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heniareth · 1 year

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The Battle of Ostagar

Chapter 2: Mages, Contracts and War Meetings

In which Ilanlas Mahariel knows more about magic than everybody else in this camp, Astala Tabris haggles for fun and profit, and Sulri Aeducan leaves them all behind. (Whole chapter on AO3 or continued below)

Wordcount: 6004

WARNINGS:

fantasy racism

discrimination against mages

implied forced substance abuse

attempted coercion to partake in religious service

mention & brief description of character death (not graphic)

mention of corporal punishment

They returned to the Warden’s small encampment. Things were getting busy for the bulk of the army. People were checking armor and weapons, ferrying ballista bolts longer than Ilanlas was tall from one end of the camp to the other, loading stones and jugs of cheap oils onto wagons or breaking down large pieces of peat. All of those things were being shipped off towards the bridge and the crumbled outer wall of the fortress; if they then were carried further than that, Astala didn’t know. Their small group had trouble walking through the mass of people, beasts of burden and wagons. At one point, as they were squeezing their way past a group of soldiers gathered for an impromptu blessing from a Chantry sister, Alistair suddenly looked up and then hurriedly stepped behind a wagon.

“Not the Revered Mother!” he groaned, casting a quick glance around the corner of the wagon and immediately hiding again. “If she asks, I’m not here!”

Astala stretched to look through the crowd of humans, and soon saw the woman in her shimmering yellow dress with the red neckpiece. The Revered Mother didn’t have any problem moving through the camp. People respectfully made way for her and received a nod of thanks in return. By the speed in her step, she seemed to have important business to attend to. Thankfully, she was not headed their way; her destination was a small grouping of colorful tents hidden behind fir trees and a man-height wooden wall. Alistair peeked out from his hiding spot once more and frowned.

“Oh, so now she’s talking to the mages herself?”

Astala was just able to see Ilanlas’ ears perk up before he set into motion, easily sliding through the crowd, eyes fixed on the back of the Revered Mother.

Astala didn’t like that. She made after him best she could.

On a raised platform, a different Chantry sister was preaching. Five or six people, all in armor, kneeled before her. Some were listening attentively. Others were staring ahead with empty eyes. At the back of the group stood an elf in servant’s garb. Astala had seen some servants here wear the colors of a noble house, but most didn’t, and their clothes were patched and threadbare. Working at Ostagar evidently appealed only to those starved for options.

“Maker above, we who betrayed your prophet Andraste now beg your forgiveness. Do not abandon us in our darkest hour.,” the sister said. “Watch over valiant king Cailan and guide him as he faces this terrible evil. Watch over Teyrn Loghain and give us the wisdom to bring us victory against the scourge of shadow. Watch over Ferelden, the homeland of holy Andraste. Keep her people safe from the darkspawn. Let us bow our heads and offer prayer to the Maker, that he may find us worthy-”

“Well that is cheerful,” Alistair muttered behind her. “Where’s Ilanlas?”

Astala looked around. There! A smidge of auburn hair. And straight in front of him, two hulking templars armored head to toe in plate mail.

This couldn’t go well. Astala sped up.

The templars were blocking Ilanlas’ way when she caught up to him; arms crossed, signature purple skirts and flaming sword of Mercy emblazoned on their breastplates, they stared at them both through eyeslits that cast everything going on behind their helmets into deep, dark shadow. Something bright blue was hanging from their belts. Ilanlas, whose head came just above their belts, was glaring at them with fury. Astala was about to drag him away when movement past the templars caught her eyes. She saw about six or seven people, men and women, two elves among them, wearing expensive and heavy-looking robes. They were swaying from side to side, eyes closed and faces strangely vacant.

Astala blinked. What in Andraste’s name was going on over there?

“I’m sorry.” One of the templars, evidently not sorry by the muffled voice coming out from behind her helmet, stepped in front of her and blocked her view. “But as we told your friend, the mages are not to be disturbed. Now please, leave.”

“I will leave once you tell me why they are in the Fade, and no sooner,” Ilanlas demanded.

“It’s some sort of a ritual,” the templar answered.

“A ritual?” Ilanlas narrowed his eyes. “What kind? I do not recognize it.”

“Neither do I,” the templar said. “I’m no mage.”

“Excuse me.”

The monotone voice made Astala turn around. A human man approached them from behind, dark-haired, thin, and with the most empty, saddest eyes she’d ever seen. A brand in the shape of an Andrastian sunburst sat red in the middle of his forehead.

“I need by, please,” the man said.

Astala stepped aside. Ilanlas did as well, looking at the man with something akin to horror on his face. The templars freed the entrance to the mages’ camp just long enough to push the man through. He stumbled. Another mage, an elderly woman, took the opportunity to try and leave the mage encampment, but the templars were already blocking the exit once more.

“Ser Rylock, if I may,” the woman said. “I’m expected at the infirmary.”

With a sigh, the templar let her pass as well, and then went back to glaring at Ilanlas.

Astala ripped her gaze away from the creepy, swaying mages and gave him a small nudge. “Maybe we should leave?”

“That would be advisable, yes,” ser Rylock’s companion said.

Ilanlas gave the templars one last glare and then, Lady be thanked, he walked off.

After the senior mage.

“Excuse me,” he called out, lout enough for the templars to hear him.

Astala cursed silently and followed him, the gazes of the two templars burning a hole into the back of her skull.

“Excuse me!” Ilanlas repeated.

The woman turned around and Ilanlas caught up with her.

“Why are your fellow mages in the Fade?”

“Oh. I am not quite sure,” the woman said. “I’m a healer. My duty is different from theirs.”

“What good does traveling past the Veil do them?” Ilanlas pressed on. “It is dangerous, there are demons. Especially here. The Veil is thin.”

“We are well aware of the danger, I assure you,” the woman said. “How do you know that the Veil is thin here? You don’t seem like a mage.”

“I am not, but I know enough,” Ilanlas said dismissively.

Astala looked from him to the senior mage and tried to pull him back a little. “Maybe we don’t want to distract a healer from her duty, yeah?”

Ilanlas didn’t budge, and instead went on: “There are many reasons why somebody would walk the Fade, but none of them useful for the upcoming battle. And there are many plants that would have allowed it without the need to ingest lethal quantities of lyrium. The lyrium should have been saved for the upcoming battle!”

“You have opinions about this, don’t you?” the woman answered, seemingly amused by Ilanlas’ insistence.

Astala felt Ilanlas bristle and gave another insistent tug to his arm. “So, about leaving…”

“It’s quite alright,” the mage said. “Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Wynne. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. And you must be Duncan’s new recruits, aren’t you? He’s not a man easily impressed; you should be proud.”

Astala didn’t know how Wynne had managed it, but Ilanlas did relax a bit at those words. Still, he kept his arms crossed, and Astala kept her hand on his arm. Alistair was slowly approaching them, looking left and right; probably keeping an eye out for the Revered Mother.

“You are Dalish, aren’t you?” Wynne continued and turned to Astala. “You as well?”

“No, not me,” Astala said. “Just him.”

“I see,” Wynne said. “I have heard much about your people from the few who live with us at the Circle.”

Ilanlas tensed again.

Astala tightened her grip on his arm.

“You mean elves?” Ilanlas said, voice carefully neutral.

“Dalish elves,” Wynne said and nodded. “Your people have an excellent grasp on primal magic, from quite a young age. I must say, you have spells that are unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

“What clan did you take my people from?” Ilanlas asked, quiet, restrained.

“I do not know,” Wynne said and frowned. “They never did tell us. They were remarkably tight-lipped about their life among your clans.”

Astala could see Ilanlas’ jaw muscles tense. She held her breath and held on to his arm.

“We are taking good care of them, to the best of our abilities, if that is what you’re worried about,” Wynne said after a brief silence. “It was nice meeting you. Good luck in tonight’s battle.”

She turned around and left.

Astala exhaled and felt her shoulders drop.

“Sooo.” Alistair approached them, looking unsure. Khêd and Sulri were trailing somewhere behind. “That looked… tense. Are we antagonizing more mages?”

“No antagonizing,” Astala started, but before she could explain the situation, Ilanlas ripped his arm out of her grasp and stalked away. Astala sighed and ran after him.

“Ilan-”

“Do not touch me,” Ilanlas snarled.

“Hey.” Astala stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “She did nothing wrong, yeah?”

“Nothing wrong?” Ilanlas stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her. “They take people, my people, away from their clans and lock them away-”

“I get it! I get it. They take people from the Alienage too.” Astala lifted her hands in surrender. “But… we can’t really have demon-posessed mages running around, right? I don’t know how to handle those.”

“Marethari knows,” Ilanlas spat. “Every Keeper knows!”

“Okay, alright. But getting angry doesn’t-”

A Chantry sister, all pigtails, cream and mauve robes and friendly smiles, chose this exact moment to step up and ignore Ilanlas. “Hello. Will you accept the Maker’s blessing?”

Astala forced a smile. “We’re busy at the moment. Maybe later?”

“Oh, it will be very quick,” the sister said reassuringly. “Surely you can spare a moment for the Maker?”

“And if we do not? Will he destroy our homeland?” Ilanlas spat.

Now the Chantry sister acknowledged him, lips pursed, nose wrinkled. “I’ll not discuss politics here! Take your hatred elsewhere.”

“Andruil na los masua’las.” Ilanlas spat on the ground, at the Chantry sister’s feet.

The sister paled. “Get out of my sight, heathen!”

“You leave,” Ilanlas said, quietly, teeth bared. His voice made a shiver run down Astala’s spine.

The Chantry sister wavered for a moment, then pursed her lips further and walked away with a shake of her head.

“Oh, so we’re antagonizing the Chantry,” Alistair said and nodded. “Well. I’ve got nothing to say against that.”

Ilanlas disappeared. The rest of them returned to the Grey Warden’s small encampment for some late lunch. Astala’s stomach was growling like crazy. Alistair assured her that was normal, and she was glad she wasn’t in Denerim right now. She would’ve bled the household dry in a matter of days. How Martin and his pot kept up with the constant demand of fifty hungry wardens was a mystery, and she was glad that it was his mystery to solve, not hers.

Alistair introduced them to a few older wardens. They treated him like a little brother, and not only because there were more ‘brother’s and ‘sister’s thrown around than Astala had heard in a whole day of her life. All of them were a target. Khêd was visibly uncomfortable with it. Sulri accepted it without a gesture of complaint and Astala… well. Astala still felt weird about it. When she went back to Martin for a refill—bless the man and his bottomless pit of a pot—she somehow managed to ask about it.

“It is a thing in the order,” Martin said. “After all, not only your parents’ blood is running through your veins now.”

Astala stayed still at that and stared at the stew he was shoveling into her bowl.

“But I understand,” Martin continued. “It was strange for me at first too.”

He sent her off with an extra ladle of stew in her bowl and a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

While they ate, Alistair asked Sulri to show them some of the signs she communicated with. They went through quite a few; Astala managed to get ‘hello’, ‘thank you’ and ‘fuck off’ down fairly well. She sat back, quietly repeating the signs to herself, when suddenly a dark-skinned warden carrying a bundle of fabric and metal walked up to her.

“You must be Astala,” he said, smiling warmly. “My name is Jerome. Quartermaster of the Grey Wardens, sort of. Duncan said you needed some armor, do you think this might fit?”

Astala sat her stew aside and accepted the bundle.

It was a whole suit of armor: a gambeson in Warden blue, well-cared for gloves, chain mail that hung down to her knees, a breastplate with the griffon on it, pauldrons, a sturdy leather helmet. Astala unfolded the gambeson and held it out in front of her. It seemed to be about her size. And it clearly wasn’t new. The color was a bit faded, and there were stains on it that had been carefully washed out. Astala examined a particularly large one up close; it was a faint brown on the blue fabric. Almost like old blood. The thick fabric had been torn here and carefully mended.

“This belonged to the only other elven warden we’ve had here in Ferelden,” Jerome said. “I imagine it would’ve pleased him to hand this over to you.”

“Duncan mentioned him,” Astala said. “Adralen, right?”

“Yes,” Jerome said and nodded. “Shame he didn’t get to meet you.”

Astala ran her finger along the large, washed-out bloodstain. “How did he die?”

“Arrow,” Jerome said. “A shriek tore through his armor, and the hurlock archer did the rest. Hit something with a lot of blood and…” He shrugged and looked away for an instant. “We have fixed the armor. It’s as strong as it was before.”

Astala nodded. “Adralen was Dalish?”

Jerome shook his head. “City born and raised. From Verchiel, I think. Fussy man. Kept everything spotlessly clean. Even the coins he took from darkspawn corpses.”

“Oh,” Astala made. Her fingers were already tightening around the blue gambeson. The wind shifted, and a faint smell wafted up from it, despite the washing it had recently undergone. It smelled sharply of sweat.

Fear.

Astala was holding the gambeson close to her chest. “Thank you.”

Jerome dismissed her with a casual wave of his hand but didn’t answer otherwise. His other hand was plunged into his pocket. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

“Well…” Jerome cleared his throat. “I better get going. Lots to do.” He nodded at the gambeson in her hands. “May it serve you well, eh?”

“Thank you,” Astala said again, and then, as Jerome shrugged once more and turned to leave, her mind finally kicked into action. “Jerome?”

Jerome turned around. “Yes?”

“I have a dwarven coin,” Astala said. “And lots of other stuff.”

Jerome tilted his head, moderately intrigued.

“I want to send money back to my family,” Astala continued, “but Duncan said you’d- we’d need the loot too. To finance… all of this.” She gestured around herself at the tents, the banner, the food, the weapons and armor. “How much can I keep and send off?”

“Well…” Jermone said haltingly and rubbed his chin. “We’d have to discuss that. It’s not like there is a set policy.”

Astala set up her best business face. “Could we discuss it now? And pen it down in writing?”

“You want an, uh, what is the word… a contract?” Jerome asked.

“I know I’m no paid hire,” Astala quickly said. “But it’s just a reasonable way to do things.”

“Well, I have never drawn up a contract,” Jerome said. “But I think I know who might help us. Follow me, if you please.”

Astala readjusted her grip on the new armor and went after him.

The man Jerome was looking for was called Onastas. He was an older human with greying blond hair and sharp features. They found him secluded away in a tent, going over small numbers in a small, leather-bound notebook, and Jerome had to wave his hand in front of his face to get his attention. Onastas gruffly asked for ten more minutes, in an accent that was definitely not Orlesian, but when Jerome mentioned a contract, he immediately looked up and set his notebook aside.

“Finally, somebody interested in doing things properly.” He gave Astala an appreciative glance. “We will need paper.”

He marched past them and led the way to the large tent in the middle of the Warden encampment. Said tent had a big table in the middle and was well-provisioned with both ink and paper. The table had a map on it. Astala recognized the hill they were on with the gulley that split it in two, the big tower on the eastern side of the hill, and lots of small figurines positioned on the map. Some were carved out of warm wood. One was grey. Most of them were pitch black and arranged in the area around the hill.

There were so many of those.

Jerome pulled a light linen sheet over the map, ripping her out of her thoughts, and sat down. Onastas offered her a chair.

Weird.

Still, a chair was nice. Onastas asked her once if she’d ever been part of drafting up a contract—she had not—and then launched into a detailed explanation of what made up a solid, unbreakable deal with no loopholes to pass through them. The explanation veered off into several tangents including a brief history of contracts (apparently Nevarra had given rise to their ubiquity), the impact of Tevinter registers of living goods on the structure and formalities found in them, and a curious case in which a merchant had managed to seize a whole shipment of goods from a rival because of a clumsily formulated clause.

“You see,” Onastas finished that anecdote, “wording is everything. You can sell somebody a lousy dog with the right words, and make them think they have struck the deal of their lifetime.”

Astala nodded slowly. Some of that sounded familiar from things Alarith said when talking about his smuggling business.

“How do you know so much about this?” she asked Onastas.

“I was a notary in Cumberland,” Onastas said. “Then I was accused of fraud and embezzlement and was forced to flee.”

Astala let out a soft breath. “And did you do that?”

“Fraud and embezzlement? Of course.” Onastas looked off into the distance, as if fondly remembering better but long past times. “Their contracts were too badly drafted not to try. But yours won’t be.”

Jerome set down ink and paper in front of him and they began to work.

Despite Onastas’ technical knowledge, the main negotiator turned out to be Jerome. He offered a fifteen percent cut of the benefits from every bit of loot she found. Astala considered it, then shook her head and asked for twenty percent. Jerome narrowed his eyes and smiled, like they’d just started a game of tug.

“You understand, the darkspawn sometimes leave behind artifacts of incalculable value,” Jerome said. “A fifteen percent cut could make you rich beyond your wildest imagination.”

Astala nodded. A smile of her own threatened to overtake her features. She pushed it down. The game was on.

“I have a huge family,” she answered. “Two sisters and five brothers, as well as fourteen cousins on my father’s side and twenty-one on my mother’s side. My grandparents are still alive and need care. And so far, I’ve seen nothing from the darkspawn but rusty daggers and one or two coppers.”

“Weisshaupt won’t be happy with this arrangement,” Jerome shot back. “I’m already doing you a favor by even considering it.”

“Look.” Astala folded her hands on the table. “I’d rather settle this honorably, but if we don’t agree on something fair, I’ll have to start skimming off the top. And neither of us want that. I’m willing to negotiate, but ten percent isn’t enough.”

“You are admitting being a thief?” Jerome asked.

“Aren’t we all?” Astala said and shrugged. “How’d you end up here?”

Jerome leaned back, eyebrows drawn high. Onastas had stopped writing and was watching them with great interest.

“Sixteen,” Jerome said.

“Nineteen,” Astala answered.

“Seventeen,” Jerome countered.

Astala shook her head, and made sure to let disappointment bleed into the movement. “Eighteen.”

“Seventeen and a half. Neither for you nor for me, eh?” Jerome said.

Astala shook her head again. “Eighteen.”

“The math will be terrible!” Jerome complained.

“I’m good with numbers,” Astala said. “Eighteen and not one percent less. You have my word that I won’t take a single copper coin when you’re not looking.”

Jerome leaned his chin against his clutched hands. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Astala waited.

Jerome pushed himself out of his chair and stretched his hand out. “Eighteen percent of everything you find. We have a deal, sister.”

Astala shook his hand and finally allowed herself to grin. At the Anchor, she’d only gotten the fixed amount of two silver a month, and half of what she made in tips. She’d calculated it once. It had been around six to eight percent of what the business made, and that after subtracting taxes and the like. An offer that covered room, board and other necessities, plus an eighteen percent cut of whatever valuables she found? She’d take that any day.

They signed the contract. Then Onastas insisted that it should be brought before Duncan so he could sign it as well. Astala followed him and Jerome with mixed feelings. But she’d have to talk to Duncan again at some point or another.

Better get it over with.

Duncan gave her and the other two wardens a quick look and then smiled to himself as he diligently read through the contract. He accepted ink and quill from Onastas and bent over a nearby barrel to add his signature to the document. His handwriting, Astala noticed, was scratchy, and he had no last name. Come to think of it, neither had Jerome.

“I’m glad to see you are settling in,” he said, blowing the ink dry and handing the contract back to her. “I trust Jerome has provisioned you with some suitable armor?”

“He has,” Astala nodded, and stowed the contract away in the pouch hanging from her belt.

It was… strange. Duncan felt strange.

“For the record, I am sorry for what happened yesterday to ser Jory,” Duncan said.

“I’m sure there are many things you are sorry for,” Astala said before she could stop herself.

“More than you might imagine,” Duncan said. “And I do not wish for you to be forced to make the decisions I have made. I do hope that this won’t make you waver in the upcoming battle.”

It was the taint in his blood. It had to be. It felt like… a bit like the hurlock commander they had fought yesterday: she couldn’t ignore him. He was there, at the edge of her mind. It wasn’t comfortable, but it didn’t make her nauseous like the hurlock had.

It felt as if the whole encampment should be revolving around him.

Astala shook her head and tried to rid herself of that feeling.

“It won’t,” she said. “Not for the upcoming battle.”

“That is enough for now,” Duncan said and smiled.

Astala got the distinct impression that he knew what she was sensing.

The conversation was interrupted by an elven messenger, who stopped his run only a few steps before Duncan. Skinny, reddish brown hair, kinda nervous… he reminded her of Soris. Astala did a double take. She had cousins in other cities, cousins she had never known. Was this one of them?

“King Cailan requests your presence at the main hall, ser,” the elf said.

Astala saw Duncan’s shoulders tense and lower slightly, but his expression remained as polite as ever. “Please let the king know I will be there shortly.”

“Right away, ser,” the elf nodded, threw a glance at Astala and sped off again.

Duncan sighed and then turned to Onastas, Jerome and her. “That’s my cue. Hopefully I’ll be able to give you good news after this. Settle any affairs you might still have pending. Who knows where we will be at this time tomorrow. If you will excuse me…”

He gave them a nod and made his way through the camp. The wardens he went by acknowledged his passing: a nod, a wave, a short greeting, smoothly integrated in whatever they were doing, as if they had seen him coming even when he was approaching them from behind. Astala couldn’t say she liked that.

Slowly, one hand on her pouch, she made her way back to her companions. At least they were still halfway normal.

A short while later she saw Duncan walk towards in the direction of the ruined hall where she’d met Alistair yesterday. He was flanked by two other wardens, a pale, bald man with thin limbs and a broad-shouldered, brown-skinned person with the same piercing silver in his eyes Ilanlas had. Between them, they were carrying the map Astala had seen in the big tent.

“Wondering where they’re going?”

Astala turned around and saw Khêd casually standing there, watching the small procession.

“Messenger came by before. They’re going to see the king,” Astala answered.

“Yeah, but what are they doing with the king?” Khêd insisted.

“Why do you want to know?” Astala shot back.

Khêd shrugged. “Sulri wants to know.”

“And so you do too?” Astala asked.

“Me? Nah.” Khêd looked away and shook his head. “What I want to know is what caste she was from. She’s shrewd enough to be in the merchant caste, but with that self-importance she’d be a good fit with the warriors.”

“What’s a caste?” Astala asked.

“Nothing you want to have up here,” Khêd said.

“Is it like a job?” Astala said.

Again, Khêd shook his head. “Much more than that.”

“And what caste were you?”

Khêd looked after Duncan and his companions; still standing casually, knees slightly bent, feet wide apart, hands on his belt. But there was a tension in the air.

“Surli thinks they’re going to some of meeting,” he finally said. “She wants to know what kind of fancy strategy they’ll be using tonight. I want to know how we’re going to die.”

“Aren’t you a good old ball of cheer?” Astala scoffed.

Khêd smiled, missing teeth full on display. “Happy to provide. You coming?”

“Why would I?” Astala asked.

“Come on, salroka,” Khêd pressed. “One for the team. You were the one talking about how we should get along.”

She had been talking about that.

“Ugh, fine.” Astala stood up and dusted herself off. “They won’t let us in though.”

“Sulri’s got that covered,” Khêd said. “Let’s go!”

Sulri was waiting for them by the edge of the warden’s encampment. Duncan and his companions were already far off, but Sulri led them through the bustling camp without doubting her direction once. Halfway through, Ilanlas suddenly appeared next to Astala.

“Where are you going?”

“We’re following Duncan,” Astala answered. “There’s a war meeting.”

Ilanlas’ eyebrow twitched up in interest, and he fell into step with them.

“D’you go anywhere interesting?” Astala tried.

“Away,” Ilanlas answered. “It is far too noisy here.”

A donkey brayed; soldiers shouted; the Chant of Light wafted through the air, not drowned out by the noise, but emboldened by it. Astala pulled a face in sympathy, and they pressed on.

Duncan and the other two wardens did disappear into the ruined hall where they met Alistair the day before. Astala looked up at the solitary pillars, towering up into the darkening sky. The thunderstorm that had been lingering on the horizon was closing in. The wind had gained in sharpness and rattled the banners on their flagpoles.

“So,” Astala said, looking around. “What now.”

Sulri lifted a hand, as if telling them to wait. Then she marched straight towards a human. He had a gaunt, stern face with an aquiline nose and dark hair. His plate armor was well tended to, but sober and purely practical. He was walking directly towards the ruin; when Sulri approached, he held the guard accompanying him back and allowed her to approach.

“Who’s that?” Khêd asked.

Astala shrugged.

Sulri bowed and started signing. Astala turned to Khêd.

“What’s she saying?”

“I don’t know,” Khêd said, staring at the scene before them. “I don’t know those signs.”

They watched, dumbfounded, as the tall human in the armor nodded once, then twice, then signed something himself, and then finally motioned towards the ruined hall. Sulri inclined her head like she was born to do so, and then they both walked the last few steps towards the hall together, engaged in what looked like polite conversation.

Astala, Ilanlas and Khêd watched them walk by and up the ramp. Up until they turned the corner, Astala was waiting for Sulri to turn around to them and motion for them to follow.

She never did.

And then she was gone.

Khêd’s shrug was carefully careless. “Don’t know why I expected anything different.”

“Did she just leave us standing here?” Ilanlas said.

Khêd shrugged again. “Seems it.”

Ilanlas cursed loudly.

“Maybe… she’ll come back and tell us what she’d heard?” Astala suggested.

Khêd laughed. “You’re cute, duster. I wouldn’t count on-”

“Sorry?”

The elven messenger who’d summoned Duncan was standing behind them, eyeing the three of them with something between apprehension and awe. “Are you… Grey Wardens?”

“We are,” Ilanlas answered.

“Hey,” Astala said and smiled. “How’s everything?”

“Good, good. Name’s Gavin, but I tell all the shems here it’s Pick.” He let out a nervous chuckle.

“I’m Astala. Good to meet you.”

“Good to meet you. We were all wondering about… well.” Gavin gestured to her sword and dagger. “Hey, did you need anything? You’re looking a bit lost there.”

“Well, we actually did want to listen in on the meeting.” Astala pointed back at the ruin. “Not happening now, though. Our friend left us sitting here.”

Gavin made a sympathetic noise, then cast a glance left and right and leaned closer. “Don’t tell anybody, but… see that hole there in the wall?”

Astala turned to look at where he was pointing. “No.”

“I do,” Ilanlas said in the same breath.

“Right.” Gavin looked over his shoulder again, almost reflexively. “It gets you between the trees and behind the hall. You can hear everything from there and are well hidden, you just can’t see much. I normally use it to hide from the quartermaster.”

“That guy back there?” Astala pointed in the direction of where the man Sulri had stolen from this morning had set up shop. “He’s an ass.”

“He is! At least at the palace I had more hiding spots, but here there’re almost none!” Again, Gavin looked over his shoulder. “I better get going. If the quartermaster finds me here chatting, it’ll be my hide. Good luck!”

“Thank you!” Astala called after him.

As quickly as he had arrived, Gavin disappeared again.

Astala looked after him. “Nice fellow.”

“He speaks like a beaten dog,” Ilanlas said.

“I’d like to see you in his place,” Astala shot back.

Khêd said nothing.

“Well,” Astala said and turned around, towards the ruin. “Shall we?”

“Why did he tell us about this hiding spot?” Khêd muttered.

“He wanted to help.” Astala slowly approached the wall. No hole in sight.

“Right,” Khêd said, voice dripping with sarcasm, but he was following her. “Juts remember, if we get caught, this wasn’t my idea.”

“Of course,” Ilanlas sneered.

“You can stay behind if you don’t like it,” Khêd said flatly. “Hey, duster, I think that guy’s lied to us. I see no hole.”

Ilanlas sighed. He stepped up to the wall, brushed some overhanging branches aside and stepped into what was now very clearly a space between two walls, one covering the other.

“Try to keep up,” Ilanlas said to Khêd, and then vanished behind the stones and the branches of the tree.

Khêd turned to Astala. “How old is this kid?”

“You know…” Astala said. “I’m actually not sure.”

She’d have to ask. For now, she followed Ilanlas.

They edged closer to the ruin’s back wall, crawling through trees and bushes. Ilanlas did his best to make their progress as quiet as possible. Khêd seemed to hold a strong resentment against trees and was ducking way too low under the branches. Finally, they heard voices. They couldn’t see anything; what wasn’t obscured by foliage was hidden behind the still standing stones of the ruin’s wall. But the wall amplified the sounds from inside the chamber, and the voices rang out to them as if they were standing no more than fifteen feet away.

“My lady, I thank you for your advice, but my decision is final,” king Cailan was saying. “I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault, as I have already told Loghain several times.”

“You risk too much, Cailan,” a deeper voice with a hint of paternal frustration answered.

It took Astala a moment to connect the dots. Loghain. This was teyrn Loghain!

“The darkspawn are too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines,” the teyrn continued. “I have already told you, and our guest has done nothing but corroborate my estimation.”

Cailan sighed. “Then perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us after all.”

Astala almost let out a loud gasp. They wanted to bring the Orlesians in?

But no; she shouldn’t have doubted teyrn Loghain. The man had kicked the Orlesians out personally only thirty years ago, after all. With their help.

“I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!” Teyrn Loghain sounded tired.

“It is not a ‘fool notion’,” king Cailan protested. “Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past, and you will remember who is king.”

“Oh, he’s not-” Astala muttered.

Ilanlas and Khêd shot her a sharp glance.

“How fortunate that Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!” teyrn Loghain said.

There was a longer pause, and then Loghain picked the conversation up again.

“The argument has already been made, but I thank you for making it again. Remember, Cailan, that a country with an internal struggle is always an easy target for an outside invasion.”

“Then our current forces will have to suffice, won’t they?” king Cailan answered. “Duncan, are your men ready for battle?”

“They are, your Majesty,” Duncan answered.

King Cailan set on to answer when Ilanlas suddenly lifted his head, eyes wide. He turned to them.

“Go. Go, go, go!”

Astala didn’t ask. She turned and went back the way they’d come from as fast as possible. Khêd followed right behind her, Ilanlas closed their hurried retreat. They started running as soon as they were out of earshot. The hole in the stone wall was before them in no time.

“Keep going!” Ilanlas hissed.

There were heavy steps behind them.

They burst out of the wall and into the hustle and bustle of the army camp. Nobody paid them much mind as they hurried away from the ruin, melting into the crowd of soldiers marching, carts and wagons being pulled, and Chantry sisters giving out blessings like single coppers. They didn’t stop until they were back at the warden encampment. Only then did Khêd turn around.

“What was going on?”

“One of the wardens Duncan went with,” Ilanlas explained. “He was coming closer.”

Khêd cursed. “Must’ve sensed us.”

“Does he know it was us?” Astala asked.

Khêd looked at Ilanlas.

Ilanlas shrugged. “We will find out.”

Khêd sighed deeply and rolled his shoulders back. “Great work, team.”

“Hey, it’s a bonding experience,” Astala said cheerfully.

Khêd heartily cursed again.

TRANSLATIONS:

"Andruil na los masua'las.": "Andruil give you a thousand wounds."

Hope you enjoyed this one as much as I’m enjoying rereading it ^^ Have a lovely day!!