Chapter 5 - The Fall

Arual, Eleanor, and Bran snuck through the castle like children at play. Arual lead her mother down every side passage and supposedly secret tunnel she played in as a girl, or with Oren when he was old enough for such games.

Each turn was filled with bitter memories, but more often than not the way was clear. Bran, clever as he was vigilant, warned Arual when he smelled Howe's men by standing in her way or taking the hem of her nightdress in his teeth. Fast as mice, the three of them would hide in a nearby room or darkened alcove until the danger had passed, or they were able to surprise small groups of their enemy and overcome them.

The Cousland women were warriors, unafraid of battle, but they were not fools.

Be cleverer, Arual reminded herself whenever they happened upon a group of invaders dismantling her home or pissing on heirlooms.

It took everything in her to stay in the shadows. She wanted to scream, to rail against the injustice of it all, but she stayed her hand and settled for biting the inside of her cheek.

As much as Arual wanted to thwart each and every one of Howe's men they happened across, she knew it to be folly.

She, the teyrna, and a single mabari hardly made for an army, not to mention Arual didn't even have shoes let alone armor or a shield. Eleanor Cousland had once been a fearsome raider on the Storm Coast, her ship, the Mistral, had been infamous, deadly—but that was many years ago. The callouses she'd earned in battle had softened, leaving her with the tender hands of a mother, grandmother, and gardener. The mail hauberk she wore was ill-fitting and heavy; the sword in her hand clumsy.

Arual trembled to see her mother so fearsome and yet so frail.

She set her jaw and hardened her resolve—she would not allow the night to claim the lives of anyone else she cared about.

There was no telling how long it took them to reach the front gates. The adrenaline rushing through her veins distorted time, making everything seem like it was happening so fast and yet so slow all at once. Arual could only pray under her breath that they would be swift enough to save her father.

When at last they came to the front gates, they found it under siege.

A group of Howe's men who had infiltrated the castle through servant's passages and other means had managed to out flank some of the few remaining Cousland forces. The men had their backs to the gates, barred heavily against more of Howe's men who no doubt waited for their comrades to open the way for them.

Arual and Eleanor crouched behind a low wall, panting with effort and distress.

"I count ten of them," Arual said breathlessly.

Eleanor wiped the sweat from her eyes. "There are only two of us," she snarled.

"Three," Arual corrected, patting Bran's flank. "I think we can take them. They won't be expecting reinforcements, let alone women."

Eleanor looked back and forth between her daughter and Howe's men. It was possible this would be their only chance to make it to the teyrn and escape with what was left of her family. It was possible, too, that even a small skirmish could end her line this very night. She had to decide if it was worth it. Did she gamble with her daughter's life on the chance her husband was still alive?

"Mother," Arual pressed.

Eleanor looked at her daughter. Really looked at her in a way she hadn't in a very long time. Maybe she never had.

Arual Cousland was fierce as she was young. She'd been schooled in swordplay and combat strategy since her toddling years. She was a bright girl, strong, dutiful, and with a sense of justice few in this world could claim.

If Eleanor couldn't have faith in her to survive a simple skirmish, then how could she have faith she would make it out of the castle at all.

"All right," she conceded, choosing to believe in her daughter. "Let's do it."

Arual nodded. If she understood the struggle of Eleanor's heart, she gave no indication.

"On my signal," the young warrior said. Her hazel eyes scanned the battlefield, looking for their perfect opening. Eleanor's eyes were on her daughter. She did not see the opening, but when a fire lit behind Arual's gaze, she knew her daughter had found it.

"We'll move up quietly. Catch them by surprise. Their armor is weak at the neck and beneath the arms. We might be able to take out two or three of them before the others notice us. We have to be quick."

"I'm with you," Eleanor said, meaning everything.

Arual nodded. "Let's go."

Bran and the Cousland women crept from their hiding place and moved to the battlefield. They made no cries of battle nor boasts of valor. Instead, they moved on quiet, sure feet, their footsteps masked by the sounds of the fighting.

And then they were upon the enemy.

The teyrna caught one of Howe's men by the back of his head and brought her sword around to cut his throat. Bran leapt, tackling a third man to the ground with a snarl, teeth on his throat Arual stabbed her blade up beneath the arm of another, the tip of her sword piercing his heart. She tried not to think of the blood that spilled out as she wrenched her blade free, or of the life she'd claimed. Mercifully, the battle consumed her every thought, forcing her into a space of practiced technique. Her enemy was stronger, with better reach and better armor, but Howe's men were overconfident and sloppy, and unaccustomed to fighting a woman. Arual, however, had been fighting men all her life.

She kept her body low, avoiding the brunt of the sweeping attacks Howe's men tried, and parrying their overhead swings. Just as she'd been taught, she dodged away from any attempts to trap her in overhead locks, instead forcing her enemy to meet her in the low, upward arching cuts and quick thrusts of her wheelhouse. She danced in and out of their guards, too close for them to defend, or too far for them to attack.

Two more men fell to her blade in the skirmish. She engaged a third, maneuvering to attack his flank, but he was the faster. He swept his blade up at her, and Arual caught it with her own. Howe's man snaked his hand off his blade and grabbed her wrist, holding her into the lock. Arual tried to break his hold, but he was the stronger. His other hand cocked back and he slammed his gauntleted fist into Arual's nose.

Skin, cartilage, and bone crunched audibly under the impact. Pain burst across Arual's face, and she reeled back, dropping her blade in the process. Her hands instinctively went to her nose, now broken, as her eyes began to water.

She swore, trying to regain her footing, but it was too late. Through the haze of tears, she saw the enemy raise his blade.

She braced herself for the end, but was instead met with a familiar snarl. A blur of brown fur dashed in front of her. Teeth closed around the man's sword arm and the full strength of a mabari warhound wrestled him to the ground. Arual heard his sword clatter to the stone as Bran shook the life from him, nearly renting the man's arm from his shoulder.

Arual grit her teeth and blinked rapidly, trying to fight against the tears blurring her vision. There! She scooped up the man's sword and closed the gap between herself and the enemy, bringing the blade to bear.

"No, don't!" the man cried, holding a hand up to her, but it was too late. Arual stabbing down, deep, into the man's throat.

In that moment, she was grateful for the broken nose and her watery eyes. She did not have to see the full force of the terror on the man's face as he died.

Shouts of relief and victory rose up to meet her as the last of Howe's men fell The skirmish had ended. The Couslands had defended the gate. For now.

"Arual!" the teyrna cried, going to her daughter's side. "You're wounded!"

"I'm fine, mother," Arual lied in a nasally voice.

From somewhere within her armor, Eleanor produced a handkerchief and pressed it gingerly to Arual's broken nose. Arual winced, but knew better than to pull away.

"Your Ladyship! My lady! You're alive! Thank the Maker," came a familiar voice. Arual turned, as much as she was able, to see Ser Gilmore trotting up to them. Sweat pasted his bright red hair to his brow in thick tendrils not unlike the spatter of gore that covered his armor.

"I was certain Howe's men had gotten through," he panted. "When I realized what was happening, it was all I could do to shut the gates. I fear they won't keep Howe's men out long."

"Are you injured?" Arual asked, pushing her mother away gently.

Ser Gilmore offered her an appreciative, if bashful in reply.

"Don't worry about me, my lady."

The teyrna looked around the courtyard, searching the faces of the living and fallen alike.

"Have you seen the teyrn?" she asked, failing to keep the quiver from her voice.

"Last I saw him he was headed toward the kitchens, looking for you," Ser Gilmore answered.

The teyrna grabbed Arual's arm, as though trying to steady herself. She didn't need to speak for Arual to understand her worry. The teyrn was no fool, but if he had tried to find them in the servant passages...

Arual nodded to her mother. Time was of the essence, but still she found herself turning back to Ser Gilmore, to one of the greatest friends she had ever known.

"We have a way out," she told him. "Come with us."

Ser Gilmore's mouth became a hard line. He shook his head solemnly.

"If I do, you won't have the time you need to escape," he said. He met her eyes, brows raising in a silent plea. "Please, go while you have the chance."

The teyrna half turned away, hand still on Arual's arm.

A pit opened up in Arual's stomach.

She had vowed to herself that she wouldn't lose anyone else that night. Not her parents, not Bran, and certainly not Ser Gilmore. The man had been a friend, confidant, and rival to Arual for as long as she could remember. They'd trained side by side as squires in the yard countless times, and sparred with each other even more. He'd been as much a brother to her as Fergus.

And now he was laying his life on the line. For her. For her mother and father. He knew without he and his men holding the front gates, they may never be able to escape. Much as she would deny it, Arual knew it, too.

It's not right, she thought, trading his life for mine. It's not right!

"Bless you, Ser Gilmore," the teyrna sobbed. "Maker watch over you."

"Maker watch over us all," he intoned with a bow of the head

Eleanor pulled at her daughter's arm, urging her toward the kitchens and the teyrn, but Arual could not bring herself to go. Not yet.

"Ser Gilmore!" Arual blurted, breaking away from her mother's grip. "Roderick..."

Ser Gilmore turned, surprised to hear his given name fall from the heiress's lips. Surprised greater still when those same lips pressed gently to his cheek in a sisterly kiss. Arual looked up at him with fresh tears in her eyes.

"I will never forget you," she promised.

Ser Gilmore frowned, brows knit as he fought down a wave of emotion.

"Nor I you...Arual," he said.

She smiled sadly at him, and would have said more if Bran had not barked sharply. His intention was clear: they needed to hurry. Eleanor's arm was on her shoulder, silently echoing the sentiment.

Arual knew she had to go, knew she had to leave her comrades to perish so she may live, and she hated it.

Wordlessly, she let herself be dragged away, sword in hand.

She could not bring herself to say farewell.

***

A sprinkling of corpses littered the path to the kitchens. Servants, soldiers, some hounds. Arual tried to let their faces burn into her, tried to recall each of their names or a memory of them, but there was so little time. Try as she might, she could not make their deaths mean anything. Each of them had died senselessly, needlessly, and for what? What possible reason could Arl Howe have for this madness?

Arual fought down the questions along with a deal of bile until, at last, they'd made it to the kitchens.

There lay Old Nan, bloodied knife in hand, near one of Howe's men. Both were dead. Arual swore, tearing her eyes away from the scene.

How many more would she have to lose today? How many more could she bear?

A sound from the larder caught her attention and she threw her arm out to stop her mother from entering.

Arual met her gaze and shook her head. She raised a finger to her lips. The teyrna nodded, realizing the need for silence.

Arual readied her blade. Eleanor tiptoed to the door. Arual gave her a nod. In a single motion, mother threw open the door and jumped aside as daughter rushed in with sword poised to strike. Instead of flesh, her blade met another, the sharp ring of steel on steel ringing through the larder.

"Duncan?" Arual gasped as she recognized the Grey Warden from earlier.

"My Lady," he said, disengaging his blade and taking a step away from her. He was dressed in the same armor and tunic as she recalled, though both were now bloodied, and his ponytail was slipping from its knot.

"There...you both are..." came a weak voice from somewhere around Arual's ankles. She looked down.

There lay her father, clutching at his side with one hand and propping himself up with the other. Blood ran freely between his pale fingers from a wound she could not see. Half his tunic was covered in a dark red stain that pooled on the floor beneath him.

His face was white as a sheet.

He'd lost so much blood.

Too much...

"Bryce!" the teyrna cried, rushing forward and collapsing to her knees at her husband's side. "Maker's blood, you're bleeding!"

"Howe's men...found me first," the teyrn explained weakly. "Almost did me in right there. If it hadn't been for Duncan—"

"We need to get you out of here," Arual said crisply, refusing to hear the end of that sentence.

The teyrn managed a sad smile.

"I...fear I won't survive the standing, pup."

"Then we'll drag you out!" Arual shouted. She realized she was shaking.

"Listen, pup," her father said seriously, meeting her gaze. His eyes seemed out of focus, but his voice was hard and sure. "Once Howe's men break through the gate, they'll find us. You...you must go. Find Fergus. Tell him what has happened."

"You can tell him yourself, father."

"The castle is surrounded, Arual. I...cannot make it. I'll only slow you down, do you understand? You must go. Now!"

"I'm afraid the teyrn is correct," Duncan said before Arual could argue. She shot him an icy glare, which he accepted without ire. "Howe's men have not yet discovered us," he explained, "but they surround the castle. Getting past will be difficult."

"But not impossible," Arual said through her teeth. She would have said more, but her father coughed wetly. She turned to see blood dribbling from his lips. He looked not to her, but to Duncan, the desperation clear in his face and voice.

"Duncan...I beg you..." he said, "take my wife and daughter to safety!"

"I will, your Lordship," Duncan said smoothly, "but I fear I must ask something in return."

"Anything!"

"Duty demands I leave here with a recruit. What is happening here pales in comparison to the darkspawn threat. I will take the teyrna and your daughter to Ostagar, to tell your son and the king what has happened. Then, you daughter joins the Grey Wardens."

"What?" Arual gasped, reeling.

"So long as justice comes to Howe," Bryce said, his voice hard once more, "I agree."

"Father!" Arual cried, taking a step toward him.

"He's right," her mother said suddenly. Her voice was gentle, but it cut the room like a knife. Slowly, she rose and turned toward her daughter, her face set in a placid mask.

"You promised me that should the worst come to pass, you would leave here with your life. I ask you to honor that promise now."

"But, mother—"

"There is no time, Arual," her mother cut her off. She stepped forward and cupped her face, as she had in the royal apartments. "I love you darling, girl. You know that, right?"

Arual felt the tears welling in her eyes all over again.

"I love you, too," she said wetly. "Please come with us," she pleaded, already knowing what her mother intended.

Eleanor smiled sadly and shook her head.

"No, darling. My place is here, with your father. Yours is out there. I will stay and buy you as much time as I can."

Arual covered her mother's hands with her own. They felt soft and warm beneath hers, as they had always been. "Don't leave me," she sobbed.

Eleanor kissed her daughter's brow.

"I am always with you," she promised.

"Pup," the teyrn called out. Eleanor ushered Arual to her father's side. His jaw trembled with the force of his tears, silent though they were. When he shifted his hand from the wound at his side, Arual thought it would be to caress her face. Instead he reached behind him and produced the family blade.

As good as a crown, Arual knew.

"This is yours now, my girl," he said weakly, pushing it into her trembling hands. Arual frowned.

"What about Fergus?"

Bryce gave a crooked grin. "Never had...a Grey Warden in the family," he chuckled. He coughed and more blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

"Take it, and wield it with pride."

Arual opened her mouth to speak, but there was a sudden crashing sound from outside the kitchens.

"Howe's men have broken through the gate!" the teyrna snarled. She readied her sword and placed herself between the door and the rest of them.

"Go," Bryce urged his daughter.

"I can't just leave you!" Arual cried, but it was no use. Bran took the hem of her torn gown in his teeth and began tugging her away from her father and toward the rat tunnels he'd crawled through earlier. Duncan placed a hand on her shoulder, understanding yet nonetheless urgent.

"If we stay, we die," he said as a matter of fact.

"Go," her father said again, voice warm and quiet. Though she could hardly see anymore, his eyes twinkled with pride. His expression was reassuring and filled with all the love a father could have for his daughter.

"It's all right," he said softly.

"I'm sorry," Arual mouthed, tears cutting rivers through the blood on her cheeks.

"I love you," he told her, and then once more, "Go."