Chapter 40: Crossroads - Blocked Paths

Coin collected at the Chantry, the party stood together to plan their next course of action. Chanter Devrons continued to intone passage after passage of holy script, his even voice blending into the background.

“Any last business to finish up before we leave?”

At Raviathan’s question, Alistair fidgeted. Mustering enough patience not to snap, Raviathan raised a brow in question at Alistair. His look must have given some of his thoughts away, judging by Alistair’s sullen scowl. Resentful, Alistair didn’t meet his eyes when he muttered, “The people here. We can’t do anything more for them?”

“Like what?” Raviathan’s voice sounded too sharp to his own ears, but he wasn’t going to take anything back.

“Alistair,” Leliana said in a much more reasonable tone, “there isn’t much that we can do. We must trust to the templars and Chantry to organize. It is a Blight we face.”

Alistair’s shoulders slumped. “I know. But all these people.”

Damn him, Raviathan thought. Heat flushed his face. He felt small again, to incompetent to be a Grey Warden, and shamed yet again. Days ago he had considered burning the town to force the most stubborn farmers who would refuse leaving their holdings, but that course of action kept hitting a wall in his mind, as impossible as facing an archdemon. Would he ever have the will necessary to be a Grey Warden?

Duncan, where are you? This is when we need you most.

“I understand your feelings, Alistair.” Leliana remained cool yet intractable. “Truly, but there are only the four of us. We can not stop to save every village, or we would be useless in our task. Our goal must be to fight the Blight, and leave to others the tasks of relocating these and the many other villagers who will be affected by the horde.”

“I...” Alistair sighed. “I suppose you’re right. It just feels wrong.”

Eyes tightened in suspicion, Raviathan watched as the templar’s troubled gaze traveled over the camps of despairing refugees. Why such concern for these people from the mage killer? Or did his sympathies extend only to those shems not blessed with magic?

Just what would Alistair do if he knew I’m an apostate? If his treatment of Morrigan was any indication, open hostility was assured. At worst? Considering the danger they so often faced, Morrigan could still have an ‘accident’ in any number of ways, reason alone to keep a close eye on the templar.

Leliana shifted as she took Raviathan’s measure, which brought his attention back to the rest of the group. “Not to disparage our efforts, but I believe we should attempt to gather more people to help with this task.”

Why was she being so careful with her wording? “Certainly.”

Hesitating, she continued, “Perhaps more muscle?” What was wrong? Then she hurried, “Not that you aren’t a good leader. Just that in close combat a more ... classically trained warrior could be an effective comrade to have?” She trailed off.

“I’m not offended.” He almost smiled at her worry. Raviathan knew he was no master of the battlefield. A finesse fighter at best, his skills remained underdeveloped and rusty from lack of practice over the last years. Leliana held the same skills, using agility over muscle, but her focus on archery made close combat undesirable.

“So, add some muscle. Who do you suppose we recruit?” If she wanted templars along, she and Alistair were definitely going to the Mage’s Circle by themselves. Raviathan almost hoped she suggested that so Alistair the Needy could have his escort to the Circle while the apostates made a discreet exit to the east and away from the mindless chanting of the believers.

More warriors to help their cause appealed to him though. Raviathan thought about the Chasind. The lanky men were seasoned warriors, well muscled, and wandering without a home. More than that, they respected elves. Could it be possible that the Chasind had ties with the elves living in the Brecillian Forest? What a help that would be.

Maybe they could find that man who lost his wife to the darkspawn. True, he seemed unhinged, but grief did that to a person. Considering what the wildling lost because of the darkspawn, perhaps he would welcome a chance for revenge. Raviathan scratched Venger’s head as he thought.

“There is that qunari outside of town,” Alistair said. “Maybe he’d be willing to come along.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” Raviathan glared at Alistair.

The templar backed up, his hands up in surrender. “Just saying.”

“That is not a bad idea,” Leliana said.

“He murdered children!” This was not going in the direction he expected.

“He did,” she agreed. “But since his capture, his actions have not been those of an enraged murderer.”

Were all humans psychotic? Did they hold nothing sacred besides their fire sacrifices and mage hating? Swear to the Maker, if he ever started to understand humans, then the time had come to let the darkspawn win. “Let me see if I understand. There is a giant who comes from a race of renowned warriors and is stronger than all of us put together, so if he ever decides to kill us, he will be able to do so with a minimum of effort. This man has confessed to murder, including the murder of children who could not possibly defend themselves, and you want to bring him along because he’s no longer acting like an insane abomination?”

“Yes.”

Raviathan blinked at Leliana’s response. Humans really were crazy. How did they survive with no sense of the danger they could get themselves into? Maker’s ass, the very existence of the Black City testified to human’s flagrant disregard for their own lives let alone the lives of others.

Leliana’s jaw raised in a stubborn jut. “He shows remorse for his actions.” At Raviathan’s continued glare, she spoke in a softer voice. “What murderer do you know who submits himself to a long, torturous death without resistance or complaint? Those bandits fought to the end to evade paying for the crimes they committed. This qunari, whatever he’s done, is seeking penance because he feels a guilt so deep he willingly starves and waits for darkspawn. What a waste of a life when he could do something better for this world.”

“And you’re okay with this?” Raviathan turned to Alistair. Blasted mage hunter would sympathize with a child killer.

“Well. I ... not entirely? I’m not okay that he killed a family, but what Leliana says makes sense. I’ll go along with whatever you say.”

Just like the idiot to not have a backbone. “Morrigan?”

“Freeing a murderer in the hopes he will not murder you in return? Seems foolish in the extreme. The tale of the scorpion and frog comes to mind.”

“Agreed.”

“Will you at least talk to him,” Leliana asked.

Raviathan rubbed his forehead. Maker, we don’t have time for this. “I think the Chasind would make better company. They’re also seasoned warriors and have cause to fight the darkspawn.”

Leliana and Alistair both appeared to consider his proposal, which mollified Raviathan. However, Morrigan’s uncomfortable shift caught his attention. “That ... might not be possible. Not with me around.”

Raviathan’s brows knit.

At his gaze, Morrigan fidgeted, her fingers linking and twisting in their own dance. “Stories of the Witch of the Wilds travel far among the savages. And ... their fears are not without substance.”

“Isn’t that a surprise,” Alistair muttered.

Morrigan sneered at him. “My mother’s reputation. Not mine.”

“Well then. Chasind savages who have a reputation for cannibalism,” Alistair said in an oddly cheery voice, “or Morrigan. Can I vote now?”

“On second thought,” Morrigan said, giving her best contemptuous glare at Alistair, “a child murder sounds delightful. With your wit, I expect he’ll go after you first.”

“Stop.” Raviathan wondered how human mothers put up with their children. Drown them all at birth and have done with it. “Leliana, he’s caged for murder. Granted, the templars are busy with the refugees, but they’ll probably notice if we take a murder with us.”

“Let me speak to the Revered Mother.”

Maker, why? “You have twenty minutes. Then we’re on our way.”

She beamed at him. At least this way Leliana’s hopes weren’t his to dash. What was the chance that the Reverend Mother would allow the release of a murderer? Back in Denerim, elves hung from the the gallows for crimes like theft.

Eighteen minutes later, Raviathan’s jaw tightened when Leliana trotted up to their waiting band at the outskirts of the village, a smile threatening to split her face.

“Did you steal the key?”

“Of course not!”

“The Reverend Mother just gave it to you. She’s allowing the release of a strange foreigner who admits to murdering a whole family. Just like that.”

“Not just like that.” Leliana lifted her chin. “She trusts me.”

Raviathan held his hand out for the key, eyes closed briefly as he gathered his composure. Elves hang for theft, but this qunari can go free for murder. There was no justice with humans. “I’ll talk to him. I promise nothing.”

She frowned but stayed silent.

The qunari stood as implacable as the day before, lavender eyes glaring at the fields and windmill beyond the village proper.

“Why did you let yourself be captured?” Raviathan asked.

The qunari made no move. Just when Raviathan decided to leave the giant to his fate, the qunari spoke. “I murdered the family, as you have no doubt been told.”

“Why not flee? Why not fight for your freedom?”

“I do not deserve freedom.”

Well, that was something. “This is your atonement?”

“I do not know that word.”

“This is your way paying for what you did?”

“Yes.”

Ignoring Leliana’s agitation, Raviathan nibbled his lip as he thought. The qunari gained nothing from lying. Would he turn on them if freed concerned Raviathan more. “Have you killed like that before?”

Again, the qunari appeared like he would not answer. Raviathan would have taken him for a statue except for the twitch of jaw muscles, so he waited. Finally, the qunari’s stare landed on him. “I have killed many. But they were not innocents. Never before have I lost myself.”

Maker’s ass. Though she held still, Raviathan could feel Leliana’s excitement as if she was ready to bounce like Venger when given a treat. “Your death accomplishes nothing and does not bring back the people you killed. If you wish to atone, I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?”

“We fight the darkspawn. You know of them?”

“Fight the darkspawn?” The giant’s gaze focused, an intensity that made Raviathan feel like a bug pinned to a board. He struggled not to squirm. “You are,” the giant searched for the words, “Grey Wardens?”

“Yes. Alistair and I,” Raviathan said, his hand sweeping to indicate his comrade.

The giant frowned, angry or disappointed, Raviathan couldn’t say. “We have heard of you, in the North. I expected more.”

“Not one for self preservation, are you.”

Now Raviathan had no problem returning the qunari’s glare.

The qunari emitted a low sound caught between a growl and thoughtful murmur. “The Mother will not let me go.”

Raviathan held up the key. “Already arranged. Can I trust your word?”

“Yes.” Anger flashed in the qunari, a man whose honor war rarely questioned, Raviathan realized. Sighing, the giant lowered his head. “Free me, and I pledge myself to your service, to fight the darkspawn, as long as you see fit or until the Blight is finished.”

“Are you sure about this?” Morrigan asked.

Raviathan studied the prisoner for a long moment. A murderer. A child killer. And a choice. Do I now side with those who wantonly end life, innocent life? Does my goal justify another betrayal to the family who now mourns their lost kin? Justice, or the Blight?

The answer compelled him as much as the poisoned blood in his body.

Grey Wardens do what them must, and that included taking aid from any source that would help stop a Blight. The templar and apostate at his side stood as testament that personal feelings had no place in this decision.

Remember that, Rav. Duncan would take anyone who had the mettle to fight the darkspawn. Bitter choices but necessary—do what you must. Be the Grey Warden Duncan wanted.

“Accepted.”

Rusty hinges shrieked as the cage door opened. “Your name?”

“Sten.”

Raviathan turned to Leliana. “We need to outfit him. Armor will be next to impossible, but a sword and something basic to start.”

“While the Mother agreed to grant his freedom, she cautioned that we should not stay as we may incur the ire of the townspeople. They are agitated and may seek him as a target to vent their fear.”

“Hmm.” As an elf, he understood that fear and the need for caution all too well. He turned to the qunari. “What kind of weapon are you best with?”

“I fight with sword without shield.”

Handing Leliana a few coins, Raviathan said, “See if you can get one of the two-handeds back from the blacksmith. I doubt we can get an additional tent, but maybe a bedroll and waterskin? We’ll wait just past the windmill, out of sight.”

Nodding, Leliana left at a jog.

Without a word, Raviathan handed Sten his waterskin and a wrapped cake Venger had filched that morning. “How long have you been in that cage?”

“Twenty days.” Sten took a careful bite of the cake but did not drink.

A chill of realization struck Raviathan as he watched the giant. Whoever this man was, he had been starved in the weeks of his capture, understood how to treat starvation, and had the formidable will to keep himself from gorging.

“Have you decided then?”

“What?” Raviathan pulled himself away from his thoughts to consider Alistair’s question. “Oh. Yes.” Composing himself, Raviathan prepared for the templar’s inevitable protests. “I know you want to go to Arl Eamon, but the treaties should be our first goal.”

Alistair’s face fell.

“Look at what happened with the bann here. Loghain is actively seeking us out, and we don’t know the full reach of his influence. Loghain may have pressured Eamon or lied to him, which is quite possible considering the rumors he’s been spreading here. As a teyrn, he also outranks every noble save the queen. Until we are assured Eamon will support us, we can’t risk being caught and handed over. Better to get the treaties done.”

“But the Arl would never...”

Venger’s low growl unnerved Raviathan. Seconds later, Alistair’s naked blade appeared next to him. Sten dropped the few items he had, moving into a defensive stand next to Alistair. Morrigan stayed behind the three fighters in the protection they provided. What in the Maker’s name? Turning, Raviathan saw the crowd of farmers carrying pitchforks, shovels, and one beefy man with a pickax.

“What’s going on?” Raviathan yelled at the crowd.

Hands clenched the tools tighter as the crowd of humans glanced at each other. A gaunt man in rags took a few hesitant steps forward. “You’re the Grey Wardens. We heard that.”

A few of the men behind him nodded.

“What Loghain told you were lies.”

“Look,” the leader continued, his voice breaking from fear, “I don’t care what Loghain says about you. There’s a price on your heads. That’s all we want.”

Raviathan tried to think through the situation. If only his heart would stop racing like a scared rabbit. All his life, shems were to be feared—violent, stronger, and with the law on their side—and here he was, living the nightmare every elf who had who ventured out of the alienage. The retribution of shems. Being a Grey Warden should have changed all that!

The men were talking, Raviathan reminded himself. His band was outnumbered four to one, but they had training on their side. These men knew the reputation of the Grey. Desperation drove them to act, but fear kept them at bay.

“You know we’re Grey Wardens.” Raviathan tried to push as much authority as he could into his voice. Fear overrode his hesitation. “You know what that means. You don’t have a chance against us. People, there is a Blight. That Blight will swallow everything: this land, your family, everything.”

A few listened. Their faces grew white as he talked. Maker, was he actually facing down a mob?

A man from the back yelled, “The Blight will kill us all. This is our only way out! Attack!”

No, no no! Raviathan struggled to get his bent blade out in time to meet his attackers. No, not this. Though he feared the mob with the instinctual terror that all alienage elves shared, he couldn’t stop from seeing their fear. Some were old men, faces worn to leather from long hours in the sun. Others sported the wiry strength of farmers who had families to protect. Even sisters or wives stood in the mob.