Fic: Into the Wilds (1/7)
Title: Into the Wilds
Summary: AU - Ser Alistair, Templar of the Circle Tower, is sent into the Korcari Wilds on a search for Chasind apostates. What he finds is not what he expects.
Pairing: Alistair/Morrigan
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~2500
Warnings: Violence, rape (in part 6)
Author's note: Originally written for a prompt at the DA Kinkmeme. Don't think I'll ever be satisfied with this, particularly with the way it ends, but I'm too lazy to rethink the plot after several months of letting this gather dust. So, here it is. Many thanks to drakontion for the beta.
Squish squelch squish squelch.
They'd been trudging for what seemed like an eternity in this awful, foggy cold that seeped through all his layers of woolens and settled into his muscles, making every step in his sodden boots even more difficult. One would think that with the pace Halbert was forcing, he'd be warm and steaming, limbs loosened, but somehow no amount of exertion could dislodge this damned chill.
"We're lost, aren't we," Alistair grumbled under his breath. Surely Jogby's camp hadn't been that far from the Chasind village they'd left at dawn yesterday. The four of them should have reached it several hours ago, at midmorning.
"What was that you said, Alistair? You wanted to carry my pack?" Halbert called out from a few paces ahead of him.
"No, ser. Just remarking on the weather, ser." Alistair swallowed.
"Is that so. Sounded to me like you don't have enough to carry."
"Not at all, ser. I was… merely appreciating how the, ah, fog graces the trees." Just ahead of him Rood and Kenrik snorted.
"Then keep your appreciation quiet. That goes for the rest of you as well," Halbert barked.
"Yes, ser."
Squish squelch SPLISH squelch. Damnit, he hadn't seen that puddle and now his left boot was even soggier.
To be fair, despite all his grousing about yet another of Knight-Captain Tarven's "supply runs" out in the dismal swampy Wilds, with testy Templars for company during the day and a thin bedroll that didn't keep him from freezing at night, Alistair could find a lot to appreciate. He wasn't dressed as a tin can, standing for hours on end and staring at unhappy people who could singe off his eyebrows with a stray thought. He wasn't watching anyone undergo a Harrowing. He wasn't exactly free to frolic, but in the woods, no one would notice that most of his lyrium tended to miss his gullet (even a long sip gave him blinding headaches for a day - how could Carroll down that stuff like small beer?). Best of all, Tarven himself never came out here, giving him a golden few weeks free of constant cutting remarks and punishments for minor infractions.
Why did Tarven hate him so much, anyway? Was it something he'd said in the barracks about the good captain's hair? Or maybe he'd snagged the last bit of Redcliffe cheddar on the cheese board before the smug prick could claim it, long ago in the monastery. Whatever his sins, one thing was certain, and that was the man had it in for him.
After all, nothing but spite could have gotten Alistair regularly sent on the apostate-finding missions that were Tarven's pet project. The knight-captain was forever buttering up for a promotion, and at the Denerim tournament (that Alistair should have been in, but no, he got blamed for sticking coppers in Ser Glavin's door jamb - as if he'd waste good coin on that man - and lucky Eryhn got recruited as a Grey Warden) this little idea of his had so delighted the Grand Cleric that Her Grace gave Tarven full blessing to proceed - and a new rank.
Alright, so the scheme had some merit, if nabbing more Chasind children and hedge healers was one's idea of a good time. Missionaries scattered throughout the Korcari Wilds risked life and limb to enlighten heathens with the Chant but had no easy means to resupply or send letters and updates. To support those brave souls, could not the Chantry provide regular aid from its bountiful tithes? If some Templars happened to accompany these goods, and the missionaries happened to mention locations that might harbor apostates or latent talent, well, that'd just be lucky happenstance, wouldn't it? Even better, these same Templars could demonstrate the Maker's mercy and distribute extra poultices and clothing in impoverished villages - while clad in unassuming leather and splint, of course, no need to panic anyone with blinding bright plate. Were dangerous undercurrents of power detected, why, they'd only be fulfilling their sacred oath to protect innocents by rounding up culprits. It was a good plan, and simple, Alistair grudgingly admitted.
And it was a plan that gnawed at his soul. However, as much as he despised himself for adding glory to Tarven's name with each ugly success, better he be present, and soften blows or offer hollow assurances of a comfortable future, than someone Tarven actually liked. No doubt the more ruthless of his colleagues mocked his softness before the captain, who relished Alistair's fruitless self-torture in addition to his physical discomfort, so it was no surprise when the slimy bastard named him for this detail again, his sixth in as many months.
Their latest excursion had been proceeding as usual. Although rumors abounded of darkspawn gathering in the Wilds, the missionary, Jogby, had assured them there'd been no sightings of the twisted things and happily pointed to three settlements on his scrawled doodle of a map. So they'd visited the places, three of them doling out blessings and poultices to grim Chasind while a fourth - usually Alistair, the most sensitive of the group - stood guard and probed for subtle, recent disturbances in the Fade. So far they'd turned up no signs of magic, though close to Jogby's camp there'd been a couple of times Alistair had felt something…odd.
Such as right now.
"Wait, do you sense that?" he asked no one in particular, pausing in his steps.
"Sense what?" said Rood.
"I'm…not sure how to describe it. You really didn't feel anything a moment ago?"
"Alistair, if you're going to be spooked by your own shadow, save that nonsense for when we're back at camp," snapped Halbert.
"I don't spook, and it's not nonsense," Alistair protested. "I swear there was something. Even felt it a few times before. Maybe it's wild magic -"
Rood snorted. "Or maybe you're just a little girl who still believes your Nan's stories." He made a face as if to spit something unpleasant. "Wild magic. If there were truly witches in these wilds, we'd 've heard from other Templars. Besides, I haven't noticed anything unusual while marching. Kenrik?"
The other man shook his head. "Nothing. Nor during the last few times I was here." "Though there has been this high-pitched whine. Oh wait, that's you, Alistair," Rood smirked.
An irritable growl from Halbert stopped Alistair before he could form a retort. "If you ladies have finished with your afternoon salon, then I suggest you quit standing around and get moving again. And for love of the Maker, remain quiet until we've reached camp," Halbert ordered, already a short distance ahead.
"If we reach camp," Alistair muttered as he and the others lengthened their strides.
"I heard that. Latrine duty, Alistair. And you two louts will be joining him if you don't shut up as well."
Restored, the silence in the swamp stayed unbroken, save for the tread of heavy boots through muck and brush, and the flutter of wings high in the trees.
-o-o-o-
As it turned out, that stubborn git Halbert did nearly get them lost. He'd missed a trail sign and led them too far south before he gave up and backtracked, and consequently it was well past dark when the four Templars stumbled into camp.
"Who better to lead us through the woods than a half-blind badger," Alistair said under his breath as he tried to dry his boots and feet by the sullen, smoky fire, while working his way through a trencher full of stew. "Mmm yes, what an excellent ide - Oww." Alistair rubbed at his cheek with a scowl. Whoever had prepared the textureless grey meat in the stew hadn't been all that careful; he'd nearly lost a tooth biting down on a sharp sliver of bone.
It was late enough now that almost everyone had settled down for the night. Those who had first watch were still up, oiling and cleaning armor or quaffing rapidly cooling drinks, but none of them looked much like conversing. Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair spied Halbert's glare.
"Ah well, nothing like latrine duty to warm the spirit and the nose," Alistair sighed to himself as he stood up with a stretch. Might as well get it over with before doffing and cleaning his splintmail. At least the cold would dull the smell some. He grabbed a shortsword and torch as he trotted off; no telling what lurked out there, and the makeshift pit toilets were farther from the fire than he felt comfortable with tonight.
Alistair tried to keep himself from shivering. Not that he was spooked - okay, maybe a little spooked - but he couldn't shake off the unease that had dogged him all afternoon and evening. After his first mention of it, he'd gotten that strange feeling twice again - he still suspected some kind of magic, the way it tickled the back of his tongue. More troubling, though, was that prickling on his neck hairs, like something was watching, and not something nice.
Or maybe he was just turning into a drooling lunatic. Maker, at this rate he really wasn't going to last long as a Templar.
He was about to dig a fresh pit after carefully covering up one that was starting to overflow when his torch went out, and a cry arose from the direction of the fire.
"What in the Maker's - DARKSPAWN! DARKSPAWN ATTACK! GET UP GET -"
Before Alistair could react, guttural laughter erupted next to him and pain exploded across his back. He cried out, smashing face down into the wet earth, but managed to roll to the side just in time to avoid a second swing of a mace. He scrambled to his feet and drew his sword, panic rising from his stomach as he frantically searched the darkness and prayed he was turning in the right direction.
He felt a whoosh of air to his left. Alistair spun and parried blindly, his sword arm jarring and his legs straining as he somehow managed to meet or dodge each heavy blow. But his reach was too short - he needed to end this before the mace snapped his arm or his shoddy blade or simply crushed his head. When the next swing came and collided near the hilt, he flung his free hand to the flat of the sword and pushed with both arms, redirecting the mace upwards. Immediately he dropped low and lunged into a powerful thrust of his sword. A shriek of metal piercing metal, the assault of a smell so vile even the pit toilets seemed daisy-fresh, the sudden weight of his foe collapsing onto his chest, and just as suddenly Alistair was alone, panting heavily in the dark.
The others! He threw off the body and sprinted towards the chaos by the fire to aid the nearest man. He was reaching the edge of the fighting when a heavy Templar shield nearly checked him.
"Hey watch it! I'm on your side!" Alistair yelped.
Rood yanked his arm to spin him around. "Can't you see, fool? There's too many of them! Get out of here!"
"But we need to help!"
"There's no helping anyone now! Or do you want to die? Run!" urged Rood, then fled into the darkness.
Alistair frowned as he turned to survey the fight, but Rood was right. Too few humans remained standing, and darkspawn archers were picking off those who were running away. They hadn't noticed him yet, but that probably wasn't going to last much longer.
Darkspawn chow or wolf bait. Not much of a choice, was it?
He took off, crashing through the brush to follow Rood.
-o-o-o-
It was nearly dawn when Alistair and Rood gave up their desperate flight through the swamp.
"I think we lost them," Alistair said with a groan, collapsing against a tree. "Maker, I'm so tired and hungry. Just kill me now."
Rood harrumphed as he dropped his sword and shield and crumpled onto the ground. "You're one to talk. Hardly even injured. Smell like a privy, though."
Alistair grinned, although in his current state he'd more likely grimaced. "Ah, you've figured out my secret. My stench is so terrible, it felled all the darkspawn around me. Behold Alistair the Pungent! Mighty warrior and bane of all noses!"
Rood was not amused. "Certainly the bane of mine. If I weren't bleeding from a half-dozen holes, I'd shove you into the closest pond."
"Aww, how thoughtful of you. Have I ever told you that you're my favoritest Templar ever?"
"Just shut up and leave me in peace."
Alistair shrugged and looked around. None of his surroundings appeared the least bit familiar; he had no clue in which direction they'd fled, let alone kept track of the zigs and zags they'd thrown to confuse any pursuers. At least the darkspawn weren't the Dalish. The two of them were as safe as men lost in the Wilds could be.
Well, perhaps a little less so, as they had next to no supplies. He'd escaped with only his armor and that wretched shortsword; Rood hadn't carried off much either. Aside from his longsword and heavy shield, the other man was wearing only his woolen clothes and an arming jack - he hadn't the time to don any more protection - but had grabbed his half-emptied pack before fleeing.
"Mind if I look through your things?" asked Alistair.
An annoyed grunt from the dozing Rood was about as much a sign of permission as he was going to get. Alistair eased the pack away from the other Templar and began rifling through its contents: several elfroot poultices, a hunk of cheese, a change of smallclothes and socks, some coin, an empty water skin, and most importantly, three precious vials of lyrium.
He really hoped they would be out of the Wilds by the time the lyrium ran out, assuming they'd still be alive.
Setting the pack aside, Alistair closed his eyes and wracked his weary mind. What now? They were deep, deep in the Wilds; pushing north in their condition would be futile. If he and Rood were really lucky, they might find Chasind, but the tribes were spread very thinly out here.
He'd learned long ago not to hold his breath for any wishes to come true. The Maker didn't seem to like him much.
"Think, Alistair, think," he said aloud.
Thoughts drifted to rumors of darkspawn that definitely weren't rumors now… Hadn't there been some talk back at the Tower a few weeks ago, about the king marshaling his forces at Ostagar? Maybe even now he could find an army encampment there. If he remembered correctly, Ostagar was less than a few days south and east of Jogby's camp. Last night's run couldn't cause too much of a deviation, were they to head in that direction, or so Alistair hoped.
Well, he knew where to go now, sort of. That was more of a start than he'd thought they would have a moment ago. And now…now was probably as good a time as any to give in to exhaustion…
Summary: AU - Ser Alistair, Templar of the Circle Tower, is sent into the Korcari Wilds on a search for Chasind apostates. What he finds is not what he expects.
Pairing: Alistair/Morrigan
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~2500
Warnings: Violence, rape (in part 6)
Author's note: Originally written for a prompt at the DA Kinkmeme. Don't think I'll ever be satisfied with this, particularly with the way it ends, but I'm too lazy to rethink the plot after several months of letting this gather dust. So, here it is. Many thanks to drakontion for the beta.
Squish squelch squish squelch.
They'd been trudging for what seemed like an eternity in this awful, foggy cold that seeped through all his layers of woolens and settled into his muscles, making every step in his sodden boots even more difficult. One would think that with the pace Halbert was forcing, he'd be warm and steaming, limbs loosened, but somehow no amount of exertion could dislodge this damned chill.
"We're lost, aren't we," Alistair grumbled under his breath. Surely Jogby's camp hadn't been that far from the Chasind village they'd left at dawn yesterday. The four of them should have reached it several hours ago, at midmorning.
"What was that you said, Alistair? You wanted to carry my pack?" Halbert called out from a few paces ahead of him.
"No, ser. Just remarking on the weather, ser." Alistair swallowed.
"Is that so. Sounded to me like you don't have enough to carry."
"Not at all, ser. I was… merely appreciating how the, ah, fog graces the trees." Just ahead of him Rood and Kenrik snorted.
"Then keep your appreciation quiet. That goes for the rest of you as well," Halbert barked.
"Yes, ser."
Squish squelch SPLISH squelch. Damnit, he hadn't seen that puddle and now his left boot was even soggier.
To be fair, despite all his grousing about yet another of Knight-Captain Tarven's "supply runs" out in the dismal swampy Wilds, with testy Templars for company during the day and a thin bedroll that didn't keep him from freezing at night, Alistair could find a lot to appreciate. He wasn't dressed as a tin can, standing for hours on end and staring at unhappy people who could singe off his eyebrows with a stray thought. He wasn't watching anyone undergo a Harrowing. He wasn't exactly free to frolic, but in the woods, no one would notice that most of his lyrium tended to miss his gullet (even a long sip gave him blinding headaches for a day - how could Carroll down that stuff like small beer?). Best of all, Tarven himself never came out here, giving him a golden few weeks free of constant cutting remarks and punishments for minor infractions.
Why did Tarven hate him so much, anyway? Was it something he'd said in the barracks about the good captain's hair? Or maybe he'd snagged the last bit of Redcliffe cheddar on the cheese board before the smug prick could claim it, long ago in the monastery. Whatever his sins, one thing was certain, and that was the man had it in for him.
After all, nothing but spite could have gotten Alistair regularly sent on the apostate-finding missions that were Tarven's pet project. The knight-captain was forever buttering up for a promotion, and at the Denerim tournament (that Alistair should have been in, but no, he got blamed for sticking coppers in Ser Glavin's door jamb - as if he'd waste good coin on that man - and lucky Eryhn got recruited as a Grey Warden) this little idea of his had so delighted the Grand Cleric that Her Grace gave Tarven full blessing to proceed - and a new rank.
Alright, so the scheme had some merit, if nabbing more Chasind children and hedge healers was one's idea of a good time. Missionaries scattered throughout the Korcari Wilds risked life and limb to enlighten heathens with the Chant but had no easy means to resupply or send letters and updates. To support those brave souls, could not the Chantry provide regular aid from its bountiful tithes? If some Templars happened to accompany these goods, and the missionaries happened to mention locations that might harbor apostates or latent talent, well, that'd just be lucky happenstance, wouldn't it? Even better, these same Templars could demonstrate the Maker's mercy and distribute extra poultices and clothing in impoverished villages - while clad in unassuming leather and splint, of course, no need to panic anyone with blinding bright plate. Were dangerous undercurrents of power detected, why, they'd only be fulfilling their sacred oath to protect innocents by rounding up culprits. It was a good plan, and simple, Alistair grudgingly admitted.
And it was a plan that gnawed at his soul. However, as much as he despised himself for adding glory to Tarven's name with each ugly success, better he be present, and soften blows or offer hollow assurances of a comfortable future, than someone Tarven actually liked. No doubt the more ruthless of his colleagues mocked his softness before the captain, who relished Alistair's fruitless self-torture in addition to his physical discomfort, so it was no surprise when the slimy bastard named him for this detail again, his sixth in as many months.
Their latest excursion had been proceeding as usual. Although rumors abounded of darkspawn gathering in the Wilds, the missionary, Jogby, had assured them there'd been no sightings of the twisted things and happily pointed to three settlements on his scrawled doodle of a map. So they'd visited the places, three of them doling out blessings and poultices to grim Chasind while a fourth - usually Alistair, the most sensitive of the group - stood guard and probed for subtle, recent disturbances in the Fade. So far they'd turned up no signs of magic, though close to Jogby's camp there'd been a couple of times Alistair had felt something…odd.
Such as right now.
"Wait, do you sense that?" he asked no one in particular, pausing in his steps.
"Sense what?" said Rood.
"I'm…not sure how to describe it. You really didn't feel anything a moment ago?"
"Alistair, if you're going to be spooked by your own shadow, save that nonsense for when we're back at camp," snapped Halbert.
"I don't spook, and it's not nonsense," Alistair protested. "I swear there was something. Even felt it a few times before. Maybe it's wild magic -"
Rood snorted. "Or maybe you're just a little girl who still believes your Nan's stories." He made a face as if to spit something unpleasant. "Wild magic. If there were truly witches in these wilds, we'd 've heard from other Templars. Besides, I haven't noticed anything unusual while marching. Kenrik?"
The other man shook his head. "Nothing. Nor during the last few times I was here." "Though there has been this high-pitched whine. Oh wait, that's you, Alistair," Rood smirked.
An irritable growl from Halbert stopped Alistair before he could form a retort. "If you ladies have finished with your afternoon salon, then I suggest you quit standing around and get moving again. And for love of the Maker, remain quiet until we've reached camp," Halbert ordered, already a short distance ahead.
"If we reach camp," Alistair muttered as he and the others lengthened their strides.
"I heard that. Latrine duty, Alistair. And you two louts will be joining him if you don't shut up as well."
Restored, the silence in the swamp stayed unbroken, save for the tread of heavy boots through muck and brush, and the flutter of wings high in the trees.
-o-o-o-
As it turned out, that stubborn git Halbert did nearly get them lost. He'd missed a trail sign and led them too far south before he gave up and backtracked, and consequently it was well past dark when the four Templars stumbled into camp.
"Who better to lead us through the woods than a half-blind badger," Alistair said under his breath as he tried to dry his boots and feet by the sullen, smoky fire, while working his way through a trencher full of stew. "Mmm yes, what an excellent ide - Oww." Alistair rubbed at his cheek with a scowl. Whoever had prepared the textureless grey meat in the stew hadn't been all that careful; he'd nearly lost a tooth biting down on a sharp sliver of bone.
It was late enough now that almost everyone had settled down for the night. Those who had first watch were still up, oiling and cleaning armor or quaffing rapidly cooling drinks, but none of them looked much like conversing. Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair spied Halbert's glare.
"Ah well, nothing like latrine duty to warm the spirit and the nose," Alistair sighed to himself as he stood up with a stretch. Might as well get it over with before doffing and cleaning his splintmail. At least the cold would dull the smell some. He grabbed a shortsword and torch as he trotted off; no telling what lurked out there, and the makeshift pit toilets were farther from the fire than he felt comfortable with tonight.
Alistair tried to keep himself from shivering. Not that he was spooked - okay, maybe a little spooked - but he couldn't shake off the unease that had dogged him all afternoon and evening. After his first mention of it, he'd gotten that strange feeling twice again - he still suspected some kind of magic, the way it tickled the back of his tongue. More troubling, though, was that prickling on his neck hairs, like something was watching, and not something nice.
Or maybe he was just turning into a drooling lunatic. Maker, at this rate he really wasn't going to last long as a Templar.
He was about to dig a fresh pit after carefully covering up one that was starting to overflow when his torch went out, and a cry arose from the direction of the fire.
"What in the Maker's - DARKSPAWN! DARKSPAWN ATTACK! GET UP GET -"
Before Alistair could react, guttural laughter erupted next to him and pain exploded across his back. He cried out, smashing face down into the wet earth, but managed to roll to the side just in time to avoid a second swing of a mace. He scrambled to his feet and drew his sword, panic rising from his stomach as he frantically searched the darkness and prayed he was turning in the right direction.
He felt a whoosh of air to his left. Alistair spun and parried blindly, his sword arm jarring and his legs straining as he somehow managed to meet or dodge each heavy blow. But his reach was too short - he needed to end this before the mace snapped his arm or his shoddy blade or simply crushed his head. When the next swing came and collided near the hilt, he flung his free hand to the flat of the sword and pushed with both arms, redirecting the mace upwards. Immediately he dropped low and lunged into a powerful thrust of his sword. A shriek of metal piercing metal, the assault of a smell so vile even the pit toilets seemed daisy-fresh, the sudden weight of his foe collapsing onto his chest, and just as suddenly Alistair was alone, panting heavily in the dark.
The others! He threw off the body and sprinted towards the chaos by the fire to aid the nearest man. He was reaching the edge of the fighting when a heavy Templar shield nearly checked him.
"Hey watch it! I'm on your side!" Alistair yelped.
Rood yanked his arm to spin him around. "Can't you see, fool? There's too many of them! Get out of here!"
"But we need to help!"
"There's no helping anyone now! Or do you want to die? Run!" urged Rood, then fled into the darkness.
Alistair frowned as he turned to survey the fight, but Rood was right. Too few humans remained standing, and darkspawn archers were picking off those who were running away. They hadn't noticed him yet, but that probably wasn't going to last much longer.
Darkspawn chow or wolf bait. Not much of a choice, was it?
He took off, crashing through the brush to follow Rood.
-o-o-o-
It was nearly dawn when Alistair and Rood gave up their desperate flight through the swamp.
"I think we lost them," Alistair said with a groan, collapsing against a tree. "Maker, I'm so tired and hungry. Just kill me now."
Rood harrumphed as he dropped his sword and shield and crumpled onto the ground. "You're one to talk. Hardly even injured. Smell like a privy, though."
Alistair grinned, although in his current state he'd more likely grimaced. "Ah, you've figured out my secret. My stench is so terrible, it felled all the darkspawn around me. Behold Alistair the Pungent! Mighty warrior and bane of all noses!"
Rood was not amused. "Certainly the bane of mine. If I weren't bleeding from a half-dozen holes, I'd shove you into the closest pond."
"Aww, how thoughtful of you. Have I ever told you that you're my favoritest Templar ever?"
"Just shut up and leave me in peace."
Alistair shrugged and looked around. None of his surroundings appeared the least bit familiar; he had no clue in which direction they'd fled, let alone kept track of the zigs and zags they'd thrown to confuse any pursuers. At least the darkspawn weren't the Dalish. The two of them were as safe as men lost in the Wilds could be.
Well, perhaps a little less so, as they had next to no supplies. He'd escaped with only his armor and that wretched shortsword; Rood hadn't carried off much either. Aside from his longsword and heavy shield, the other man was wearing only his woolen clothes and an arming jack - he hadn't the time to don any more protection - but had grabbed his half-emptied pack before fleeing.
"Mind if I look through your things?" asked Alistair.
An annoyed grunt from the dozing Rood was about as much a sign of permission as he was going to get. Alistair eased the pack away from the other Templar and began rifling through its contents: several elfroot poultices, a hunk of cheese, a change of smallclothes and socks, some coin, an empty water skin, and most importantly, three precious vials of lyrium.
He really hoped they would be out of the Wilds by the time the lyrium ran out, assuming they'd still be alive.
Setting the pack aside, Alistair closed his eyes and wracked his weary mind. What now? They were deep, deep in the Wilds; pushing north in their condition would be futile. If he and Rood were really lucky, they might find Chasind, but the tribes were spread very thinly out here.
He'd learned long ago not to hold his breath for any wishes to come true. The Maker didn't seem to like him much.
"Think, Alistair, think," he said aloud.
Thoughts drifted to rumors of darkspawn that definitely weren't rumors now… Hadn't there been some talk back at the Tower a few weeks ago, about the king marshaling his forces at Ostagar? Maybe even now he could find an army encampment there. If he remembered correctly, Ostagar was less than a few days south and east of Jogby's camp. Last night's run couldn't cause too much of a deviation, were they to head in that direction, or so Alistair hoped.
Well, he knew where to go now, sort of. That was more of a start than he'd thought they would have a moment ago. And now…now was probably as good a time as any to give in to exhaustion…