Chapter 15 – Great Unexpectations

The map made a soft leathery rustle as Alistair returned it to its customary place. Keeping his sword drawn and his flaming torch held defensively high, he stepped into the tunnel. An unmarked route that didn't appear on his trusty map was worth investigating. Yes, he did tell the others 'five minutes'. Yes, he knew the other Wardens would wonder where he was…or he hoped they would. These weren't his Wardens after all. 'His' Wardens were across the border in Jader and he knew better than to believe all Grey Wardens were the same. He could have returned to pick the others up, except it seemed simply faster to search the tunnel himself and there was something about this way that made him feel as though it was something to look into on his own.

It might be nothing but…From the look of the half-buried cobblestone paving and straight lengths, this had once been a main thoroughfare once. While he was aware a large number of once well-travelled Dwarven highways had been lost to the darkspawn, his map should have shown it. It lay after all, on a route frequented by other Wardens as well as the stone-born. Someone by now should have recorded it, if it hadn't been noted already.

His investigations – oddly - turned out to be only slightly less exciting than he anticipated. The tunnel, after sloping downwards sharply for twenty metres or so narrowed to a dead end, blocked with oddly shaped boulders that looked…Hunkering down for a closer look at the base of what seemed at first to be a simple rock fall, Alistair shone his torch over the pile. There were chiselled edges, dust-crusted patterns etched into the surface of the stone. On a few blocks, other kinds of stone and fine bands of filigreed metal had been inlaid so cunningly that it took quite a bit of effort with the point of his sword to prise the patterns free. Larger stone blocks were clustered loosely at the bottom, followed by rough layers of increasingly smaller ones. It was a wall and from the look of it, built hurriedly with little care except to block the end of the passage as quickly and as tightly as possible.

So, he wondered…why close off a perfectly good road? To stop darkspawn? Except…a mere wall wouldn't get in the way of darkspawn. Especially if there was an ogre handy, or an emissary could just as easily blast it with well-aimed fireball. There was also the time required to break down this much ornate road/decorative mural and then reassemble it fast enough before being overrun by darkspawn. He was no expert but he had some idea of the kind of effort it would have taken for such a feat.

Or perhaps he was just thinking about it too hard and whoever laid down this wall did have both the time, the dwarf-power and this was no less significant than a simple rockfall.

"Well, intriguing or not," he muttered under his breath. "This has been something of a wasted effort." There really was nothing else for him down here. What he hoped might have been another highway to report to the Shaperate turned out to be another hole in the ground and he should return to the others, before they decided he'd been eaten by an ogre and moved off without him. He'd begun to turn when a sudden breezes through the cracks in the wall sent the flame of his torch sideways. He paused, listening as an odd prickling sensation ran through his veins. Eyebrows furrowing, he gripped the torch more tightly.

Grey Wardens?

Had one of the others come to find him?

Then he heard it; a hollow echoing sound, almost like a voice. It was faint at first, gathering volume then diminishing to a noise that felt more his imagination than something he had actually heard. He crouched closer to the wall, but there was nothing more and if anything, the air around the makeshift wall seemed even more stale and ancient than before, not so much laying his curiosity to rest but putting it to bed with a hot cup of cocoa and favourite blankie.

Alistair shrugged, telling himself he needed to get out into the sunshine and fresh air soon before he really went Deep Roads cuckoo. He also needed to return to the others and had he also mentioned that he needed to return to the others? He'd gone a little way down the tunnel when there was a deep rumbling beneath his feet. He paused again, bringing up his sword to attack position just as the wall behind him disintegrated explosively; molten rock and mortar shooting down the narrow passage in a roiling fireball towards him. He started to run. Too late; a speeding, heavy wall of heated air and flaming rock smashed into him. Tumbling head over ankles, the last thing he remembered was his cheek scraping painfully against rough stone and the air being sucked out of his lungs. Fighting to breathe from lungs that refused to re-inflate and smoking dust stinging his eyes, an already blackened world spun wildly before unconsciousness overcame him.

-oo-

To say he was slightly bored might have been stretching the truth so thin it was transparent. Even ale was beginning to look unamusing and that was hardly a sparkling conversationalist at the best of times. Just the start of one. In fact, the thought of creating an explosive diversion for pure entertainment, such as setting the Shaperate on fire was beginning to look like a mighty attractive exercise right now (though equally as dangerous as it would be an incredible waste of good history keeping).

The dwarves were being very accommodating, relatively speaking. They made sure he was comfortable, kept mostly occupied…and really all he had waiting for him at the Tower was most likely a mountain of paperwork and a pile of complaints. After all this time quite frankly, he'd be surprised if he arrived to find the Knight Commander had gone completely batty and slaughtered all his mages in a fit of insane spring cleaning. However, as helpful as the dwarves were, they could do only so much, given that they had other things on their mind.

Such as this current situation.

If someone had told First Enchanter Torrin he would wake up in Orzammar one morning to find himself in the middle of a civil war he would have told them to go soak their heads in Lake Calenhad. The fact that the dwarves had decided they didn't like their current monarch after a successful night of ale tasting made the situation even more perplexing. He certainly couldn't fault the ale. The Cumberland red stout had been a bit sharpish in his opinion, but hardly reason for rebellion.

Torrin sighed, crossing his arms across his chest and glaring at the opposite wall. Unrest in the ranks of the dwarves was not exactly uncommon. Noble houses rose and fell with the swing of an axe or sip of poisoned – hah! – ale. He understood King Harrowmont had been considered by many, including the last rival's supporters, as something of a soft option. Despite being a traditionalist at heart, King Harrowmont had stood for the breaking down of the strictly drawn lines between classes and the elevation of families of the 'lower castes' based on their contribution to society as a whole.

Torrin could see Harrowmont's point, really he could. Birth rates, particularly amongst the higher castes were so low they were in negative figures and Harrowmont saw the potential for mixing in those of a lower class who appeared - hah! on the surface - to have little else to do but breed. At a time when more dwarves were being killed by darkspawn than were being born, the king had attempted strategies that were well intended but likely to attract knives in backs down darkened alleyways.

There were plenty of dwarves living on the surface certainly, having far more babies than those underground, but when you're making more money and a name for yourself in amongst humans and elves when previously you were considered no better than boot spittle, why return home? Torrin however, seriously doubted he would see the end of the underground-dwelling dwarf any time soon. Dwarves, regardless where they lived; above or below ground were tenacious and stubborn when it came to life.

Unless you were a Legion of the Dead, his inner voice reminded him, then you really didn't care as long as it involved lots of blood not your own and piles of enemies at your feet.

Speaking of the Legion…Torrin wondered how his little project was going. He was sure he'd seen a Chantry type during the ale competition. At first he thought it had been his imagination, underground sickness they called it; seeing things, though at the time he'd barely just tapped his first ale barrel so there had been no excuse for figments of the drunken imagination. Chantry types stood out. They were easy to pick, especially since the bulk of the crowd who'd travelled here for the tasting had been dwarves. Humans – even hah! again, stout ones – were easy to spot.

This fellow however, had been quick and there had been lots going on, taking up Torrin's attention. A mere blink and there had been simply crowd where an individual bearing the ominous emblem of a Chantry Seeker had been.

Tapping a thumb idly on his chin, Torrin ran a number of possible scenarios through his head. The fellow could easily have passed through the Deep Roads entry before the gates to Orzammar had been sealed shut. That is…if the Seeker had not been here to sample the ale and had been there for…other reasons.

Stupid question really.

It gave First Enchanter Torrin a bit of satisfaction to think the Chantry had been interested enough to send one of their precious watchdogs to Orzammar and the Deep Roads. It meant they were on the right track. Perhaps. It meant that whatever was going on with the darkspawn and the Grey Wardens were of concern to the Chantry too.

Also perhaps.

He only hoped Amell would get to the Warden Commander before the Seeker did.

As for young Greagoir…

Torrin reserved a secret smile for the young mage. Sending him off with the Guerrin lad had been inspired. He'd suspected something had been…off for some time with Connor Guerrin and it would be very interesting to say the least to see what kind of…effect someone like Greagoir would have on a mage like Enchanter Connor. The thought that Amell might have his head if she found out was of little concern. One, he needed Connor out of his Tower and two, well for that matter, he needed Greagoir out of the Tower too. Knight Commander Emmreich was not Knight Commander Bryant, or the previous Knight Commander Greagoir for that matter. Bryant was surprisingly sane for a start, despite being related to Alyce Amell (even if is was by marriage).

Emmreich was not Fereldan, finding ordinary Fereldans 'barbaric' with their love of dogs, lore and laughter. He had contempt for the Ferelden natives' somewhat lackadaisical attitude towards discipline and as for most folks' general distrust of people with Orlesian accents well...it was the proverbial nail in the old coffin. The fact that the elderly Templar had no detectable sense of humour did not help either. However he might miss Bryant's deft touch with both Templar, mage and non-circle civilians, Torrin could not grudge what was unquestioningly a promotion for the much-loved, very popular former Knight Commander. Emmreich might be Bryant's physical replacement, but could not – in every other respect – take his place.

And…Torrin suspected Knight Commander Emmreich knew this.

Oh well. How the Chantry moved their little pawns about Thedas was mostly of no concern to him. What did concern Torrin was how long he would be trapped in Orzammar. If Amell returned to the Tower before he did…

Torrin winced. He'd rather not think about that scenario, quite frankly.

On the other hand, if Amell did not locate Warden Commander Surana or Surana's old Blight companion, it was all a bit of a moot point and they could all go home and forget about the whole thing.

Maybe.

Too many unknowns...

He'd spent a decade and a half studying Greagoir Tremayne and he'd never been able to come up with anything more than 'well he's not that bad a lad…bit on the whiny side and not particularly talented considering his adopted parent…' If anything, Greagoir had made it something of a career being ordinary. It was almost as if…Torrin became aware of a soft snuffling noise, not unlike a rat in the walls or a young porcine rooting about in a trough; a sort of wet combination of both. A moment later, there was a soft knock on the door and at his assent, opened to a smooth-chinned dwarf bearing one of those rabbit-eared, hairless pig things.

It was wearing a jacket.

The nug, that is.

Torrin stood as the dwarf entered.

"Nug post, your Enchanterness," the dwarf said extending a tube clutched in a free fist. The nug wriggled slightly at the movement but appeared to be unconcerned otherwise.

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's what I thought, sir," the dwarf shrugged. "We've been experimentin' on 'em for months."

Torrin found himself – as Aidan Cousland had - chest to nose with the nug. He however, did not recoil. He found the beasts rather fascinating. "I…see."

"They're homing nugs, you see," the dwarf explained.

"Ah," Torrin said patiently. He did after all, have all the time in the world…

"Came with a message from the First Alchemist, sir," the dwarf continued and this time Torrin brightened, accepting the metal cylinder with a feeling bordering on enthusiasm.

Relieved of the message, the dwarf saluted with the nug and began backing out of the room.

"Er," Torrin began. "Just out of misguided interest, can we send the…uh, nug back to the First Alchemist?"

"Oh no," the dwarf shook his head. "They may be homing sir, but they's one-directional see. This one's for the pot after a good scrubbing down." The dwarf grinned. "Good eatin' on one of these."

"Ah…" Well, he didn't need to know that, but the dwarves would have their quaint little ways.

"You need to send a message back," the dwarf added. "You let me know. I can check whether we have any of the critters from topside…uh, left." He grinned sheepishly. "As I said before…good eatin' on one of these."

The door closed after the dwarf and what was, presumably, dinner. Torrin settled himself against his desk and unscrewed the cap from the message cylinder. As he read, his eyebrows ascended in stages. There was very little detail in the message, but Torrin was an adept at reading between lines. A message from Captain Ryan Tremayne to himself was unusual. The Captain of Prince Aidan's personal guard did not usually have any reason to communicate with the First Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle of Magi, even if the Captain's wife was a member of the Circle.

Hm…So the Captain was looking for Alyce was he?

There was another scratch on the door as Torrin rolled up Ryan's message and returned it to the cylinder. Ah good, that interesting dwarf no doubt…just the person I need to see.

The door opened but not to the same dwarf or otherwise. It was human, in armour, the emblem of a burning eye etched onto their shiny breastplate. Chantry Seeker…

"First Enchanter Torrin?"

Torrin fought a suddenly overwhelming feeling of both irritation and curiosity and the latter won.

"We have questions for you."

By a very small margin.

-oo-