Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

  "Perhaps there is information at the Warden Compound," Loghain said, thinking it over. "If this truly is a Blight—which does seem more and more evident—then Ferelden must be prepared to fight it on its own. Get some sleep."

  He left her, guarded by her admirable mabari, and stepped out to consult with Cauthrien, who of course had heard it all.

  "Do you believe her?" she asked.

  "I do. Coupled with the story the stragglers told us, it all fits. Presumably the girl fell under some debris and was not noticed when the Archdemon broke into Ishal and carried off the boy. We have to presume she's the only Warden left in Ferelden, whether she likes it or not. We have work to do."

  * * *

  Note: Morrigan tells the Warden a whopper about a giant bird rescuing him/her from the Tower of Ishal, but we've all seen Flemeth's dragon form in DA2. If some army stragglers saw Flemeth in dragon form (at night), they'd certainly believe they saw the Archdemon. It's the one thing that might really convince Loghain that it's a Blight. Since the Darkspawn Chronicles exist, there exists a world in which Flemeth did not rescue the Warden. I tend to think that Flemeth might not be so interested in a female Warden who could not perform the primary function Flemeth required. As long as Deirdre gets up to Soldier's Peak and talks to Avernus, she has a fighting chance. And of course, in this scenario, Howe is largely out of luck, since Loghain will consider Deirdre far more useful.

  Meanwhile, Alistair is down in the Wilds with Morrigan, and will soon meet up with Wanda in Lothering. They will have quite different adventures, since I presume they would go first to Redcliffe.

  * * *

  4. The Blood of Calenhad,

  Or,

  A True King is a Father to His People

  A misadventure at Redcliffe, Dragon 9:30

  "I can't believe we've lost Alistair!" Saladin moaned to Eamon, for perhaps the five hundred and fifty-thousandth time.

  Their plan to counter Loghain at the Landsmeet with a true son of Maric had hit something of a snag. Alistair, while on a midnight raid to the kitchens of Redcliffe Castle, had slipped on the freshly-washed floor, fallen face-first into a vat of plum jam, and choked on an stray pit. His friend the Warden, had come to his aid, and pounded on his back to dislodge the obstruction.

  That had worked, but Alistair had turned to his friend, literally red-faced, grinning at his lucky escape, and ignored the fact that the floor was, in fact, still wet. He had skidded backwards through the window, falling a considerable distance to the lethal stone courtyard

  "Of course, it's our own fault," Eamon admitted, "for not having our kitchens on the ground floor like everyone else in Thedas, but that's neither here nor there. Guerrins cherish their lofty traditions. And Alistair, alas, is still quite dead."

  "I feel terrible about it," Saladin mourned. "and after all he did to save us."

  "Yes, yes," Eamon agreed solemnly, gesturing toward his steely eyes. "See the tears? I share your pain. Nonetheless, we must find a son of Maric to lead us against the forces of darkspawn, Loghain, and so forth."

  "But," Saladin objected, "There was only Cailan... and Alistair." He blew his nose into his exquisite handkerchief. It had a forget-me-not border crafted by Isolde himself. Saladin never wiped his nose with anything else.

  Eamon cleared his throat. "That's...not altogether true. Maric was a man of...vigorous...appetites. And it's always good to have a fallback plan or two."

  * * *

  "I'm not going to be King," Anders sulked, still obstinate about his "kingly" garb. "I'm a mage. And I hate breeches. I like the freedom of robes, if you catch my meaning."

  "I think you will find breeches no impediment to a King of Ferelden," Eamon assured him. "Your father—Maker turn His gaze on him—certainly never found them a hindrance."

  Saladin forebore to roll his eyes. Eamon had secrets within secrets, and somehow had known about this very difficult young man. If anything, he looked even more like Maric than Alistair had. He got on well with the Warden, too. They would somehow have to hush up the fact that he was very deplorably a mage. Then, too, they had been warned that he was something of an escape artist, but Eamon reasoned that the Circle had not exactly offered young Anders anything he might actually want. Whereas the Guerrins could actually offer him everything...

  * * *

  Nonetheless, within three days he was gone, leaving a trailing rope of bedsheets and some wounded feAstridgs in his wake. Wanda, Zevran, Wynne... Some wicked laughter, too. The apostate Morrigan positively cackled.

  "Now what?" Saladin moaned.

  "All is not lost," Eamon soothed him. "Don't let that Templar —Ser Cullen—go looking for Anders just yet. Send a servant to shave him, and take him the new doublet. It should fit him as well as Anders... or Alistair."

  "Ser Cullen?" Saladin choked.

  "Indeed. A true King is a father to his people."

  "I... see..." said Saladin, seeing.

  "Very well. Cullen seems a dutiful lad. And just in case he proves unsatisfactory... Gather my knights. There's a young man in a village south of here... Honnleath, I believe it's called..."

  Chapter 28: The Fall Alone Will Probably Kill You

  It was a crazy scheme. He was crazy to try it. A gust of wind tugged at Riordan's hair as he waited, here on the top of Fort Drakon, for his destiny.

  He had read it in a book, of all things, long ago, long ago when he was young; and his youth, beating in him like wings, made all great things appear not only possible, but absolutely inevitable.

  The book, by some Chantry sister who had certainly never in her life held a bloody blade in her soft little hand, claimed that this was a favorite trick of the old Nevarran dragon-hunters. Not only that, but that it was a trick that actually worked.

  It only worked, of course, for someone in superb physical condition and with no fear of heights or death. For years he had practiced with vaulting 'horses' and high bars, ignoring the jeers and rolled eyes. He had even taken lessons from minstrels and acrobats, learning the arts of walking the high wire and swinging on the trapeze. It was something to do; a silly hobby, perhaps, but his private obsession. After some years, when his swordsmanship and courage were proved beyond question, his comrades simple accepted it as part of him—and indeed something that gave him an extra edge in battle. The vaulting horse was now a permanent fixture in the Warden's Hall in Jader.

  Years passed: the Calling became a chilling reality, as friends departed on their way to the Deep Roads for that last, hopeless battle. His crazy pastime seemed more and more pointless—much like everything else in the world, and then—

  —The Blight happened. His friend Duncan's prediction had proved true, at last.

  He had dreamed of it, longed for it, hoped for it to happen now, now, now; in his lifetime when he could fight it. It was the secret, desperate desire of his heart. He would not be one of the futile caretaker Wardens, living in the dark valleys between the peaks of human experience: he would be an actor in the great drama of their time.

  First, however, he had to get to the theater, so to speak.

  The Blight was in Ferelden, in the Kocari Wilds to the south. That was where Duncan had predicted it would begin. The location of the sleeping Old Gods had formerly been shared with the Warden-Commanders, and one of them had been captured by the darkspawn and spilled everything he knew to the creature called the Architect. In the course of that adventure, Duncan had learned this scrap of priceless information. Considering how inaccessible Razikale and Lusacan were, there was no doubt that the next Archdemon to rise would be Urthemiel.

  Many dismissed the idea that the Blight would begin in Ferelden. Justly, they pointed out the extent of the Deep Roads. There was absolutely no reason that an awakened Archdemon would not seek out some more significant place than a backwater like Ferelden. Duncan thought differently, and that was one of the reasons he had always been something of an outlier in the order—like Riordan himself.

/>   They were not nobly-born, and so had no chance, especially between Blights, of rising to Warden-Commander in any of the great nations of Thedas. For that matter, both he and Duncan had been born in Ferelden, and were the children of immigrants. Duncan had sidestepped the issue neatly, by managing to hang on in Ferelden after the expedition with King Maric, building on Maric's casual tolerance and the more vocal approval of his son Cailan. He had little coin and few resources to work with. An unused wing of the palace was made available, but other than that, the Wardens were on their own. Nor was Weisshaupt particularly generous. The historical grudge against the nation that had exiled the Grey Wardens ran deep, fanned by the Orlesians in key post of authority. Duncan had no political or family ties to aid him.

  And needless to say, the nations of Astrid and Ferelden were hardly the best of friends, anyway. Orlesians might shrug and say the war was long over—while they quietly plotted to regain the lost province—but Duncan told Riordan of deep, bitter anger in the country of their birth. Even in a Blight, the Fereldans will not allow the Orlesians over the border to help them.

  Well, to be honest, they might well have allowed the Orlesian Wardens, but the Empress had made a package offer: accept her legions of chevaliers along with the Wardens, or get nothing at all. In those uncertain early days it was unsurprising that the Fereldans refused.

  But after the disaster at Ostagar, after the slaughter of their own Grey Wardens, Ferelden continued to refuse: blind to the dark flood about to overwhelm them. Something had to be done.

  "Let me go to Ferelden!"

  Riordan volunteered to be the Grey Warden liaison: to meet with the Regent Loghain Mac Tir and his advisers, and explain the threat in clear terms; to offer help and support; to set aside petty differences and old rancor, and fight against the common enemy of Thedas. To his surprise, his offer was immediately accepted.

  It had all gone wrong pretty rapidly. Riodan now suspected that he had been played by his Warden-Commander and by other, more powerful figures in the background for the most despicable political reasons.

  He never got as far at the Regent. Instead, he dined with the Regent's closest friend and adviser, Rendon Howe, whose idea of "having someone for dinner" was almost too literal. Riordan drank a goblet of excellent, drugged wine and awakened naked on the rack. Then things got even worse.

  It took those two children to free him, and their elderly mage companion to heal him, but healed he was, and with glittering opportunity now come to meet him like a veiled but willing bride. Alistair and his young friend need not die: not when Riordan had trained for this his whole life long.

  Shadow and fog whirled slowly about him, here on the heights. From the near distance came the echoing call of the Archdemon, trumpeting its ugly triumph.

  No more. No more, Maker. Give me strength, just this one last time.

  Vast, diseased, its wings billowing like the sails of a death-ship, the Archdemon appeared out of the darkness and swooped past, just below him. No time to think; just enough to act. Riordan sprinted across the top of the tower, sword and dagger at the ready; and with a wordless shout, launched himself into the indifferent air.

  He landed, with a bone-jarring thump, on the creature's back, nearly vomiting with the Arvidch of it. No time to process the pain, no time to taste the blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue... he plunged his blades into the Archdemon, anchoring him to the slimy, lesioned back.

  A quick, shocked gasp. He was touching the Archdemon. He was actually touching the Archdemon. How many people could say that? Ever?

  Now what?

  He could not pretend that his readings had ever prepared him for the incredible size of the beast. He could hack at the scales until the end of the world, and trouble Urthemiel no more than a flea.

  That was not the plan of course. He pulled himself together, remembering the elaborate scheme he had constructed over the last twenty-five years.

  The wings. The wings were key. Without griffons, the Grey Wardens were hopelessly grounded. The Archdemon could soar overhead, roasting them in their armor like turtles in their shells. If he did nothing else, he had to bring this monster down.

  A shrewd cut at a wing joint forced a spurt of Tainted blood and a bugle of outraged pain from the Archdemon. Riordan grinned fiercely. He could hurt it. Now he needed to cripple it.

  Yanking out his dagger, he leaped again, and the Archdemon shied, making him miss his target. Instead of falling to his death, his dagger caught on the dragonwing, taut with the effort of flight, and sheared through it like a length of raw silk.

  It caught on the last, tough sinew. Riordan's was briefly deafened by the Archdemon's agonized shriek, and the two of them began tumbling as the creature tried to use its ruined wing. Fort Drakon was close, and the Archdemon desperately fought to gain altitude, hoping to reach the top of the tower.

  Riordan tore free of the wing and leaped again, this time plunging his sword into a massive shoulder. Another screech, and they were going down, not up. The one good wing could only slow the fall so much, and the Archdemon's mass would make any kind of fall a fatal affair. The Archdemon scrabbled at Fort Drakon with its claws—

  —and missed. They were going all the way down to the squalid streets of Denerim. Riordan grinned again. It would absolutely kill the Fereldans to know that a man they considered Orlesian had saved them. Too bad he would not be around to gloat. Duncan had always said there was a fatal flaw in this plan.

  "Even if you disable the Archdemon, the fall alone will probably kill you!"

  They had laughed together, but it was the laughter of men condemned to die anyway. Better here, under the sky, than in the dark of the Deep Roads. Better for his life to mean something.

  The cobblestones rushed up to meet them. The Archdemon gave one last frantic shriek—

  —and a crushing impact ended all memories and plans.

  Riordan's grin lasted, though, until he burned to ashes on his elaborate pyre.

  Chapter 29: Hawkes Over Ferelden, Part I

  "There's no more time, Alistair," Duncan told his young protégé, trying to mask his own fear and anxiety. "There was no time to stop at the Circle, much less go north to Highever again. The King allowed me to conscript the young man who did so well in the earlier skirmishes. For that matter, I was tempted to conscript his brother, too. But one will have to do. With Jory and Daveth, I haven't any more supplies."

  "He doesn't seem very interested in being a Warden," muttered Alistair. In fact, the new recruit was quite angry about his selection, saying a number of unpleasant things, mostly about 'no good deed going unpunished.' "He says his family needs him—"

  "Ferelden needs him more," said Duncan, making it clear that there was no more room for discussion. "Liam Hawke will go through the Joining."

  * * *

  By the end of the ceremony, only he was left alive.

  Dazed and nauseous, Hawke staggered up from the nightmare of the Joining ritual, rinsed his mouth out with a long swallow of warm ale, spat it out in disgust, and staggered away to the meeting Duncan insisted he witness.

  Maker, what a debacle. Hawke was pretty sure everybody should just shut up and liArvid to Teyrn Loghain, but he was in no shape to tell them so, and neither was Teyrn Loghain. A prune-faced priest and a balding mage were squared off like a cat and a dog. Duncan was agreeing with everything the King said. Said King was prancing about like he'd invented war, and he interrupted the Teyrn while he was trying to explain the battle plan.

  Hawke had seen King Cailan fight, and the truth was that Ferelden's monarch was a decent hand with a greatsword—a dangerously slow weapon in Hawke's opinion— but had never really faced anyone other than Loghain with the balls to put him in his place. As sick and angry as Liam was, he might have considered it himself, but there was no time. For that matter, Carver—for some reason also enamored of the greatsword— could have handed Cailan his helmet in three moves.

 
And that stupid Chantry cow simply would not shut up about mages, even when Baldy there made a perfectly reasonable suggestion about using magic to light the signal. No, no... it must all be dramatic and soldierly, with no obvious use of magic. He and Alistair must run up the stairs and light the beacon, and then stand there with their thumbs up their arses, while the battle surged in the valley below.

  Hawke stared at Loghain, trying to catch his eye, trying to make him understand how bad all this was. The Teyrn didn't seem to need telling. He looked briefly at Hawke, frowning. Only two days before the man had given him a word of praise over that set-to in the Marshes. Now he didn't seem to know if he could trust Hawke, or not.

  "Yes, you can trust me."

  Hawke tried to communicate with his eyes and a faint curl of his lip as Duncan cravenly agreed to some idiocy the King was spouting. Loghain paused. Their eyes met, and the Teyrn looked away, his face revealing nothing.

  So Cailan wanted to fight in the vanguard with the Wardens. That totally sounded like Suicide by Darkspawn to Hawke, but who was he to question his betters?

  Well...he was the son of Malcolm Hawke, that's who! He hadn't precisely been raised to take the dictates of his "betters" on faith. A fool was a fool, even in gilded armor.

  True, the plan, taken as a whole, was not a bad one. The King's position was absurd, but Loghain clearly could do nothing about that, other than write the King off as potentially a total loss.