Chapter Text
The trip to Redcliffe farm, in the wake of the small detachment of scouts who’d set out to Master Dennet’s, was much quicker than the prior day’s journey. The fires in Fort Connor had been put out, the bodies disposed of. Some of the able bodied refugees were helping to clear out the burnt rubbish from the homes and shore up their walls where they could. It was small work on a large job, but hopeful. The wolves however were a surprise. Varric nudged one body with his foot, frowning.
“Are all wolves like this?” he asked.
“No,” chorused Cirridwen and Solas. They glanced at each other and Cirridwen tipped her head to him, turning to a wisp and murmuring to it. Solas took up the thread as they started walking again after Bun.
“Wolves are dangerous, but they are shy creatures at heart. They rarely hunt people, and very rarely with such determination. I have heard of them behaving so when affected by the Blight, but with the disruption of the rifts it is also possible the pack has been taken over by demons.”
“If it’s the Blight, we have a new problem,” Cirridwen added. “If it’s a demon, then it will need to be vanquished to release the wolves and the locals. I doubt Master Dennet will want to send good horses down a road beset by unnatural predators.”
They continued to discuss the matter, and the likeliness of Master Dennet’s aid, as they turned off the road at the sign for the farms. Cirridwen however pulled up when her attendants clutched around her, a few bobbing up and down on Bun’s mane. All three watched as Cirridwen frowned and the wisps tucked under folds of her clothing and her coif.
“There is an ocularum nearby, atop that ridge. Just far enough back to not be seen from the road.”
“What the Blight is that doing here?” Varric asked.
“I shall ask Master Dennet,” Cirridwen said, tone even in a way that suggested that Master Dennet’s answer might be very important indeed.
Walking up the road, Cirridwen looked over the fields. Dennet was a successful farmer indeed, and the wealth and standing he must have generated as the Arl’s Horsemaster showed in the sheer amount of land he owned. The fields of stubble with their harvested wheat stooks spread all along the valley floor to disappear into the distance, the farm ringed and sheltered from both outside attack and hard weather by the sharp hills around it. The druffalo in some of the fields looked well fed and strong, and the numerous horses much the same. Bright eyes and perked ears followed the party, the animals alert and healthy. The cottages were well roofed with sod, the walls solid and the wary farm hands who peered at them from barns and around window frames all stout and hale. If all these people worked for Dennet, he was doing very well.
“Hail, Herald!” an Inquisition soldier trotted up the road, gloved hand raised before he fell into step with them. “I have the report for you.” Cirridwen inclined her head. Clearly the young man had been waiting for them.
“We arrived yesterday and set up camp by the river bend. Master Dennet and his people have been well, although a couple people have died or run off in the fighting. His stock and fields are all well. Corporal Andrastopher did speak to him about providing horses.”
“And his response?”
“He’s willing but with conditions. He wants a series of threats to his farms dealt with before he’ll risk any horses on the road, ma’am.”
“That seems fair. What risks are they?”
“There’s wolves about that don’t behave normally. His wife has refused any more hunting parties on them after losing two hands and having a third put up. They guard the perimeters and keep the prize stock indoors, but they don’t have as much room as they’d like for it. His man also wants watchtowers built up, to keep the road safe and some of the back passes that unsavoury folk could sneak down.”
“All reasonable,” Cirridwen said. “However, not all will be quick. The watchtowers in particular will take time, unless he can spare the labour, and there is still the question of materials. But at least the wolves we can take care of.”
“Master Dennet awaits you at his home,” the soldier indicated the path up the hill past a riding ring to an impressive two story building, the grandest one they had yet seen in the Hinterlands with carved Mabari finials on the roof. On dismounting at the door, a woman with long white hair pulled back into a severe bun came around a wicket that lead to a kitchen garden, dusting her hands.
“I take it you’re here to speak to my husband,” she stated. “Elaina. I run the farms while Dennet sees to the horses. He’s inside. Ken!” a man with a paunch ambled up from the stables. “Tie up the mule by the charger. I’ll be seeing you again shortly.”
She nodded briskly to the group before returning to the garden while Ken took Bun’s reins with a respectful touch of his forehead to her rider. Cirridwen dipped her head back in acknowledgement and walked to the door.
Master Dennet was a man whose hair was as light as his skin was dark, eyes intelligent and frame strong. It seemed age had done as little to diminish him as it had his wife, though reports said he had to be at least fifty after being Horsemaster for thirty years. His home was comfortable, the floors flagged stone covered with a massive carpet and the walls hung with tapestries, the tables and benches for meals shoved to the sides of the hall. When he looked over the group before him, he nodded brusquely and Cirridwen expanded her awareness.
“Inquisition. Name’s Dennet. Hear you’re trying to bring order back. It’s high time someone did.”
“Time and past,” Cirridwen agreed.
“So. Mounts. I served thirty years as Arl Eamon’s horsemaster, and I suspect that’s what you’re here for.”
“You suspect correctly. Are you able to aid us?”
Dennet snorted inelegantly.
“Not at the moment. I can’t just send a hundred of the finest horses in Ferelden down the road like you’d send a letter. Every bandit between here and Haven would be on them like flies on crap! You’ll have mounts once I know they won’t end up as a cold winter’s breakfast.”
“Agreed. It would be a complete waste. The Inquisition has secured most of the King’s Road. However my men inform me that you have additional stipulations around the safety of your lands.”
“You’re right. My man Bron has locations marked out for watchtowers. Too many damn places around here for bandits and worse to hide. If we can get eyes on them, that’s half the problem solved. But it needs more manpower and materials than we can spare this close to harvests. My wife Elaina’s told me about these damn wolves. If she’s right and it’s Blight or possession or other nonsense, that’s mage work for you.”
Brisk, he was, similar to Cassandra in that when he saw a problem, he acted. But something softer under that, an understanding of when to push, when to pull, and when to let stand. An impression, faded after a decade, of someone small with white hair and flaming hands. But no underlying viciousness, and only rightful suspicion.
“In the meantime, you deserve something better than whatever knock-kneed plow nag they gave you.” Behind her, Varric laughed a little.
“They gave her a mule,” his wife observed drily from the doorway.
“A mule?” Dennet demanded, striding past them to the door. They trailed him out the door, watching him stare in disbelief down the hill at where Bun was tethered next to a truly magnificent Fereldan forder gelding. “You rode in on that?”
“Bun. She’s been a very reliable mount,” Cirridwen replied mildly as they trooped down the hill.
“A bleeding mule. What is she, 10 hands? Was her mother a pony?” Dennet shook his head as he approached Bun. The forder promptly leaned over to sniff Dennet, while Bun politely ignored him. Cirridwen’s face remained a mask of politeness while her eyes laughed. “At least she’s a good mule, well formed.”
“More importantly, she is extremely steady of temper,” Cirridwen said. “She may not be the most glamorous of mounts, but I have far greater need of something I can mount myself that won’t throw me at mage fire than something that looks impressive.”
“I wouldn’t put you on a tetchy one. Does us no good if you’re thrown and crack your head,” Dennet grumped.
“Perhaps if you stand back, I might be able to demonstrate,” Cirridwen advised. He did so, and Cirridwen nodded to Duty. “Would you unhitch Bun, please.”
Elaina’s eyes were wide as saucers and Dennet swore very quietly as green limbs bloomed in the air, Duty reforming. It glided to Bun’s head, unhitching the mule. Bun’s ears flicked in mild interest, unfazed at her now regular companion. The gelding did not like it at all, ears back and whites showing as he shied, stamping uncomfortably. He settled as Duty led Bun to the gate of the riding circle, but his ears remained back as he eyeballed the spirit.
“I take your point, Inquisition. But that’s a new problem. How many of those are the horses going to be coping with? I’ve bred them as war horses for nobles and chevaliers, not mages.” His tone said he was displeased, but there was a light of challenge in his eyes.
“Not many. My relationship with spirits is thus far unique; I’ve found very few who have such constant companions.” Wisps had escaped from around Cirridwen’s clothes where Dennet hadn’t noticed them lurking, settling on Bun’s mane. The mule scratched her belly with one back hoof and then stood again. “However, for my own uses Bun is ideal. I have a number of old injuries that would make mounting such a magnificent horse difficult without aid.”
“So the crook’s for use, not show,” Dennet said, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing his neat beard. “Tell you what Inquisition. If you can spare us a couple mages that can do something similar to you, I might be able to start training the mounts for that too. We’ll need a Templar too, keep things civil. Get you a good mount for show when you need it, at least.”
“Thank you, Master Dennet. If there is a man outside Tevinter who can train a horse to calm around magic, it would be you.” Cirridwen dipped her head, regal as any empress. Elaina scoffed fondly.
“His head’s deservedly big enough, he doesn’t need it any bigger.”
“By the by. Some folk aren’t keen you’re a mage, but there’ll be none of that guff here,” Dennet said curtly. “I was in Redcliffe when the Blight came through and we were up to the teats in undead. It was a mage problem. And it needed a mage fix, which was exactly what the Hero of Ferelden gave us when she turned up. That Breach is a big mage problem. Hope you’re a big enough mage to fix it.” The same impression of a mage, stronger this time. She’d been an elf, and had clearly made a strong impression on Master Dennet for Cirridwen to feel her ghost so ten years later.
“By the way. How long has the skull on the post been hiding up on the ridge?”
“The bleeding wot?”