I’ll bwing you… [Warhammer 40K]

[Baldrick the Wise]

Well that is an equivalent of calling ortillery on your own position.

 

[Boroda Orka]

Neria Surana, an enchanter and biomancer of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, gazed with quiet sadness through the wide-open window at the temple square and the life-sized statue of Red Steel. The only likeness of a mage in Ferelden ever officially and honourably erected by the Chantry at the entrance to the Grand Cathedral. A pity the distance was considerable. From here, it was difficult to make out Mentor Craig's features in detail. The Grey Wardens' new residence, granted to the Order by His Majesty Cailan Theirin, stood directly opposite the capital's Grand Cathedral.

So from the windows of her chambers or study, Neria could always see both the Cathedral doors and the stern, strong-willed face of her respected Mentor. Beside the "Grey Residence," as the people had already taken to calling it, stood the wealthy building of Orzammar's dwarven embassy and the almost perpetually empty embassy of the Dalish elves. All so the people of Ferelden could see the "representatives" of every organisation and people who had helped save the country. Even if the mages were represented only by a statue, and the Dalish were very rarely present in the city.

"So that good Fereldans may always behold their saviours together. For it was only thanks to the heroism of all the peoples of our country and our allies—thanks to all of us setting aside our quarrels, forgetting old grievances, and uniting in the face of a common Enemy—that we prevailed. Humans. Elves. Dwarves. Nobility and common folk. The Royal Army and the militia. The Templars, the enchanters of Kinloch Hold, and the Grey Wardens.

"Together, we forged the blade of our victory over the Blight."

Those were the words His Majesty had spoken in Denerim's main square when the threat of the Blight had finally been defeated.

"Saviours," the elf murmured.

Sadness weighed upon her heart as she watched people bustle across the square below. There were elves among them as well. Not nearly as many as humans, but according to Neria's acquaintances, far more than one would have seen here before the Blight. Yet her sadness had little to do with the painfully slow improvement in the lives of her kin from the alienages. Humans and elves alike were adapting to the new order with great difficulty. Her people were still oppressed. Riots still broke out from time to time. But the city guard no longer simply looked the other way.

There were elves among Denerim's lawkeepers now, and part of the guard consisted of veterans who had fought shoulder to shoulder with the "knife-ears." The horrors of war they had endured together had brought at least some good. They had built a bridge between many humans and elves, binding them with ties of friendship and comradeship. No. Today Neria was thinking about what had been lost. About the fallen heroes who had stopped the Darkspawn and the Archdemon. About the sacrifices demanded of those who survived. Duncan had once said that this Blight had passed more lightly than any before it. Not for Neria. And not for Solona.

Knowing the history of Thedas was one thing. Reading about previous Darkspawn invasions was one thing. Losing people now—people whose voices and faces still lived vividly in memory—and carrying the pain of that loss was something else entirely. Glory be to Him that her human sister had not died at Ostagar. She and Alistair had been saved by an enormous bird which, according to their own account, had been none other than the legendary Witch of the Wilds. Flemeth.

"A strange old woman. Frightening, though," Solona had said at the time.

Neria had agreed. Their one brief encounter with the witch in the Korcari Wilds—when the Warden recruits had gone with Alistair to recover copies of the ancient Treaties—had left an impression neither girl was likely to forget. Alistair… The ridiculous tinhead who had so often driven her into a fury. Hero of Ferelden. Defender of Thedas. The Grey Warden who had slain the Archdemon at the cost of his own life. Alistair Theirin. Acknowledged by King Cailan as his younger brother. Posthumously. Neria clenched her fists and ground her teeth. A moment later, the anger drained away, and her shoulders sagged.

Alistair probably would have been happy simply to have a real family at last. That fool. That hero. He would not have taken offence. Would not have been insulted. Her cheerful, sometimes almost frivolous, yet unquestionably brave and loyal friend had never been that sort of man. Being a bastard had weighed heavily upon him. And King Cailan could be understood as well. Acknowledging an illegitimate brother was hardly the safest thing a monarch could do. Even allowing Alistair to remain alive had posed some risk to the throne. That was why the merry fool had first been sent to Arl Eamon to be raised.

Later, when Eamon began quarrelling with his wretched wife over the boy she believed to be the arl's illegitimate son, Alistair had gone to the Chantry. The elf released a heavy sigh. Someday, she would finally summon enough courage to bring flowers to the foot of his statue in Denerim's royal square. Perhaps she would even manage to tell her dead friend what had weighed upon her soul for so long.

For Neria, however, that was… Far harder than leaving the Grey Residence and, fighting down her wild terror of the Outside World, making her way to the modest statue of her Mentor. The mere sight of Craig Airel's figure—shoulders squared proudly, stern and unyielding gaze fixed ahead—gave her courage. Even if he was nothing more than Red Steel now. Yes. The Blight had left its mark upon Neria Surana as well. Ironically, her human sister—the girl who had always called herself a coward—had proved braver than the elf.

And yet, as children, Solona had often hidden behind her pointy-eared friend at the first sign of danger. Now Neria feared the world beyond those walls. Whenever she stepped outside, terror rose in her mind like floodwater. Almost impossible to overcome. It seemed to have begun at Ostagar. That was when the elf had first regretted, with all her heart, ever leaving the Tower. That was when she had learned to hate and fear the nightmares of the Outside World. She had endured. Through the rest of the war. Until victory. And afterward—after the King's speech—she had entered the new residence granted to the Grey Wardens…

And found herself unable to leave. Only when the statue of her Mentor had been erected did Neria find enough strength to walk as far as it. And give thanks. There was much to thank him for. Truth be told, a great many people had reason to be grateful to Enchanter Airel. The flowers at the foot of his statue never had time to wither. Every day, someone brought fresh ones. Those who had survived Ostagar. Grey Wardens. Chantry priestesses. Templars. And there was no need even to mention the mages who came to Denerim on business. Well. Except the Libertarians.

Those few who had survived after an entire cell of maleficarum led by Uldred had been uncovered within Kinloch Hold. No wonder her Mentor had "hated the very sight" of that bald, quarrelsome ghoul. Neria gave a melancholy smirk. A year after the Archdemon's fall and the victory over the Blight, the Chantry had officially proclaimed Craig Airel righteous, declaring that in his case his connection to the Fade had been a blessing of the Maker rather than a curse. His name had been entered into the Chantry records as that of an enchanter who had devoted himself wholly to the service of Thedas.

The Creed of Light he had written was approved for distribution throughout the Circles of Magi and Chantry libraries. After a certain amount of editing, naturally. The Chantry had taken such a liking to its rhetoric of service to Him and eternal struggle against the spawn of the Fade that passages from the Creed were already being quoted during sermons. There was even growing talk that the enchanter had been touched by the Maker's blessing Himself. A child who had found the righteous path and walked it without ever knowing doubt.

According to several Templars with whom Neria was on reasonably good terms, the Chantry had taken a keen interest in writings that glorified the Maker and service to Humanity. Especially writings produced by Enchanter Airel. A man already acclaimed as a hero. One who had proven through deeds rather than words his willingness to sacrifice himself and the strength of his will in service to mankind. It was entirely possible that the Creed of Light would soon become required reading for the mages of the Circles.

The Chantry placed great hope in the idea that thoughts written by a mage rather than a priest—thoughts that so closely echoed its own rhetoric—would resonate more deeply in the hearts of others gifted with magic. Curiously enough, Neria had copied the original manuscript for herself. And in that original, unlike in the later Chantry editions, she had not found a single mention of the Chant of Light. Nor Andraste. Nor even the Maker Himself. Her Mentor had written only: He. His. Him. Always capitalised. And only at the very end of the work, filled with his reflections, were the words:

"He is the One whose Majesty lies beyond all reach, whose Care for us is infinite, whose Love for us knows no bounds. The Lord of All, the Master of All, our beloved Emperor. He wishes us Strength, longs to see Will in His children, and desires Life for us. For any who live across all worlds, there is no Purpose higher than to prove oneself, in His eyes, a Worthy son or daughter. The Emperor Protects—but are you worthy of His protection? That is the question every living soul must ask themselves each day."

"You were worthy," Neria said with a sorrowful sigh, gazing at her Mentor's statue. "Then why did He not protect you?"

A foolish question. Neria could almost hear Enchanter Craig's powerful voice answering her. Could almost see that hard, crooked smile of his. The ravine carved across a face of stone.

"Because it was my decision."

The sacrifice of one mage. The salvation of many lives.

"Let hundreds perish so that thousands may live," her Mentor had once said when speaking of the Right of Annulment.

And to the very end, he had remained true to his convictions. At the cost of his own life, Craig Airel had called down a deluge of lightning that had not merely stopped the creatures' pursuit, but inflicted grievous losses upon the Archdemon's army. In the end, he had even brought down part of Ostagar's ancient wall, making it harder still for the spawn of the Taint to pursue the retreating soldiers. Besides, Craig Airel had been prepared for death.

Both the Creed of Light and the textbook on biomancy he left behind made that abundantly clear. How had the Mentor she and Solona shared managed to devise an entirely new approach to magic? No one knew. Even the vile insinuations that he had bargained with demons for such knowledge had been shouted down. Not only because no demon had ever been known to offer anything remotely similar. But because the Templars themselves answered such accusations with lowered spears. Of course they did.

Their Mentor had given the knights of the Chantry nothing less than the possibility of a true retirement. And if he were declared a maleficar, biomancy would be outlawed. With biomancy, Templars no longer had to face the near certainty of losing their minds at the end of their lives. Even the head of the Templar Order had referred to Enchanter Craig in public speeches as "a mage faithful to the Maker." He had also pressed for enchanters capable of healing the body from the grievous effects of lyrium use to be stationed in every Circle as soon as possible. There were still very few such healers.

But that was only a matter of time. At the Chantry's request, Solona was currently training mages in Kirkwall. Truth be told, Neria worried constantly for her sister and seethed at Commander Duncan for agreeing to the request. So what if there were too few biomancers? That was not the Grey Wardens' problem! Weisshaupt, for example—with all due respect—had sent its own mage Wardens to Neria in Denerim and to Senior Enchanter Wynne at Kinloch Hold. And somehow the First Warden had survived the unbearable burden! But the Chantry—oh, the Chantry was too damned important for that. Important as a sheet of parchment smeared in shit.

The elf grimaced and reflexively gripped the all-metal veridium staff standing beside her. A perfect copy of her Mentor's weapon. There was no skull nearby for her to cave in with it. Probably fortunate. Still, Neria would not have minded taking her irritation out on a genlock or hurlock. For an enchanter and biomancer, swinging a club that happened to be called a mage's staff was easy enough. Neria had put on enough muscle to make certain warriors envious. She had never regretted it. A heavy "argument" like that gave a supposedly fragile mage far too great an advantage once an enemy entered striking distance. The girl exhaled.

As much as her sister's absence annoyed her, Solona was doing useful work. Biomancers healing Templars from the ravages of lyrium dependence were helping forge bonds of trust and gratitude between the two orders. One way or another, what was happening would benefit every Circle.

"All right. Tipti and the others will not let anyone hurt Solona," the elf muttered, reassuring herself.

Her human sister had gone with a dozen Grey Wardens and two dozen Templars from the Denerim Chantry. Every one of them was a hardened veteran whom Enchanters Amell and Surana had once healed. They certainly would not stand idle if some insolent bastard tried to harm their healer. Both the Templars and the Wardens understood the value of biomancers far too well. The Grey Wardens had gained an enormous advantage of their own. Recruits now died during the Joining with astonishing rarity. As far as Neria could remember, it had happened only twice. The first time because Wynne, who had overseen the Joining, was still inexperienced with biomancy.

The second because Solona had made a mistake. Only two deaths out of nearly fifty recruits! Neria could have force-fed Duncan an entire cartload of lemons, he was so damned pleased with himself. And then the Wardens discovered that biomancy could also weaken the Taint's hold over their bodies. It could silence the Calling completely for two or three years. After which the procedure could simply be repeated. At that point, Neria wanted to force-feed lemons to every Grey Warden alive. Herself included. Because Neria Surana was very, very unhappy at the prospect of descending into the Deep Roads once the Darkspawn Taint in her blood began driving her insane.

One final heroic deed, my arse! Apparently, in time, Grey Wardens lost their minds and became ghouls. To avoid that fate, they descended underground in search of a "worthy death." Oh, yes. Thank you very much! Neria could hardly eat with such delightful prospects hanging over her head. She dreamed day and night of herself and Solona becoming half-ghouls and heroically dying somewhere in the Deep Roads! Wonderful! So Neria had eaten her lemon after all. Once she finally gave up trying to freeze the arse off one particularly cunning, thoroughly fucked-up, goat-bearded son of a bitch who, by sheer coincidence, happened to be her Commander.

The elf regretted absolutely nothing. That week in the cells had barely felt like punishment compared with the satisfaction she had got from it.

"Goat-bearded shemlen," Neria growled, remembering Duncan's excuses.

Yes, of course. Had the girls known about those "wonderful prospects," they would have thought a thousand times over about which fate was preferable. Dying as half-mad monsters in the Deep Roads? Or remaining in the Circle Tower as Tranquil? Even now, Neria could not say what she and Solona would have chosen then. Thank the Maker, their Mentor had saved them. And he had saved Neria herself more than once. He had stood beside them during the Joining. Watched over them at Ostagar. Dragged her back to sanity when she broke down. And given his life so the King's army could withdraw and join Teyrn Loghain's forces.

Even in death, he continued protecting his pupils. Now from the madness of the Taint and an early grave in the Deep Roads. And not only them. Craig Airel had done a great deal for mages. For all mages. Ironically, thanks to a man many had once considered little better than a Loyalist, the enchanters of Ferelden had gained numerous privileges and concessions. Meanwhile, that idiot Uldred—the loudest of them all whenever he spoke about caring for his "brothers and sisters"—had nearly unleashed Maker-knew-what with demons and Blood Magic.

Neria did not even want to imagine what would have happened had the Templars failed to cut the bastard down along with his yapping lackeys. Kinloch Hold had been very fortunate. So had Arl Eamon. Senior Enchanter Wynne had managed to pull him back from the brink after beginning her intensive study of biomancy. But that pi—piece-of-shit Jowan had not been so fortunate. That fucking maleficar had somehow managed to worm his way into becoming tutor to the arl's son. Redcliffe had turned into an entire bloody parade of surprises. First of all, the arl's son turned out to be a mage.

"Well, imagine that," Neria had drawled inwardly at the time.

And that was not all. The boy's mother proved to be an insane fool utterly consumed by Andrastianism. Their Mentor had always said:

"Faith should make us stronger, not stupider."

This was not one of those cases. And what had that deranged idiot done? She had said nothing to her husband. Had not sent the boy to the Tower. Instead, she had found an apostate to teach him in secret. Fool. Utter fool. Fine. She could not bear to part with her son. That much Neria could understand. But no one had any right to be that stupid. Magic could not be "cured."

"My boy is ill!" Isolde had cried.

And how had it all ended? Oh-ho-ho. Jowan—the filthy maleficar, the treacherous little snake—had poisoned that fool woman's husband. Afterward, Arl Eamon's witless wife threw the maleficar into a cell and sent most of the soldiers in search of nothing less than the Urn of Sacred Ashes. A grand spectacle of idiocy. What if the ashes had been in Orlais? Or the Free Marches? Tevinter?! The Circle Tower was practically on their doorstep, and the woman had gone chasing phantoms from legend.

"Demons take every idiot in Thedas. Why was she the one doing all that lunatic shit, yet I was the one who felt ashamed—and still do?!"

The elf grimaced and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"They say clever men are often drawn to stupid women, just to make life more interesting."

Connor, the poisoned Arl Eamon's son, had made a bargain with a Desire Demon in his dreams because he wanted to save his father. The creature of the Fade, like all its kind, had "honestly" saved the arl from death. It simply had not restored him to consciousness. Then it possessed the boy. And everything began. Servants died. Soldiers died. The demon drew its kin through the Veil and into the corpses. More deaths followed. And with each one, the creature gained another servant. Once the castle had been emptied of all but a handful of survivors, the army of the dead began attacking the village of Redcliffe.

The death toll ran into the hundreds. That was what happened when you decided you were cleverer than everyone else. Special. Exempt. When you convinced yourself that rules were written for other people, while everyone around you was simply too stupid to understand that this was different. As every self-appointed exception always insisted. In truth, there was only one cretin in the room. You. A young, untrained mage was not an ordinary child. They were a child carrying a torch through a warehouse full of lamp oil.

Perhaps it was then that Neria and Solona—who had rejoined the army back in Lothering alongside Alistair and Morrigan—finally understood how right their Mentor had been about some things. Craig Airel had stood firmly in favour of the Circle of Magi. And of Templar oversight. That idiot Isolde had made every mistake it was possible to make. Then somehow found several more. She had hidden a young mage who knew nothing about the dangers waiting in the Fade. Then hired some suspicious apostate to train him. Though that particular mistake deserved its own catalogue of stupidity. People feared apostates—mages living beyond the supervision of the Circles.

And they feared them for good reason. No one could guarantee that such a mage did not practise Blood Magic. That was one. A mage trained in that forbidden art could easily have bent Arl Eamon's entire household to his will. Two: An apostate might be nothing more than a shell inhabited by a demon. And no one should claim that such creatures were always easy to recognise by their unnatural behaviour. That was true only of demons that had no wish to hide. Or those that had only recently "moved in" and had not yet learned how to imitate a human being properly.

The elf could not decide whether Redcliffe had been fortunate that Isolde had ended up with an idiot like Jowan. On the one hand, he had been so incompetent that he failed to protect his ONE AND ONLY pupil from demonic possession. On the other… He had been so incompetent that he failed to enthral the nobles. Failed to poison the arl properly. And failed even to escape. Cruel though the thought might have been, the King's army had been fortunate. Several times over. First—and most importantly—it was not three half-crippled wanderers who arrived at Redcliffe. It was an army. A battered one, perhaps. But still an army.

The assault began that very day. Second, Neria and Solona had been among the group sent through the secret passage leading into the prison. And there they found Jowan. Third, the Templar captain—an old acquaintance of their Mentor—had wasted no time treating the fugitive mage and maleficar gently. He had quickly beaten every useful scrap of information out of him. Afterward, two Templars were sent back with a warning while the thoroughly battered maleficar was returned to his cell.

It turned out that Uldred—who, together with the main army, had been putting on a magnificent show of distracting the demon with an "assault" upon the castle gates—was himself a maleficar. As were quite a few of the Libertarians. One of those same "freedom-loving" enchanters had taught Jowan everything he knew about Blood Magic. Not a demon with whom the apprentice had struck some secret bargain, as people at Kinloch Hold had suspected. A perfectly ordinary Circle enchanter. Uldred's days as a mage of Kinloch Hold ended the moment the demon lost control of its lesser kin inhabiting the corpses.

As soon as the boy was subdued by the Templars, several knights turned their abilities upon the Senior Enchanter and his followers. What followed was the interrogation of the maleficarum with fire, water, and red-hot iron. Anything that kept spilled blood to a minimum. Afterward, Senior Enchanter Wynne set out for the Circle Tower with a contingent of Templars. There were still maleficarum hiding inside Kinloch Hold. They had to be subdued. Interrogated. Executed. Besides, His Majesty had proclaimed a general muster.

The mages would no longer be permitted to sit out the war behind the Tower's walls. To be perfectly honest, Neria had no idea why they had been allowed to do so in the first place. Three or four dozen mages instead of eight would have looked considerably better at Ostagar. But never mind that. Let the commanders kick themselves over it. Returning to Redcliffe and the matter of the possessed child, the Revered Mother had initially proposed simply killing the boy. At which point the flimsy little structure of Isolde's ostentatious Faith collapsed entirely. Why flimsy? Why ostentatious?

Because if she had truly believed everything she claimed to believe, she would neither have endangered the boy nor dealt with an apostate in the first place. Fortunately for Connor, King Cailan held Arl Eamon in very high regard. And once the arl regained consciousness, he all but begged them to save his son. So Wynne was sent to bring Irving and two seasoned enchanters to Redcliffe. Together, they would destroy the demon and free the boy. Connor himself remained suppressed by the Templars' abilities until they arrived. That, for the most part, was where the arling's troubles ended. Uldred and his Blood Mages were executed. So was Jowan.

A decision Neria approved of wholeheartedly. The Templars dealt with the remaining maleficarum inside the Circle. Irving and two Senior Enchanters destroyed the demon. Young Connor was sent to the Circle for training despite his mother's shrill protests. Isolde herself, incidentally, received a loud and deeply satisfying slap from the Revered Mother. The only thing that spared the fool from harsher punishment was the fact that she happened to be married to one of the most powerful nobles in Ferelden. In Neria's opinion, she would have looked perfectly natural dangling from a gallows. Not with that many corpses on her conscience.

There had been one amusing moment involving the late Jowan. Sensing his inevitable death approaching, the bastard had begun spouting utter nonsense in an attempt to bargain for… Well, honestly, Neria had no idea what he thought he could possibly gain. Maleficium was punishable by death. Without exception. And the story Jowan invented had been complete rubbish. He accused Teyrn Loghain of having sent men to hire him to poison Arl Eamon. The King stared at Mac Tir in surprise. Mac Tir stared back, no less bewildered. They remained like that for perhaps ten seconds.

Then the teyrn rolled his eyes, threw up his hands, and said in a voice dripping with sarcasm:

"Of course, Cailan! There can be no doubt whatsoever of my guilt! Whenever my men find a maleficar for some piece of dirty work, I always instruct them to explain in meticulous detail that their employer is Loghain Mac Tir! No, wait! I go to meet them personally—and make certain to place in their hands orders written in my own hand, bearing my seal and signature!

"I am, after all, a complete imbecile!"

There had been enough venom in Ferelden's finest strategist's voice to poison the entire Darkspawn army. And the Archdemon besides. And that, more or less, had been the end of the Redcliffe affair. Afterward came the mustering of the army. The raising of the militia. Many city elves joined its ranks after believing the King's promises of a better future for their people. Rightly so, in Neria's opinion. The Grey Wardens dispersed to gather more forces from those bound by the ancient Treaties. Naturally, none of it went smoothly.

Some fought werewolves. Others went underground to the dwarves and became entangled in the feuds of the shortarses' noble houses over their subterranean throne. Even a sizeable force of Orlesian chevaliers crossed the Frostback Mountains to aid Ferelden. Much to Teyrn Loghain's displeasure. Nevertheless, however little Mac Tir liked the situation, the memory of the slaughter at Ostagar kept him from objecting too loudly. The chevaliers, incidentally, were almost completely wiped out in the decisive battle. And it was Loghain who had drawn up the battle plan. A coincidence? Neria very much doubted it. Still, she shed no tears for the Orlesians.

Had they survived, who knew which of her own friends and acquaintances might have died in their place? Those serving in His Majesty's army. Those living in the Circle. Those belonging to the Grey Wardens. The chevaliers' deaths had consequences. Relations between Ferelden and Orlais became colder than ever. Which, once again, pleased Loghain immensely. And then Neria and Wynne examined the royal couple and gave them a measure of biomantic treatment. Queen Anora finally conceived. It had been a long time since anyone at Court had seen Mac Tir smile with such terrifying happiness.

Incidentally, examining the King and restoring his body to proper working order took a considerable amount of time. Anora's supposed "infertility" had, in fact, been his fault. The enchanters had been forced to examine a great many men before they finally understood what had gone wrong inside Cailan Theirin's body. Biomancy offered extraordinary possibilities. But it also required an immense amount of knowledge about the processes taking place inside the human body. Without their Mentor's notes—without the foundation he had laid—it was unlikely anyone would have been able, within the next several years, to use this new branch of magic at even twenty percent of the level some Fereldan healers had already reached. And as for restoring Templars to health or aiding the Grey Wardens… That would have been entirely out of the question.

"This way, Helena," Neria heard one of her comrades say as the door opened. "Neria, hello!"

"Warden Neria," the elf corrected her friend sternly, though a mocking smile tugged at her lips. "Good day, Warden Jory."

"Warden, Warden," the tall man agreed with a faint grumble.

His hair had begun to thin. Beside him stood a beautiful young woman holding a child in her arms.

"Allow me to introduce you. My dear, this painfully particular lady is my comrade-in-arms and a healer-mage, Neria Surana. Neria, this is my wife, Helena. And our little daughter, Mari."

The man's face spread into a foolishly blissful smile.

"Likewise!" Neria said, smiling with genuine warmth. "At last, we may behold the famous Helena herself! It is clear now, incidentally, why Jory left Redcliffe—and why, when the Blight threatened, he joined the Grey Wardens and fought so fiercely whenever he was not speaking about his wife. And he spoke about you… Constantly."

"Not constantly…" Ser Jory muttered, visibly embarrassed.

"Whenever he was not fighting or whining about how dreadful and treacherous magic was, he never stopped," Neria said with a friendly chuckle, winking at Helena.

"Hardly surprising, though. It turns out Warden Jory is a very fortunate man."

"We were both fortunate," the knight's wife replied with a sweet smile, gazing tenderly at her husband.

It was rather amusing to watch Jory continue squirming with embarrassment.

"Yes, that is true… But I was luckier!"

The man gave his wife a happy, loving look before turning back to the elf.

"Will you examine us?"

"Of course."

Neria smiled and helped the woman settle into an armchair. Then she carefully took the tiny hand of the little girl dozing in Helena's arms. The biomancer closed her eyes and sank into the examination of the child's body. One minute. Two. Three. Neria nodded, released the infant's hand, and took the woman's palm instead. This examination took a little longer.

"All right. The child is perfectly healthy. She clearly had a cold recently, but that is normal for infants. Her mother is healthy as well. And congratulations, Helena. Warden Jory. You will soon have another child. It is still far too early for me to tell whether it will be a boy or a girl."

"Wh-what?!"

The former knight of Redcliffe stared at her with an extraordinarily vacant, thunderstruck expression. Helena was surprised as well, though she retained her composure far better than her husband.

"Right," the elf snorted. "Now let me have a look at you."

"There is no need—"

The slow-witted man tried to protest. Too late. Neria had already seized his enormous paw of a hand.

"Well now…"

The elf frowned, eyes still closed.

"Have you been drinking Daveth's ratgut again?!"

"Me? No-o-o!"

The Grey Warden's eyes darted guiltily aside.

"Do not lie to me, Ser Knight! Your liver looks as though you have been living on rat poison for a week! Daveth, I can understand. The man is a thief and a cutthroat! But you?! Is ordinary wine not good enough? Beer? Ale? Why in the Fade would you drink that swill? Now hold still!"

"What?! What did you—oh, Maker, not now!!!"

"Now, now," Neria chuckled as the knight bolted for the door.

"What… what is wrong with my husband?"

Worry filled Helena's eyes, though the elf's amused smile appeared to reassure her.

"He'll spend half an hour perched on the privy like a proud eagle… perhaps an hour. Then he'll be perfectly fine," Neria grumbled with an irritated snort.

"They've made a habit of drinking whatever poison Daveth digs up somewhere in Denerim, then suffering for it with their guts. I'll have to speak with that scoundrel. Helena, while your husband is… hm… occupied, would you care for some tea?"

As she drank tea and chatted pleasantly with Jory's wife, Neria occasionally glanced through the window at her Mentor's statue of Red Steel. He had been a great man. One who had brought so much good to Thedas as a whole. And to Ferelden in particular.

---

Far from Neria, in the capital of the land known as the Tevinter Imperium, a toddler sat on his bottom. In the opinion of the servants in the Magister's mansion, he was a rather unsettling toddler. And the child was living up to his grim reputation even now, showing his nursemaids a dreadful, hard smile. Like a ravine cleaving his cherubic little face. The unusual child was thinking thoughts that some might have found rather strange. And, in part, horrifying.

This country needs promethium.

A great deal of promethium.

Fucking traitors and daemon-sucking lackeys! A true Guardsman and acolyte of the Inquisition shall know no peace while such filth still walks the face of this world! The toddler greatly disliked the things he heard from the servants. And from those sentient creatures whom—disgusting though it was to call them such—he was forced to regard as his parents.

"I'll bwing you…" the little one began threateningly.

Then caught himself. There was no sense in telling the Enemy what awaited them. Ideally, one should reveal one's plans only to corpses. After every heretic and traitor had received their due.

---

Original Russian story

End of Volume One.

The continuation hasn't been written yet, but I hope to return to this story in the future.

If you enjoyed the book and would like to support my work, you can do so on Patreon

Thank you for reading and for your support!

 

[Faber_The_Builder]

Well that is an equivalent of calling ortillery on your own position.

Click to shrink...

WITNESS YOUR DOOOOOOOOM

Average Astra Militarum Psyker moment:

View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aKOHKzhcTzY

Yea, the people of Thedas are not ready. The met the average Emperor enjoyer and already failed the vibe check.

 

[dragon132]

Thanks for the chapter

 

[Baldrick the Wise]

He thought he knew contempt.
He thought he knew disgust.
He thought he knew hatred.

But he will discover new depths to these feelings, until his armor is impenetrable, his shield unyielding and his sword unstoppable.

 

[The Radiance's Follower]

Great story. I always like fanatical and self-sacrificing characters. They are the best.

 

[Kingofdreams]

This was a great read! I'm eagerly awaiting the next part.