall doublet, and left to dispose of them. Alistair had presumably bought it when he first came to Kirkwall. Saladin sighed. Apparently he had sold his weapons and armor, as well as everything else. The pathetic cubbyhole where the lad slept had been nearly bare, with only a ragged blanket on the bare wooden bed. Eamon sent Alistair a regular remittance: small, but enough for a decent exiArvidce. Apparently, Alistair drank it all away. That had to stop. It would stop, starting with this voyage. It would take eight days minimum to make port in Denerim. Alistair would find it very dry, even surrounded by water.

  Someone had to dry the lad out, or the drink would kill him. Saladin blotted the traces of sick from his own clothes, and then sat down on his bed, lifting a ship's lantern to study the well-known face, grieving over the way drink and depression had marked it. Alistair looked a good ten years older: his eyes puffy, his nose flushed, his whole body softened with a diet of ale and a lack of any exercise other than lifting a tankard to his lips.