He hoped the little spirit girl would come back and argued vehemently, but Fenris vetoed. It was too dangerous to remain close to a village they had just attacked, and they had everything they had wanted, enough supplies that, with care, would last them weeks. After the qunari child left there was nothing stopping them, and he wanted to be gone that night, but knew they were too exhausted; they would not get far enough away. He settled for sleeping with one eye open, his arm curled protectively over Anders in their tent.
The next morning at dawn he had them packed and the horses saddled; the animals had come close to the camp and bedded down in it. Fenris led them to water upon waking, but they did not want any; they had gone during the night and then come back.
Fenris could not leave them behind. They were too good to abandon.
He led the horses, tying a rope from one’s saddlehorn to the other’s halter so they could travel in a line. It did him and Anders good to walk without carrying heavy packs for a change, and the mage was able to ride when he became too tired, so they covered more ground, but ultimately it was the horses that did them in. Fenris could not ride. There was no place to put his sword, so they had to move at a walking pace. Having horses to worry about also drove them down from the slopes and closer to the road where the ground was even.
Anders thought it was odd there had only been twelve Templars. It was too few to subdue a village, and Templars liked round numbers. The thought made him uneasy, but he didn’t say anything. By the time he thought of it, they’d journeyed quietly for a day and a half, and he hoped if there were more he and Fenris had lost them.
When the attack came, Anders felt it first; the Silence washed over him so slowly and insidiously it took him a few moments to realize what was wrong. A voice shouted “Viens!” and their horses faltered and stopped, ears perking up. Anders slid off the back of his; there was no way he was going along if the horse decided it would obey.
Three Templars appeared from the shelter of the trees. Blood drained from Fenris’ face, but he took position in front of Anders, his sword raised.
“Give us the mage.” The Templar who spoke had thick Orlesian accent and a sickly, insincere smile on his face; he was trying to shake Fenris and doing a poor job, obviously lying. They were both going to die.
“No.” The air cracked and Fenris began to glow a brilliant blue-white. He flourished, swinging his sword in a wide arc. “Take him if you can.”
With a shout, the Templars rushed them.
