Dragon's Era- No Man's Land

by Jacon Winfree

  Carver was dead. His little brother, his life-long companion, was gone, killed by the Taint. He had fallen sick, and then he had gone grey, and then he had raved in a mad delirium, and then he had slipped away. His ashes filled a cheesebox in Hawke's pack. At least he had not been left to rot in the dark of the Deep Roads.

  "I guess swordsmen are more vulnerable than archers," Alistair said quietly, trying to comfort him. Alistair was upset, too. He had liked Carver: liked him better than Hawke, for that matter. That he was gone was a shock and a misery.

  Tanna seemed sad, and Alyson and Anders had been very kind. For Alyson, it was particularly poignant to meet a kinsman at last, only to lose him within a few days. It had nearly killed Anders himself to lose a patient. He had no idea in the world about what to do for Taint. The only thing that Alistair said would work was for the victim to become a Grey Warden, and they were unable to do that.

  The rest of the party was considerate, even Morrigan. Perhaps she knew better than to start something with Hawke that she might not like to see to the end. He was in a fragile state, ready to lash out at those who had manipulated the situation for their own advantage. Loghain Mac Tir was at the top of the list.

  Morrigan watched them all covertly, as they dispersed to their rooms in the tavern. She fingered her necklace. Unknown to the rest, the center bead could open, and contained something very valuable. Hawke would be beyond angry, if he knew that Morrigan had a potion, given to her by Flemeth, to protect her from Taint. There was a flower that grew only in the Korcari Wilds, which would prevent Taint taking hold; or, if Taint had already entered the blood, would mimic some the benign effects of the Grey Warden Joining potion. It did not make one sterile or doom one to early death, and so would be in tremendous demand, if it were known. The plant could not be domesticated, and greedy herbalists would gather it to extinction. It was a secret that Flemeth did not intend to share beyond herself and her daughters. How Hawke would react if he discovered that Morrigan could have saved his brother, but had not, did not bear thinking of.

  Of course, they were lucky not to have lost more of their number. Or part of it was luck, and part of it was having a very good Healer, who could close up wounds efficiently. The Wardens, of course, were unaffected anyway, and Oghren, the dwarf, was naturally resistant. For the rest, it could have been far worse.

  From the questionable comfort of his narrow stone bed, staring up into darkness, Hawke tried to put his wretched thoughts in order. It was better to be here, in the little room he shared with Alistair, and not among Maric's Shield, which was quietly celebrating a successful mission and their magnificent loot. He did not want to think about Carver. He did not want to think about what Mother and Bethany would say to him about Carver. There were other things, though, that he had learned from the Deep Roads, and talking about them would occupy his mind.

  "I don't think we should ever make a woman Join," Hawke murmured to Alistair, on the other side of the room. "It wouldn't be right, for her to have to go to a Calling and end up like that...that..."

  "The Broodmother," Alistair whispered back, his mouth rebelling against the word. "I've heard there are female Grey Wardens, though I've never met one. Surely that wouldn't happen... I mean... if it did..."

  "I don't know," Hawke said. "If there were the least chance, it would be the worst thing ever. If the Grey Wardens forced women to Join, and then sent them off to be Broodmothers when they're done with them, it would be..." His voice hardened. "It would be a crime. We don't have to tell anybody else about it, but when the time comes, I'd rather just let Morrigan go her way."

  "Sounds good," Alistair agreed, only too happy to avoid the prospect of Morrigan living in the same Compound for the rest of his natural life. He liked Anders, and would much rather he became a Warden. Yes. He, Hawke, and Anders would be a solid team... Alyson was nice, too, but she was Hawke's cousin, and maybe she would go live with his mother at the Palace. But he, Alistair, would live at the Compound, and go home to his little room there, and the books in the library would remind him of Duncan...

  He fell asleep, picturing their pleasant life in the Compound. Hawke did not sleep for some time.

  "At least there's one," he thought, "whose safety I no longer need fear for. Carver is beyond Loghain's power now."

  He was not sure if the thought was particularly comforting.

  * * *

  Cauthrien roused them the next morning, with instructions for some to shop for supplies, for others to go up to the surface to check the weather, and for Alistair, Oghren—who had decided to attach himself to their party— and the mages to visit the Shaperate, and learn all they could about Grey Wardens, the Deep Roads, and the Archdemon. Meanwhile, she and Hawke were to go attend a private audience with the new King.

  As they made their way to the Diamond Quarter, they passed a grim procession. Heading it was Lord Harrowmont, Bhelen's aged rival for the throne. He did not look like a proud deshyr now, nor did his companions, shackled to him. Guards harried them to the lifts, where they would be taken down, down to their strange and terrible fate. Bhelen was giving them to Branka, as a token of his respect for the Paragon.

  Hawke did not look of the prisoners in the eye. After they were gone, he took a deep breath.

  "You knew Bhelen would do something like this," he said.

  Cauthrien shrugged. "What Bhelen does is not my concern. I am not responsible for his decisions."

  "You put the idea in Bhelen's head! Anything that requires molten Nacronite poured over a living being—"

  "People die in war," she interrupted ruthlessly, "in all sorts of horrible ways. You heard what I said to the Assembly. It's a chance for the dwarves to go on serving Orzammar, long after they're too old to wield a sword! I realize that they're having trouble maintaining their population," she sneered, "considering all the hindrances they cause themselves with their ridiculous caste system. I'm not saying the young and fertile should be made golems! If you look at it the right way, though, it's a form of near-immortality! The old and feeble— the sick, the weak, and the dying—they can be strong again, and they can make a difference!"

  "Like Lord Harrowmont?" Hawke asked, raising his brows.

  Cauthrien was not upset by it at all. "And what good would cutting his head off be to the dwarves? This way he defends his people."

  "You know Bhelen will abuse this power."

  "If he does, then the dwarves will have to deal with it," Cauthrien said sharply. "Our mission was to gain allies for Ferelden. We've done that. Good on us. The Teyrn will be pleased. And now, when we meet the King, we will smile, and he will give us his letter of alliance."

  Hawke certainly did not feel like smiling. He thought of Carver, and about what he would have done to anyone who had suggested using his dying brother to make a golem. The raving lunatic Branka certainly would have, given a chance. Bhelen was not the only one who would be unscrupulous is using the Anvil. Very likely, once she was done with Bhelen's political enemies and the survivors of Dust Town, the Paragon would have gangs of thuggish kidnappers out on the surface, seeking out lone travelers and isolated farmholds. If that happened on the Fereldan side of the Frostbacks, Hawke would do something about it.

  And whatever Cauthrien, might think, becoming a golem was not achieving 'immortality,' since no golem other than Caridin had retained anything of its donor's consciousness or memories— anything resembling its soul. Making a dwarf into a golem was horribly similar to rendering a mage Tranquil, and it sickened Hawke. He was silent, thinking that Cauthrien had spent too much of her life liArviding to Teyrn Loghain.

  * * *

  "My, my, What to do? So many choices..."

  Rendon Howe smirked, standing over the comatose form of Arl Eamon Guerrin. Other than his own soldiers and mages, there was now nothing left alive in Redcliffe Castle but this lump of barely-animate flesh; flesh for whom Eamon's stupid little boy had given his own life and the lives of everyone he knew.
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  Magic had caused this disaster, and magic had helped to resolve it. The walking corpses were tough and aggressive, but once trapped, they could be set on fire and destroyed. Indeed, his chief mage had advised that they burn to ashes every body they found —even their own dead. There had even been a handful of living men who had been enthralled by the demon and fought to protect it. Their bodies, too, were to be consigned to the pyre.

  They had already made one great pyre in front of the Chantry, after slaying the undead that milled about the village. The Chantry itself was another, greater pyre, for more of the creatures had forced their way inside it. There was nothing alive there.

  The bodies lay still, but as soon as the first soldiers stepped over the threshold, there was a great groaning, as the undead rose up from the floor and lunged at the living. Among them were priests, children, lovely young girls, and Bann Saladin Guerrin. Even Howe's tough, war-hardened soldiers were sickened by the sight.

  Howe had ordered them to withdraw and make fast the doors. He then commanded the mages to burn the Chantry to the ground. It burned for a very long time. Bits of it were still burning, even now; but the undead inside were now ashes and bone.

  In all of the village, there was but one survivor, a pretty young red-haired barmaid who had the good sense to hide in the tavern's cellar and lock the catch against intruders. Down there, she was well supplied with food and drink, and only when she heard the voices of the soldiers above did she betray her presence. She was very grateful for her rescue, and vehemently insisted that she never wanted to see Redcliffe again. Howe looked forward to getting to know her more intimately.

  The fight was harder when they reached the castle, for there were monsters there that not even the mages had ever seen—not even in the Fade. They lost good men there in the courtyard.

  There had been just a moment, when Howe had come face to face with what the mages called a Revenant...just a moment when he was actually frightened. It was an unpleasant sensation. It made him even more determined to put down these monsters from the Fade. As for his men, their casualties made them so angry and violent that they took great pleasure in slaughtering the creatures that had threatened them.

  Besides, compared to the Revenant, all the other creatures were performing animals. Howe had laughed aloud in the Guerrin's elaborate chapel, when a blonde corpse shambled toward him, growling, naked to the waist, her once-fine gown torn and filthy. If only he could have a picture to keep forever of the Arlessa Isolde, receiving her guests for the very last time...

  A quick flick of his war axe, and the blonde head was sent spinning away. Untidy, and more work for his men who were piling up the corpses downstairs in the courtyard, but oh, so satisfying.

  And at the end, the last scion of the Guerrins had tried to escape them: a innocent-faced little boy with the voice of a demon. The mages had shouted that it was too dangerous to allow him to speak, and Howe had ordered him killed where he stood. When he understood that his tricks would not save him, he had become a full Abomination: gross, misshapen, monstrous: feathered with arrows and dismembered by blades. That abomination, too, would be burned. Howe's men would wait until he joined them, so they could share the moment when Redcliffe was truly cleansed.

  But he must settle this small matter first... the matter of the Arl of Redcliffe.

  "He's only just alive, my lord," was the opinion of a healer, one of several mages hovering around Arl Eamon's sick bed. "The demon's been keeping him going, but with that thing dead now, he won't last long."

  "Such a pity." Howe studied the pale, bloated features. "I suppose we can't risk the demon using him as a vessel. As you say, the demon's been meddling with him."

  "Well, my lord," the healer temporized. "Generally it's held to be very difficult for a demon to possess anyone but a mage."

  "But not impossible, surely! How else do you explain the living men who were obeying the Guerrin abomination?"

  "No, not impossible, my lord, though the Chantry would claim it to be so," agreed the mage. "However, I think it likely that this man is trapped in the Fade. In time, he will die if nothing rouses him."

  "And what would rouse him?"

  "Hard to say, my lord—"

  Rendon Howe bent over the Arl's supine body, his lips at the unhearing ear. The gesture looked mild and soothing, if one did not know the man.

  "Eamon!" he shouted. "Hello! Is it still you in there?"

  Straightening up, he shrugged. "Nothing. Let's try this."

  He strode over to the arlessa's dressing table and snatched up a pin. With a certain gusto, he drove it into the arl's lax hand. There was no response, except from the mages, who winced. A single drop of blood bubbled up. Howe studied it, and then flicked it away with a fingertip.

  Howe shook his head. "Doesn't seem to feel anything." He fixed his gaze on the trembling mages. "Any suggestions?"

  The healer cleared his throat. "Sometimes, confronting the ensnaring demon can free the victim, but the arl cannot do that, as the demon is dead. Ordinarily, I would say that the demon's death should have freed him, but clearly that has not happened."

  Howe narrowed his eyes. "So, what you're saying is that other demonic forces of the Fade are keeping this body alive."

  That was not exactly what the mage had said, but he was not about to contradict his arl. Besides, it was just possible that he was right.

  "Very likely, my lord."

  "Ha! Well, we can't have that! If the body gains any strength, it's likely to be used against us all. Step away for a moment, you lot. He's fading fast. I'll see if I can get him to speak to me. A deathbed testament would be better than nothing."

  With a gesture, he dismissed the mages, who moved away, conferring among themselves, just beyond the brocade bed curtains. They could still see Howe, until he once again leaned close to the comatose man.

  "Well," Howe murmured, trying to keep from grinning. "I'd say the Guerrins' day is done. I killed your wife and son, by the way, or what was left of them. Did them a favor, if you look at it properly. Didn't kill your brother myself, unless giving the order to burn the Chantry over him counts. I can't say I'll miss you, since I always thought you were an Orlesian-loving, shit-eating traitor with delusions of grandeur. I can't wait to go through your private papers! You've a nice little arling here, though. I'll see if I can get it for Nathaniel. Poor lad's been punished enough."

  While he spoke, he reached out with two fingers, pinching the Arl's nostrils together. With his thumb, he pushed the arl's jaw shut. There was a brief, half-hearted struggle as the body tried and failed to draw breath. Smiling and satisfied, Howe raised his voice.

  "Ser mages! Come here at once! The Arl does not seem to be breathing!"

  They trotted over like obedient puppies, and after some examination, followed by somber nods and frowns and much stroking of long grey beards, it was agreed that the arl was indeed... dead. Or mostly dead. Or dead enough.

  A pair of strong soldiers carried the heavy body downstairs, and threw it on the pile. Howe sauntered after them, congratulating himself on a job well done. Out of respect for Eamon's status, he would light the pyre himself.

  * * *

  Finding the Dalish was always something of a challenge, but Loghain had put his mind to it with his usual thoroughness. Over the years, his agents had made a chart of elven migration patterns, by clan and region. He had entrusted this chart to Cauthrien, who was exasperated to discover that the Blight had made the prior patterns moot.

  "They're supposed to be here," she muttered angrily. "The Alerion clan always spends their summers in the Dane Valley!"

  "Maybe they've heard about the darkspawn," sniped Alistair, who earlier had been irritated by Cauthrien going on about Loghain's foresight. "Just saying. Maybe they don't feel safe, not having armies and cities with walls."

  She glared at him. Ordinarily, Hawke would have stepped in at once to make peace, but at the moment he hadn't the heart for
it. Since Carver's death, everything seemed rather pointless.

  He brought himself up sharply.

  Saving Ferelden from the darkspawn means saving Mother and Bethany. They're the ones I care about. And maybe Alyson, a bit. Maker, what am I going to do about Alyson? I can't let the Chantry get its grubby hands on her again, and I can't conscript her. Or I suppose I could just lie, and say she's conscripted, like Morrigan.

  "If the Dalish have been going north to avoid the darkspawn, someone's bound to have seen them," he pointed out. "Lots of people are on the road, moving up from the south. We'll just have to talk to them."

  It made sense to take the North Road, stopping at the village taverns along the way, asking for news. Cauthrien was also known to many of the local banns. Even if most of those notables were safe in Denerim, their stewards could tell them if any Dalish had been seen in the neighborhood.

  After only a few days search, they got lucky.

  "Right!" a fat innkeeper told them, puffing with remembered indignation. "Not a day ago, I saw a pack of them—shifty, dirty knife-ears! Walking down the road like they owned it! Wanted to camp in the commons—as if we could trust the likes of them!

  "Where did they go?" Hawke asked mildly.

  It had not occurred to him before, but now he wondered why the Dalish would risk a fingernail for people who spoke of them like this. He had never thought about elves at all before: they were not much a feature of country life. They traveled through Lothering, true, but stayed on the fringes.

  City elves were humble little creatures. Now and then, they had knocked at the back of the Hawke cottage, begging for a bit of food or firewood, or permission to pitch a tent in their pasture as they passed through. He had never seen one in Dane's Refuge. Possibly they were not welcome in the tavern. Poor travelers were often permitted to sleep in the Chantry, but Hawke had never seen an elf there. Come to think of it, he had never seen an elf in the Chantry for any reason. He had occasionally seen other elves—proud, alien beings, who must have been Dalish—at a distance, when he was out hunting; but they were elusive creatures, who were no sooner glimpsed than gone.