Chapter 7 - Ostagar

We made it, Arual thought. As Duncan walked easily away, she ducked into a nearby copse of trees. The slender trees acted like a curtain between her and the gateway into the lost fortress. There, she knelt, breathing heavily with tears tugging at the edges of her eyes.

Bran was beside her, then, whimpering worriedly.

Arual reached a hand out and scratched the faithful Mabari behind the ears.

"I'm all right, boy," she said. For the first time in days, it didn't sound like a lie. "I'm just tired is all."

And she was. Relief disguised as fatigue washed over her, making her limbs and eyelids heavy. For all her posturing earlier, she was truly in pain—the journey to Ostagar had been trying on her body, untested as it was. She ached from the walking and riding. Even her toenails hurt from walking for hours and hours along the Imperial Highway.

And that was on a paved causeway, she thought dully. She didn't dare imagine what it would be like to travel the untamed world. The pain (and excitement) could not be borne. A small part of her resented Duncan and their timetable for denying her the rest she wanted, but she knew, too, that it couldn't be helped.

"I just hope Fergus is all right, too," she sighed. Bran chuffed and licked her cheek. The sentiment was clear: of course, Fergus would be all right. He was a Cousland, after all.

Arual allowed herself a tired laugh and pet Bran again.

"You're right," she said. "I suppose all there's left to do for now is find this Alistair fellow."

Bran barked excitedly. At least one of them was ready for the next leg of their adventure. Arual took a breath to steel herself, and stood.

"Let's go."

The camp at Ostagar was not unlike a small city with homes and shops being traded for tents and stalls. There were still camp followers and whores travelling with the king's army, looking for quick and easy money, or low-hanging glory. They filtered through the soldiers, made distinct by the tabards and armor, as though perfectly at home. Smaller camps within the larger stronghold acted almost like city districts—there was a place for the mages, the Chantry, Templars, soldiers from the king's army and numerous noble houses from across Ferelden.

Arual's eyes searched for the blue and silver laurels of House Cousland, but Ostagar was a whirlwind of color and sound that boggled the senses. Picking any one person or house out among the pell mell felt nigh impossible. And the smell! Arual nearly gagged on the heavy odor of the camp. So many bodies pushed together for so long created a distinct and unpleasant smell—bodies, dog breath, horse shit, piss, and blood mingled with the sweat and dirt and damp so that any one aroma was lost to the greater stench.

It really will be too long before I can take a proper bath again, Arual practically cried.

If it had not been for the hastily erected signs pointing the way, she might never have made it into the hospital tent. Soldiers filled cots and bedrolls around a wide stone gazebo while nurses in their white wimples and healers moved among them. When not tending to the wounded, the hospital workers slipped in and out of a tent set up inside the gazebo.

"Look at them all…" Arual murmured. She'd grown up in a time of relative peace—in the wake of the last great war that shook Ferelden. Even now, with the darkspawn encroaching on their lands from the south, Arual had been content and safe in the north. Most of the injuries she'd seen or suffered were minor. A scrapped knee here, a bloodied nose there. She had never seen injuries on this scale before. The first time she'd seen death take a man by force had been only days before, and yet it had been swift; men fell and died with the stroke of a sword and…that was that.

This was different.

This was a death that lingered, that festered, that bit again and again until the wounded could take no more and finally, blissfully, passed into the realm of the Maker.

Arual's stomach turned to water. She'd known there were casualties and wounded in times of war. That was what all of the history books she'd pored over had said, but there was something clinical about the way it had been described in her texts. Nothing could match the very real sight of the dead and dying. Nothing could have prepared her for…this.

Is that why Duncan sent me here? she wondered. To make me see this?

She didn't want to believe the man she had come to admire in the short time they traveled together could be so cruel, and yet…

"Let's just get this over with," she said to Bran. The Mabari chuffed in agreement and trotted toward the tent, setting the pace for Arual. 

She wove through the throng of wounded, trying not to look to hard at any one of them, when suddenly a hand clasped around her wrist. Arual stopped short, biting back a sound of alarm, and rounded on the person who had grabbed her.

"You...you need to convince them!" pleaded a man from his cot. He was white as a sheet, bloodshot eyes wide as dinner plates. "We've got to run! The darkspawn are coming!"

Arual wrenched herself free of his grasp and took a distinct step away from him. "Wha-what are you talking about?" she stammered.

"I saw them," he insisted, voice trembling. "We're going to die!"

A harried nurse, her apron stained with blood and her hair falling gracelessly from her headcover, came over at the sound of his voice. Her brow was slick with sweat, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.

"I apologize, miss," she sighed. "He's been like this ever since they found him in the Wilds."

"What's wrong with him?" Arual asked, glancing back at the man.

"Aside from his wounds, we're not sure. He's untainted, he's just...terrified."

"You can feel it, can't you?" the man asked, practically shouting now. "They taint the land, turn it black and sick. They'll come out of that forest and spread! Like caterpillars covering a tree. They'll swallow us whole!"

"Calm yourself, my good man," the nurse hushed.

"They were everywhere! I saw them!" the man cried. "We need to run! Run!"

Arual staggered backwards, practically tripping over herself in an effort to get away from the wounded soldier. Something hard struck her back, nearly knocking her over.

"Oof!"

Not something—someone.

Arual turned around, an apology already on her lips. "I beg your pardon," she sputtered.

"That's quite all right," chuckled an elderly woman. She had a calming, kind countenance that made her seem instantly trustworthy. In one hand, she carried a long, golden staff entwined by two serpents whose mouths clasped the same fist-sized sphere of rhodonite, each surmounted by a pair of wings. She was swathed in richly colored robes of magenta and gold, clearly marking her as a mage. Her short grey hair was pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail behind her head, and though flanked by deep crow's feet, her bright blue eyes appeared sharp and clear.

"That's a nasty broken nose you have there," she said with a motherly smile.

"Oh, erm, yes," Arual said sheepishly. "Duncan—the Grey Warden—told me to come here and ask someone to see to it."

"Then see to it we shall," said the woman. She placed a hand on Arual's shoulder and gestured with her staff, guiding Arual away from the wounded soldiers and to a more secluded area around the other side of the gazebo. For some reason, Arual didn't mind so much that the woman treated her with such familiarity. Perhaps it was the shock of what the soldier had said, but whatever it was, Arual allowed herself to be guided away from everything by this woman.

With the tent between them and the bulk of the wounded, the elderly woman leaned her staff against a nearby bit of rubble, and turned her attention to Arual.

"So, you are Duncan's newest recruit?" she asked conversationally. "He is not a man easily impressed. You should be proud."

"Oh, erm…thank you."

"Allow me to introduce myself," she went on. "I am Wynne of the Circle of Magi."

"I am Arual Cousland," she said, bowing low as she was accustomed. Wynne placed a gentle hand under Arual's chin and tipped her face up. Arual straightened.

"There's no need for that here, my dear," Wynne said. "But well met all the same."

Arual felt the all too familiar heat of embarrassment wash over her features. Back home, she had been considered a bright, well-learned girl having mastered many of her lessons and showing a voracious hunger for the histories of Thedas. After only a few days on the road with Duncan, she was beginning to see how little any of it had mattered. Here, in the real world, being studious and handy with a needle seemed…useless.

"Now, then," Wynne said, drawing Arual from her dark thoughts, "let's see what we can do about that nose of yours, hm?"

 Her palm glowed with a soft pink light, as though from within. Arual flinched away, surprised, but Wynne passed her hand over Arual's features before the younger woman could get too far. There was a horrible crunching sound, not unlike the one that racked her head when the nose was broken, then something…shifted. It was as though someone had pulled on her nose, hard, and straightened it out. A tickle at the back of her throat made Arual start to cough and gag. Wynne produced a handkerchief from a fold in her robes and held it out to Arual.

"Blow," she said in a motherly voice.

Arual did as she was told, blowing her nose into the soft white fabric. Gobs of bloody mucus drenched the handkerchief from Arual's once-broken nose. She coughed, clearing her throat, and Wynne expertly took the disgusting handkerchief away without so much as blinking, and pocketed it.

"How's that?" ash asked. "Better?"

Arual inhaled slowly through her nose…and gagged. The camp had smelled bad enough when her nose didn't work properly. Wynne chuckled, satisfied, and pulled a vial of something red from a satchel at her hip.

"Drink this."

"Is it going to make the camp smell worse, too?" Arual asked, though she wasn't sure that was possible. She took the vial and removed the stopper.

"It's a simple potion," Wynne said. "It should take care of the rest of those nasty bruises and restore some of your stamina. You'll want to be ready if you're going up against those darkspawn."

Arual considered the vial in her hand for a moment, frowning.

"Have you fought darkspawn before?"

She brought the vial to her lips and drank. The liquid inside was warm, viscous, and tasted vaguely of almonds. The warmth of the potion slid down her throat and into her chest, her stomach, spreading out into her limbs, her fingertips, her toes. The aches and pains she'd earned along the Imperial Highway eased out of her as though they had never been. It was better than any hot bath she'd ever have. 

"Straggles, yes," Wynne admitted. "Not the hordes the scouts speak of."

Arual flexed her hands and rolled her shoulders, finding the soreness that had been building there utterly gone. She frowned, watching her hands.

"Are they as frightening as everyone says?" Arual asked, trying to keep her voice even, calm, as though nothing at all were the matter.

"Worse," Wynne said. Her voice had a sad, almost cold quality to it, as though the very thought of the darkspawn invited nightmares. Arual shuddered, but when she opened her mouth to ask Wynne another question, the old woman flashed her another motherly smile and said, "But I'm certain Duncan has more for you to do than talk to me."

"I'm meant to find a Warden named Alistair, but—"

"The Grey Warden's camp is the white tents at the far end of the bivouac," Wynne said kindly, effectively putting an end to Arual's questioned about the darkspawn. She pointed the way for Arual who tried to follow the old woman's line of sight, but even as she craned her neck she was at a loss. 

Wynne placed a gentle hand on Arual's shoulder. "Good luck to you on the battlefield," she said, urging her forward. "To us all, in fact."

"You have my thanks," Arual said, turning. She made to bow again, but stopped herself. Her lips became a thin line as she straightened. Wynne gave her a knowing smile. Arual nodded stiffly.

"Farewell," she said, and turned to go, walking in the direction Wynne told her.

Honestly, this place is mad, Arual grumped to herself. It's a wonder anyone can find anything!

Still, she had no other recourse but to follow the mage's advice.

Eventually, she found herself climbing a ramp to what must have once been a balustrade, now overgrown with thin trees that snaked their way through the stone and carpeted in thick grass. Here there were very few people—soldiers and servants alike. Arual hoped that would make finding the Grey Wardens easier. As she turned a corner, she came upon two men speaking loudly. One was another mage, dressed in robes of gold and green, and an armored man with a shock of strawberry blond hair poking out from beneath a cowl sewn into the shirt beneath his plate.

"What is it now?" the mage grumped. "Haven't Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?"

Arual's ears perked up at the mention of the Grey Wardens. Perhaps the armored man would be able to lead her to his camp and she could find this Alistair person. She paused, waiting to interject into the conversation.

"I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage," the armored man began evenly. "She desires your presence."

"What her Reverence desires is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens—by the king's orders, I might add!"

"Should I have asked her to write a note?" the armored man snarked, all pretense of respect or ceremony gone in a blink. Arual covered her mouth to stifle an unexpected giggle. Andraste, she must be more tired than she realized…

"Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!"

"Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message."

"Your glibness does you no credit."

"Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you...the grumpy one."

A laugh escaped Arual before she could help herself. The mage turned a glare on her. Thankfully, Arual managed to camouflage the laugh as a cough and turned her gaze distinctly away from the mage, hoping he would be convinced of her innocence.

"Enough!" he roared, rounding back on the other man. "I will speak to the woman if I must!" 

The mage turned on his heel, heedless of where he was going, or anyone who might run into. 

Namely, Arual.

"Out of my way, fool!" the mage spat, shoving her aside. Arual tried to keep her footing, but found herself unbalanced with the sword across her back. She fell, landing hard on her bottom. Bran growled after the mage, standing protectively over his mistress. He made no move to attack, but Arual noted the mage walked a bit faster.

"It's all right, Bran," she sighed. The Mabari turned and licked her cheek.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together," said a voice.

Arual turned to see the man the mage had been speaking to standing over her. He offered her his hand.

He looked familiar somehow, but Arual couldn't place him. His skin was bronzed and rough from long hours of travel in the sun, and a shadow of a beard darkened his chiseled jaw. There was a laugh in his brown eyes mirrored by his crooked grin. His cowl concealed the length of his hair, but framed his face pleasingly.

Arual took the man's hand without thinking and he hoisted her up easily. Thick callouses covered his palm. Arual knew them by their touch and pattern—this man was a warrior, the hand he'd offered her was the one in which he wielded the sword at his hip.

Ser Gilmore had had the same callouses. So had her father.

Arual hastily snatched her hand away before the memories could drag her down into the depths of her grief. The man blinked, confused, then coughed awkwardly.

"Sorry, what?" Arual asked louder than she meant. She felt flush—embarrassed.

"Oh, nothing," he said. "Just trying to find a bright side to all of this. We haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"

Arual scoffed. "Don't worry, I'm no mage."

"Less being yelled at for me, then," the man chuckled. "Though the day is still young. Wait, I do know who you are. You're Duncan's new recruit from Highever."

Arual tilted her head. "You must be Alistair, then."

"Did Duncan mention me? Nothing bad, I hope. I'm sorry, he didn't mention your name in his letters."

"Arual Cousland."

"Cousland?" Alistair echoed. "As in Teyrn Cousland?"

"As in his daughter, yes."

Alistair made a low whistle of amazement. "Well met, my lady," he said with a polite bow. Arual opened her mouth to tell him it wasn't necessary, but before she could speak Alistair went on, musing aloud. "You know, there have never been many nobles in the Grey Wardens," he said. "Come to think of it, there haven't been many women, either. I wonder why that is. Not that I'd be opposed, mind you."

Arual exchanged a skeptical glance with Bran, then raised a brow at Alistair.

"I-I don't mean that in a lecherous way!" Alistair blurted, face turning a shade of crimson on par with his hair. Arual's brow ticked closer to her hair line as she folded her arms across her chest. 

"Please stop looking at me like that," he said in a low quick voice. He coughed again, and changed the subject to one that Arual liked much more.

"In any case," he said, voice cracking awkwardly. "We should get you prepared for the Joining. I assume Duncan has told you nothing, yes?"

Arual sighed and nodded.

"Excellent. Right this way, then," he gestured the way Arual had come, and waited for her to fall into step beside him before leading her from the balustrade.

"So, tell me," Alistair asked casually, "have you ever actually fought a darkspawn?"

"No, I haven't."

"I was terrified when I killed my first," he admitted seriously. "Can't say I'm looking forward to fighting more."

"Have you killed many?" Arual asked.

Alistair shrugged. "More than most, less than some. It's not a particularly exciting part of being a Grey Warden."

Arual thought back to the man at the hospital tent, and Wynne. They, too, had seemed horrified by the darkspawn and the very idea of encountering them, let alone fighting them. She chewed nervously at her lower lip.

"They're…really that bad?" she asked timidly.

Alistair shot her a sidelong glance and tried to look apologetic. "Don't worry," he said, "Duncan wouldn't have asked you here if he didn't think you could handle it."

Arual smiled appreciatively. That was twice now someone had told her that today. Most people looked unfavorably on women warriors, even in Highever, but here things seemed different. After learning about Duncan and his life with the Grey Wardens, hearing that he thought she was a good candidate for the order felt oddly thrilling.

I can't let it go to my head, Arual advised herself. After all, there's still a lot I don't know.

She doubted Alistair would be any more forthcoming about the Joining or what it entailed than Duncan had been, but Arual was curious about a great many things, including why there were so many mages at Ostagar. It seemed King Cailan had requested their aid in fighting the darkspawn, but why did it seem as though they were helping the Grey Wardens specifically? Between Duncan sending Arual to see a mage for healing, and whatever the mage Alistair had been talking to was on about, it seemed the magic users were everywhere.

Arual, personally, had only ever known one mage named Father Aldous who worked in service of the Chantry first and the Couslands second as a keeper of lore and history. He'd been one of Arual's many tutors, but she'd never seen him use magic—not really.

"The argument I saw..." Arual ventured cautiously, "what was that about?"

"With the mage?" Alistair asked. "The Circle is here at the king's request and the Chantry doesn't like that one bit. They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are," Alistair said, rolling his eyes. "Which puts me in a bit of an awkward position. I was once a templar."

The Templar Order was a military order within the Chantry that hunted abominations, apostates, and maleficar. To that end, they also watched over the mages of the Circle of Magi in an effort to both protect and police them. Though Templars were officially deemed a force of defenders by the Chantry, many Fereldens, mage and non-mage alike, had mixed feelings about the order. Their advocates claimed they were saviors, holy warriors, protectors of the innocent, and champions of all that is good. Others saw them as symbols of the Chantry's control over magic with a religious fervor that inspired absolute devotion to their mandate rather than moral principles. Ultimately, their role was to protect the communities of the faithful from magical threats, protect mages from the populace, and subdue any who refuse to submit to the authority of the Circle.

"Oh…That would be awkward."

"I'm sure the revered mother meant it as an insult—sending me as her messenger—and the mage picked right up on that," Alistair grumbled. "I would never have agreed to deliver the message, but Duncan says we're all to cooperate and get along. Apparently, they didn't get the same message."

"Are there other Grey Wardens at Ostagar?"

"There are two recruits besides you," Alistair explained. "Daveth and Jory. I'm sure you'll be meeting them shortly."

Alistair told Arual what little he had learned of the other recruits as he led Arual and Bran to an armory of sorts. There, a balding quartermaster helped outfit her with a mail hauberk, sword belt, grieves, gloves, bracers, and an unadorned shield. 

"I need a sword," Arual told him.

The quartermaster narrowed his eyes. "Seems to me, you've already got one," he said, pointing to the Cousland ancestral sword.

"I can't use this," she protested.

"Well, I ain't givin' you a new one, seeing as you've got a perfectly fine one right there," he sneered. He eyed the hilt a little more closely, a greedy glint coming to his beady little eyes. "That said, I wouldn't mind a trade iffin you're not gonna use that one."

Arual clutched the sword closely. "It's not for sale," she growled through clenched teeth.

"Then off with you," the quartermaster snarled, waving his hands. "Damn greedy Grey Wardens, thinking they can just come in and take what they want…"

Arual wanted to gripe, but she knew too well how and why Grey Wardens were disliked and mistrusted in Ferelden. She looked down at her father's sword. She'd planned to give it to Fergus when she'd arrived at Ostagar. It was his by right of birth, after all, but more than that it felt like using the blade in combat—against darkspawn no less—would somehow tarnish the blade and all it represented. It was the one relic she was able to recover from her home before it burnt to the ground. How could she justify using it this way? Like a common sword?

Forgive me, father, she thought as she belted the sword at her hip.

"Any chance of a bite to eat?" Arual ventured, hoping to take her mind off things.

"Trust me, you'll want an empty stomach for what's ahead," Alistair said. That did not make her feel better. He led her, then, to the Grey Warden's pavilion on the opposite end of the camp. Arual felt the weight of her family's sword on her hip as she walked. Despite her misgivings, Arual couldn't escape how right the blade felt at her side—ready, and eager, for battle as it had not seen in over thirty years.

She bit her lower lip as she followed Alistair, wishing she could quell the conflicted feelings inside her.

When they arrived at the Grey Warden tent, Arual found Duncan standing idly around a small fire with two other men. One was a man of medium height and build with a quiver at his hip and a bow slung over his shoulder. The other was a large, beefy man with a sword nearly as large as he was strapped to his back. They seemed deep in conversation, but it died down as Duncan noted their approach.

"You found Alistair, did you?" Duncan said with a nod to Arual. "Good. I'll assume you are ready to begin preparations. Assuming, of course, that you're quite finished riling up mages, Alistair."

"What can I say?" Alistair spread his hands helplessly. "The revered mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt they should put her in the army."

"She forced you to sass the mage, did she?" Duncan raised a brow. "We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us."

Alistair lowered his gaze, looking ashamed, if not contrite. His cowl shadowed his eyes from view, but his words seemed sincere when he spoke. 

"I apologize, Duncan," he said.

"Now then, since you are all here, we can begin. You all know Alistair by now. He will be leading your party as you venture into the Korcari Wilds to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood—one for each recruit. Your hound is welcome to wait with me," he said directly to Arual.

"Why can't he join us?" Arual asked.

"A small party will be most useful for moving through the Wilds," Duncan explained, "and he is the only one amongst you who is not required to go."

Arual frowned and bit her tongue. Bran had hardly been away from her since the attack on castle Highever, and that was just how she liked it. In her heart, though, she knew that whatever lay ahead would be dangerous, and if it came down to it, she would want Bran safe in camp rather than out in the Wilds, left to Maker knows what. Hesitantly, she knelt by Bran and scratched behind his ears and under his chin.

"Be good, eh boy?" she cooed. Bran rolled onto his back and wiggled as she scratched his belly. Then, he jumped up, gave a single, happy bark of affirmation, and went to stand beside Duncan, who pat his head affectionately.

"Shame," said the man with the bow. "I hear Mabari are quite fierce in battle."

Watch over your charges, Alistair," Duncan instructed. "Return quickly, and safely."

"We will," Alistair promised seriously.

"Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return."

"This way, men," Alistair said, waving them on. Arual and the two other recruits followed Alistair away from the tent, and made their way through the camp. The man with the bow fell quickly into step beside Arual.

"Didn't know they let women into the Grey Wardens," he said, eyeing her. "Not that I'm complaining, mind. 'Course I was hoping for a comely lass with blonde hair and poor eyesight." He laughed at his own joke and draped an arm over Arual's shoulders. "Name's Daveth," he said, breath hot on her ear. "What's yours, love?"

Arual tried to shrug Daveth's arm off, but he seemed all too used to women turning him away, and he held her fast. To all outward appearances, the embrace looked friendly enough—though it was anything but.

"I am Ser Jory, if there are to be introductions," said the other man, affecting as much of a bow as he could while still keeping pace with the others.

"You're a knight?" Arual said, blinking.

"I was," Ser Jory admitted, "until Duncan recruited me. I was in the service of Arl Eamon at Redcliffe. Where are you from, my lady?"

Arual chewed her words for a moment, still trying to shrug off Daveth's arm. She supposed there would be no use hiding the truth. These men were to be her fellow Grey Wardens, after all, and Duncan and Alistair both knew who she was.

"I am Arual Cousland of Highever," she said imperiously, "daughter to Teyrn Bryce Cousland and heir to the teyrnir."

The shift in her voice, however, did not have the desired effect. Daveth kept his arm firmly around her shoulders, chuckling darkly. 

"Sounds lovely," he said, "except it ain't true. Not anymore. Once you're a Grey Warden, love, you don't belong to anyone or anything else. It's like your slate's been wiped clean," he motioned with his hand as though cleaning a surface. "It's all gone now—the good, and the bad."

Arual felt cold all over again.

This…was a fate she had not considered. The Grey Wardens were not meant to serve any one house or country—they served all of Thedas. Arial had never thought about what that might mean. Of course, Grey Wardens would have to sever ties with their family and allegiances in order to serve the order and nothing else. It was why criminals had been drawn to the order for so long. Being a Grey Warden meant escaping justice for their crimes because to be a Grey Warden was a worse fate than any jail cell.

In exchange for her life, her father had promised her to an order that would strip her of her titles, her power, her recognition. In exchange for seeing the world, she'd become nothing more than a killer—no better than a common criminal. In exchange for saving Thedas, she'd lose herself.