Chapter 2: Anders


The Vimmark Wastelands were a desolate place, all flat plains of rock and impossible expanses of sand, stretching out endlessly until the land blurred into the dusty skyline.

The landscape was made of sharp lines and hard surfaces, and any plant life that had dared to encroach into this desert were now blackened twigs stretching into the sky as though searching for rain, or twisted stumps hollowed out by rot and wind.

The broken wreckage of trailers and crates littered the scene and dying fires flickered over the rubble and debris, adding waves of heat to the already scorching day. A bronto corpse lay abandoned in the middle of it all. Blood had dried around its snout, and it mixed with the sand in a sticky mess that was still as fresh as the lingering flames. It reeked, but not enough to fool us into thinking that this disturbance was old news. Garret led us apprehensively down the sandy dunes and we followed loyally.

I felt a pull at an instinct that I had almost forgotten I possessed: my long disused Warden sense. A spattering of corruption was laid over the wasteland, thickening deep under the earth. What was this place?

Oh right, an old Grey Warden fortress, how could I forget? Still, it was odd, I felt the impression of the taint around us, but it wasn't darkspawn, or Wardens. Perhaps the Carta had unknowingly ingested some darkspawn blood? Even with everything that they had threatened Garrett with, all the trouble that they had brought us and Kirkwall, I couldn't convince myself that a fate like that would be just. It was the lowest and most degrading way for someone to die. I should know, it was my fate.

We crept through the sandy chasm, alert and vigilant.

My boots made a squeaky scuffing sound in the sand, and then, muffled by the walls of sand and stone, a barely audible cry rang out ahead of us. I tensed in anticipation of attack.

"What was that?" I whispered.

Garrett had drawn his greatsword at the noise and his pace quickened to a jog.

"Listen," Carver silenced me with a gesture as the voice sounded again, "it's the Carta. They've seen us."

It had sounded more like a warning than a call to arms, I dared to think that maybe we had caught them off guard. As though to confirm this, a few shadowy figures far ahead hurriedly dispersed: assassins.

"Oh, way to state the obvious, brother," Garrett said with a roll of his eyes.

We rounded the corner of the sandy basin.

Nothing. The dwarves were hidden in stealth.

"Oho," smirked Isabella, "these guys might even be worth it." I doubted it, they never were.

We continued onward, I strode to keep pace. Our group made a rough scratchy sound in the gravely sand now. None of us re-sheathed our weapons.

Towering before us was an immense stone archway. Now the place was starting to look Dwarven made. This was an ambush if I had ever walked into one. A few more short figures scattered in the distance. Places, please.

"Dwarves are funny," Isabella said, breaking the still cadence, "look at them scurrying away on their stumpy little legs."

Varric made his best indignant face and adopted a tone of voice to match, "Hey, I heard that."

"It's cute when you do it, though." She elaborated.

"That's what I like to hear, Rivaini."

"You know what I like to hear?" Carver interrupted, "Silence. This is an ambush, you know?"

"Again with the obvious, Carver?" Garrett's voice was low, but appropriately telling, "Besides, that makes no sense. You can't hear silence." He gave his brother a soft cuff over the back of the head, somewhat hardened by his metal gauntlet. Carver ducked away too late. I chuckled softly and realized that I had missed having Carver around. Hawke was having too much fun making up for lost time.

We continued our bold trek through the increasingly, tunnel-like archway in relative silence. The soaring stone walls were embedded with ominous sharpened stakes, and before us, the bright sunlight illuminated the end of the passage, darkening the stout form before us in silhouette. Garrett strode confidently towards the figure, but if I knew him at all, and I liked to think that I did by now, he was keeping his eyes and ears open for other threats.

As we neared, the dwarf's features became more and more discernible; his eyes were pale and deadened and his skin was blotched with sickness.

"You," he pronounced, "both brothers, you're here together! You've come!" His white eyes flickered between Garrett and Carver, disregarding Isabella, Varric and I completely, which suited me fine.

"Why set a trap if you thought no one would walk into it?" Varric said to me in an aside.

Carver looked taken aback by the acknowledgement, "Is… he referring to you and me?"

"You see Bartrand anywhere around, Carver?" Hawke whispered under his breath, "Who else could he be referring to?"

The dwarf turned around with his back to us in righteous proclamation, "Everyone! It's the children of Malcolm Hawke! They've come to us."

More of his companions were appearing now, walking as though our merry band of misfits were no threat to them. Wouldn't they be in for a surprise? I grinned.

As they drew nearer, I noticed that they all had the same look about them: whitened cataracts over eyes underlined by ecchymosis shadows; creeping dark capillaries highlighted by pale skin; hair coming out in clumps where their scalp was thinning and scabbing over. I could feel it too, the taint, the corruption inside of them.

What had happened here?

And what in the Maker's name did Garrett's father have to do with anything?

Had I even heard that right?

The spokes-dwarf was clearly mad. I wanted desperately to help them, but I knew there was nothing that could be done. The only merciful thing to do would be to kill them; we needed to put them out of their misery.

The dwarf was still speaking, louder now, "we must have the blood, you don't understand!" and there was desperation in the deep timbre of his voice.

Did he mean darkspawn blood, or Hawke's blood? It wasn't going to be the latter, not while I still breathed. I moved my hand behind me, drawing on my untouched mana stores, letting magic pool and focus in my palm, readying for attack. The dwarf who had spoken to us was already backing away, and on either side, his fellows were dragging daggers from their sheaths with the metallic sound of steel sliding against steel.

Garret laughed, it was a deep melodic sound "Oh, blood? Why didn't you just ask?"
Taunting the corrupted dwarves, I smiled despite myself; how very Garrett. He tightened the grip on his weapon and lunged forward, simultaneously dodging an attack on his flank. The battle had begun.

Seizing the energies that I had prepared, I encased the overseer in a prison of ice before he could move to attack. Beside me, the triple thud of Bianca's signature kill sounded. Our party was cleaving through the dwarves with ease, spattering blood across the sand; darker than normal. It smelt wrong, pungent and contaminated.

Possessing the same blighted curse gave me an advantage over the dwarves, I knew their positions, and the biggest threats to us were the snipers who fired from the far blockade. I took more mana, and began manipulating the atmosphere above them. Thunderbolts reigned down from the sky, striking and burning our distant enemies. It was far enough away from my allies that I could let it rage unchecked.

Garrett dove into my eye line, fighting alongside his brother. He swung his blade in wide arcs that managed to be simultaneously powerful and precise, cutting through the opposition with ease, undeterred by the dark blood that splashed back at him.

I had no allusions to the capabilities of the man. He was brave, strong, determined and, well, he was something alright. Whatever it was, this Hawke-ness, I loved it in its entirety. I loved everything about him and, as anxious as it made me, I loved to watch him fight. The way his muscles flexed and extended under his armour with every powerful strike, the survivor look on his face, burning adrenaline like fuel for wildfire.

The whir and thud of Bianca's bolts punctuated my thoughts. Varric jumped back as an arrow whizzed between us.

"Head in the game, Blondie."

"Right," I countered with a hurtling rock fist that knocked the archer on his back. Isabella leapt on the fallen dwarf, daggers poised.

Having carved through the few dwarves that surrounded us, the brothers were hurtling over to the remaining enemies who still floundered in my waning tempest. It was friendly competition for them, both trying to outrun the other. Inevitably, Hawke was always a few paces ahead.

Isabella beat them both, however. She was already amidst the remaining enemies, and I manipulated the humming energies of the storm around her, steering the arcs away from the conducting metal of her blades. Unhelpfully, she raised them into the air behind the final sniper, just as his neck spurted from an expertly aimed crossbow bolt. I saw Isabella frown at the corpse in disappointment. The electricity in the air was fading into the ether as quickly as it had come, standing amidst it now would do nothing more than leave your hair standing on its ends.

"See, this is why I usually only bring three of you," Garret complained, kicking a piece of stone at Carver as he jogged to the rest of the group, "it's too easy."

Now aggregated, we slackened, relaxing into the temporary reprieve. None of us sheathed our weapons, only lessoned white-knuckled grips. The heat was stifling; I could feel myself sweating in my heavy coat. Andraste's ass, how could anyone fight in armour under such a relentless sun? I looked to Garrett, he was panting but his eyes were sharp and alert. His hair was already matted with blood and sweat. He winked at me.

I grinned back, knowing I must look as much of a mess as he did. I held my staff up, bathing the group in a wave of restorative energy. I could have sworn I heard a collective sigh escape us.

"So," Garrett started, "what is a Corypheus?"

– "It's the Hawke!" A belated battle cry resounded off of the rock walls.

Any explanations we might have offered were forced into the background as, hefting blades, crossbows and staves, we turned to meet our targets.

It seemed that the Carta had found a new depth of resolve and cunning in the leadership of their 'Corypheus'. Again and again, they attacked with fierce determination. Ambush after ambush, undeterred by the ease with which we cut through their brethren. It surprised us all, how tactical and resourceful they had become. It was a refreshing change from the monotonous waveform tactics of Kirkwall's gangs, where the only variance would be which building the Dwarves would leap down from today – usually the one with the flattest roof.

Weren't dwarves supposed to be afraid of the sky? Did they crouch up there in wait, clinging to the gutters in fear, irrationally distrustful of the gravitational forces to hold them down?

I put the question to Varric: "Don't you group me in with the Orzammar dwarves, Blondie!" he had said. "I am a surfacer through and through, couldn't understand them if I tried. Besides," he added, trying to sound appropriately offended, "we both know anyone who actually likes the Deep Roads is crazy and should be left down there with the taint and deep-crawlers."

I chuckled, but I knew that it must be hard for him to keep up his façade sometimes. What had happened with Bartrand must have hurt him more than he could let on.

"I had friends who liked the Deep Roads!" It was my turn to act indignant. Varric only raised an eyebrow. "Well, maybe liked is a bit strong: 'endured' maybe?"

"That sounds more like it! Crazy Wardens. You're lucky to have escaped when you could."

"I heard that," Carver sounded and Varric let out a bark of laughter, which tapered off in quiet chuckles from the both of us.

The day wore on, measurable only by the path that the orange sun burnt across the hazy sky. We sprung traps, fought Brontos, endured wave after wave of fevered opposition. Garrett revelled in the games. He took to sending Isabella or Varric ahead to scout, reporting back with layouts, traps and vantage points.

We would gather around him as he drew lines in the sand, using rocks and twigs to represent markers and enemies, developing strategies and game plans. We exploited the land formations, used clever distractions, and turned carefully lain traps to our advantage as weapons.

When we fought, everything slowed down; every pivot and step was a calculation, ever expenditure of mana was a weighted decision, and all of it passed in split second increments. We were a deadly force that washed through the Vimmark Chasm, clearing out the tainted Carta, leaving only battered corpses and dying fires in our wake.

Time drained onwards, like sand sifting through cupped hands, as it inevitably must, and the sun's fire waned as it sunk behind the horizon, yielding to the darkness with a final burst of colour that leeched into the dusty atmosphere, turning the sky a brilliant blood red for a few precious seconds.

Hawke had taken a rusted archaic-looking key from the corpse of one of the slaughtered Carta members. He contemplated it, rolling it over in his hand before turning his gaze to the rotten wooden gates that loomed over him, flagged on both sides by ornate red banners.

"Alright, gang. I think we can call it a day," he declared with a smile.

We made use of one of the long disused sleeping quarters as a convenient and strategic campsite. The small room was equipped with six bunks, and it was mercifully free of corpses. But the ceiling was patchy and the wind whistled in through the broken thatching and through the cracks in the brick walls. The smell of blood, and something else with an acrid edge to it, wafted up the staircase from the courtyard outside, where the death toll had been significantly higher, but the room was selected for strategy, not comfort. A switch outside released a lethal trap. At best, whoever was on watch could take care of any Carta who had come late to the party; at worst the grinding, metallic sound would surely wake the rest of us.

Tomorrow, we would enter the Carta stronghold.