There would be no traversing the Spearford for Lady Elissa Telmen and her abductors, not in this spring. The winter before had been one of the harshest Ferelden had ever known, the great storms howling in from the Frostback Mountains erasing entire villages in its elemental fury and burying the land so deep in snow that both the civil war and the onslaught of the ravening darkspawn hordes were forced to halt for the season. Now, with warmth’s grudging return, every river, stream and tributary in the kingdom strained against the girdle of its banks, helped along by the persistent rains that flooded every ditch and turned field and footpath alike into a trackless quagmire. They had to take the western road to find a crossing point, a detour that added another two days to the miserable journey— two more days spent bound and gagged and helpless, two more days of enduring the bone-rattling ride on the cart, two more days of enduring the foul taste of the leather gag, two more days of hearing their obscene comments as her blue Orlesian silk gown became increasingly tattered.
How long had it been since she’d been ambushed on her morning ride? A week now? Long enough that her father’s troops, already stretched thin fighting against Teryn Loghain’s incursions into his lands, would find it difficult to pick up her trail, and once again Elissa felt black despair threaten to overwhelm her. Her bondage was not helping matters, for what her wardens lacked in chivalry or decent hygiene, they made up for with ropework. Stout cords kept her wrists bound in front of her and lashed to the cart’s railing, while another length did the same with her ankles, ensuring there’d be no running off into the wilderness. To her left, hooves splashed through the muck, and a gauntleted hand reached out to seize her by her long dark hair, much to the amusement of her captors. “Are you enjoying yourself, my lady?” their leader snarled, eyeing the helpless young woman with utter contempt. “If you’re feeling uncomfortable, I can always tie you to the back of the cart and have you dragged along again.”
“Mmmmpppggghhh!” Elissa grunted angrily, dark eyes staring daggers at the speaker, the mere sight of him provoking a spasm of purest rage. Of the score of so-called men in the column, only one of their number did not brandish the snarling bear sigil of Amaranthine on his shield and tabard. Instead, Ser Tiboron had been a knight in service to her father, the vow of fealty he swore shattered when he murdered her other attendants and betrayed her to Howe’s ruffians. He was an oathbreaker, the vilest sort of scum, and worst still, he seemed to revel in that fact, the drunken conversations he shared around the campfires at night full of boasts how he’d betrayed his liege lord, not to mention endless insults levelled at his helpless captive. He was despicable, and her aquiline features went red with anger, a torrent of muffled curses forcing their way past the rigid leather gag. “Mmmppgggh, mmmpppggghh! MMMMPPPGGGHHHH!”
“Bit of a spitfire, this one!” one of Howe’s men cackled, and Elissa shied away at the animal lust in his eyes. “A stay in the dungeons will cure that, right as rain.”
“Mmmmpppgghhh?”
A cruel smile broke across the traitor’s heavyset face, making him look more like a bloated toad than ever. “Yes, you’ll be kept in the gaol at Caer Bronwin until your father bends the knee to Loghain. A day’s journey, no more, and I’ll finally be able to treat a brat like you as you deserve.”
“Mmmppggghhhh!” the noblewoman screamed in protest, her pleas going unheeded by the villainous band. Ahead, the surrounding farmlands gave way to dense forest just as the first drops of rain began to fall, and through the thickening trees, Elissa could see the outline of a wooden bridge just wide enough to permit the cart’s passage, the sound of rushing water betraying it was a river crossing. Heart hammering at her ribcage, she offered silent, fervent prayers to the Maker for her deliverance, the thought of being locked away and at the mercy of Howe’s men more than she could stand. Please, Maker, take pity on Your servant. Do not forsake me now.
And then the Maker, in His infinite wisdom, answered her prayers.
Without warning, the column came to a halt, curses and protests rising from the ranks. Craning her neck to peer past the lead riders, Elissa noticed they’d stopped a few metres in front of the bridge.
For there was a man sitting upon it to bar their path.
At first glance, it was hard to guess the figure’s age, for the long cloak of blue wool he wore did a good job of concealing his features, particularly with the hood drawn up over his face. Strong, chainmail-clad limbs drew a whetstone over the edges of an immense greatsword in long, unhurried strokes, seemingly unperturbed by the presence of the column and its unwilling passenger. “Clear the way, Maker damn you!” Ser Tiboron spat angrily, face reddening with anger when the stranger did not respond. “I said clear the way! Impeding the work of Teryn Loghain’s servants means death!”
The rhythm of the whetstone upon the blade did not falter. At a sharp command, the company dismounted, drawing swords and maces and tightening shields upon their arms. The two soldiers driving the cart remained seated, grunting as they loaded steel-shanked crossbows to level at the stranger. “Are you deaf?!” Tiboron raged, longsword scraping free of its scabbard. “Clear the way, or I will cut you down!”
“Let her go.”
It took a moment for Elissa to realize that the stranger had spoken, the quiet strength in his voice halting the traitor knight’s ranting mid-stream. His head tilted up, and beneath the shroud of his cowl, Elissa caught the impression of a lean face so pale as to be wraithlike, of gaunt cheekbones, and sharp grey eyes that coolly took in each guard in the column and found them wanting. There was confidence there, a quiet strength that put the boasts and bluster of her captors to shame, and the stranger came to his feet with the smooth grace of a wolf on the prowl, greatsword at the ready. “Let her go now. One way or another, Lady Elissa is walking free, even if it means I have to kill you all.”
“And who are you to demand anything?” Tiboron demanded in outrage. “Name yourself!”
The hood drew back, exposing short black hair and distinctly elven features, while in the same moment, the folds of the cloak parted to reveal a suit of fine-made half-plate armour, a tabard depicting griffons rampant draped over the breastplate, and for once, the stench of dung that plagued the column did not come from the horses. For though they’d never laid eyes on him before, there was no mistaking the figure thanks to Loghain’s wanted posters flooding every corner of the land, and the noblewoman felt a sudden, mad joy come over her, hope kindling anew at her breast. “Maker’s breath, it’s him,” Tiboron gasped, visibly unmanned, the ranks of Elissa’s abductors shuffling nervously behind him, the exorbitant bounty promised by Loghain forgotten in the shock of meeting their enemy in person. “It’s the Warden…” He’d stepped back a full five paces before realizing he was giving ground to a mere elf, pride bringing him to a halt. “Kill him! Stop standing there and just--”
And then Sagramor Tabris, Grey Warden of Ferelden, the Elven Knight, the Grey Wolf of Denerim, or simply the Warden, was shadowfast, crossing the distance to the knight in an eyeblink, greatsword coming up in a vicious arc that sent Elissa’s treasonous retainer falling backwards in a crimson spray.
Half a second later, the world went mad.
Without warning, three of the soldiers suddenly turned on their fellows, plunging their blades into unprepared backs, eyes wild with rabid fear. In the same instant, the cart’s driver gave a small sigh and collapsed to the turf, a red-fletched arrow lodged in his heart. Then from behind came the crash of something huge bursting through the trees, and Elissa watched in horrified fascination as what could only be described as a rough-hewn statue thundered into the rear of the column on legs of stone, sheer impact throwing men aside and sparking utter pandemonium. In its wake was the sort of mongrel company one only found in the penny dreadfuls coming from distant Kirkwall-- a dark-skinned giant wielding an ungainly looking greatsword, a golden-eyed sorceress laughing maniacally at what she’d wrought, an olive-skinned elf decorated with the most frightful tattoos, and more besides. How they’d managed to get behind them without being noticed, Elissa couldn’t begin to fathom, but within moments, they’d routed her captors and sent the few survivors running for their lives, arrows and spells cutting them down in the flight.
In desperation, a final pair made to storm to Elissa’s side with blades bared, no doubt to exchange her life for theirs, but a second arrow caught the foremost between the eyes, while the Warden himself was between Elissa and her last assailant in an instant, a swift clash of blades leaving the latter bleeding out upon the earth. Just as quickly, he was by her side, unbuckling her gag was astonishing tenderness, the blood splattering his gaunt features disregarded. “Are you all right, my lady?”
“I…” The ropes at her wrists and ankles fell away, and slowly she came to her feet, scarcely able to believe that the nightmare was finally over. “Thank you, Grey Warden. I… I doubt I will ever be able to repay you.”
“I’m just glad we arrived in time,” Sagramor said modestly, the motley little band regrouping around their leader. “Now, let’s get away from here. You did well to keep your courage, my lady, but there’s nothing to fear now. We’ll see you safe and back home before you know it…”