BETHANY

Days turned into weeks, but the darkspawn kept to the forest and marshes, never challenging the army by crossing the tree line. And yet, day by day, Bethany awoke to another patch of the verdant horizon withered gray and dead; the black clouds loomed ever closer, their shadow threatening to spill over the treeline and blanket the army camp and its expanding fortifications. Scouts sent to investigate, Chasind and Ferelden alike, were laid on her cots every day covered in wounds and raving of blades, darkness, and claws.

Despite Teyrn Loghain's orders and her own best efforts alongside the other healers to maintain hygiene, blight sickness started spreading through the camp outside the limits of the infirmary, carried by sick game caught around the fortress or by tainted soldiers avoiding the infirmary, knowing their ultimate fate was either poison or strangulation.

Around the Wardens' fires, the laughter became rougher, the jokes more strained. King Cailan, sharing stories and drink in his golden armor, became a rarer sight: he toured the camp, speaking with common soldiers and knights alike, trying to bolster morale. Everywhere Bethany turned, in every conversation she overheard, fear and impatience to confront the darkspawn went hand in hand, making the very air buzz.

It was either that or the mosquitoes. They bit her faster than she could heal the welts until she desisted and dedicated that energy to her work. The tiny pests rampaged through Ostagar, hungry and thicker than the humidity in the air, chased off from the Wilds to find easier prey in the stagnant army.

Bethany's days became an exhausting routine, punctuated by brief moments of respite she dared to enjoy when she and Theresa bathed in turns in the unfamiliar privacy of their room - all the humidity made ice magic come more easily - while the other stood watch at the canopy door for curious brothers; at other times, it was around a campfire with a bowl of soup warming her hands, made from venison the Wardens reassured her was untainted. And yet, even those moments all too easily led her to introspection and to contemplate her current situation, throwing her in a loop of apprehension and guilt, intermixed by bouts abject terror.

The rest of her time was a whirlwind of activity that quickly purged her from the sedate rhythms of the Circle. Brosca drilled them into the ground in the mornings; she'd work herself to the bone in the infirmary for the rest of the day and fall asleep as soon as she found her cot, those times she made it that far and didn't risk falling asleep on her dinner. At times, Alistair, Daveth and the balding knight, Ser Jory of Redcliffe, joined Brosca's morning sessions, but physical conditioning continued to be the dwarf's favored torture.

Sometime Brosca would pit her and Theresa against one another, kicking back as the cloister lit up with fire, ice, lightning, glyphs, barriers, and telekinesis, though Theresa never dispelled her mana to cheat to a win. Other times, it was Bethany and Theresa, alone or together, against the other recruits and Alistair, or in mixed groups. The ex-templar was courteous enough to never Smite her or Theresa, limiting himself to draining their spells of mana or weakening them. Once or twice, Brosca dragged in a few of the other Wardens for pitched melees.

Well into the second week, as the two of them started to get the hang of the whole armor business, the dwarf dropped the distant instructor routine and joined in as well, often playing the role of the darkspawn. The other two recruits, more seasoned, became regulars in their morning sessions as well. Cross-training, in Brosca's words, would make them more used to casting under pressure and inure the fighters to confront spellcasters, with an eye to future clashes with emissaries. Or so he claimed. Bethany was pretty sure he just enjoyed a good rush.

Still, it took a lot of coaxing from Alistair to convince Ser Jory to bend to Brosca's regimen.

"It's not fair, Warden," the knight argued, arms crossed and face stormy, "a mage can set me on fire with a thought, fry me with lightning, or freeze me. I wouldn't have the time to take two steps. You're the only one with templar training here."

"And I'd almost forgotten about that," Theresa snarked, smacking her lips at Alistair's pointed look.

Alistair rolled his eyes, then patted the burlier knight on one of his ox-like shoulders. "That's exactly the reason we - well, Brosca, is putting you through this. A templar or a mage won't always be nearby to fight an emissary for you. There are methods, however. This will teach you how."

In the privacy of her mind - and dreams, which she shared almost every night with Theresa now, very much enjoying the peace of the demon-free, raw Fade dreamscape she offered; her off-tune strumming, she enjoyed less - Bethany feared the first halfway-decent spellcaster to set their eyes on Ser Jory would kill or cripple him. Especially if emissaries used blood magic and entropy, as Alistair claimed. He always got a panicked look in his eyes when Bethany started weaving a spell or drew a glyph in the air, and his body became stiff as a board, losing that surprising nimbleness he showed when sparring with the other Wardens.

Daveth was better at that whole dance, and his leaner build or quicker feet were only half the reason why. Despite her continued rebukes on the matter, the scoundrel hadn't desisted from his flirting. Far from it actually. He had no qualms in teasing her during their training, making it harder to tone down the lethality of her spells, or to focus at all.

He had... quite the roguish smile, she had to admit. He wasn't as handsome as many of the templars serving in the Circle, or even Alistair, but it was a rare templar who smiled or showed his face in the Circle. The bucket heads just stood with their eyes concealed behind the slits of their helmets, always, always watching. Those memories always sobered her up. Theresa, Maker bless her soul, had even fewer qualms in wiping the smirk from the thief's face with a helping of concussive hexes - and one time, a poke from her staff enhanced with force magic that threw him head over heels - when Bethany still got too distracted to cast properly.

A twelve-day after her arrival, a scouting brought back what Brosca cheerfully named 'proper teachin' material'.

"This ugly sod's a genlock, lasses. C'mon, look closer. Give it a kick. Pretty face's too dead by half to bite."

Bethany edged around the squat, skewered corpse. The irrational part of her mind feared those beady eyes and razor-sharp teeth would spark with life anew any moment and bite her, try to grab her, and drag her underground. The rational part, toughened by the many days spent dispensing mercy to the sick, had her fingers itch to set the whole thing on fire. It looked and smelled worse than a week-old decaying corpse, a cloying mix of sharp marsh odors and the vile stench of blight sickness she smelled even in her sleep these days.

"Don't be shy," Brosca insisted, then he followed his own advice and kicked the still grinning corpse in the head. Bone cracked; its neck snapped. The sound made Bethany's bowels churn as the head lolled back. The hungry grin persisted. "Here, like this. Beat the fear away."

Theresa inhaled sharply and grimaced at the stench under her hood, then kicked the thing, the genlock, right between its legs.

Brosca hooted. "Good one, lassie! Won't faze a live one for shit, but that's progress. You next, sparkle-feet! Give it a good one."

Bethany had to admit, it was liberating, even when the corpse giggled wetly in response. After the kicking was over, Brosca sat them down and began to share both his wide array of methods to cure the darkspawn of their persistent case of life and the wide array the darkspawn possessed to cure her in turn. Soon, the lesson devolved into a back and forth debate between the mages and the dwarf on what he called 'combined arms'; each group drew from the other's unique perspective and skills to devise new and even more lethal ways to end the darkspawn. Alistair, the other recruits, and then more Wardens joined in on the fun as the sun climbed up in the sky; shortly before midday, it all degenerated into a practice brawl, resulting in the largest, most extenuating training session yet.

Bethany couldn't deny a certain pride when none of the Wardens but Alistair was consistently able to land a hit on her when she played emissary. Then Commander Duncan opted to stretch with his subordinates before lunch; Bethany's definition of 'fast', as well as her self-esteem, were revised in short order.

The Highever troops and more bannorn levies poured into Ostagar well into her third week; Commander Duncan was summoned to a meeting of the King's Privy Council within the next hour. When she came back from the infirmary that night, tiptoeing through the moaning, smelly, farting, and snoring Wardens to her bed - Wardens were louder in their sleep than apprentices tormented by demons - his cot was still empty and made.

Next thing she knew, Alistair was shaking her awake, stepping back as she extricated herself from under her blankets. She blinked owlishly at her surroundings as she stirred and yawned; Theresa was still snoring and drooling into her pillow, body twisted around like a corkscrew, as if she'd wrestled all night with her blanket.

"The King's made up his mind," he said as if trying to justify an intrusion. "We're ranging into the Wilds to see what the darkspawn are up to. Give them a good poke, maybe, and grab some old Warden treaties along the way. Well, huh, first we've got to find them, both of them, so that comes..." He gulped, then turned away. "Yeah. Right. I'll leave you now. To change and wake up your cousin. Yes. I'll, huh, I'll be outside."

Was that a blush creeping up his neck, under the ever-present rubbing fingers? Still trying to pick the cobwebs from her brain, she glanced down at herself: the blanket pooled around her knees and the spare shirt she slept in hiked up her waist, baring her thighs and a hint, just a hint, of her smallclothes.

Years of faceless strangers watching her undress and bathe had thickened her skin. In fact, Theresa and she had decided to watch each others' back as they bathed the previous weeks more out of unease lingering from their first meeting with the Wardens than really enjoying the privacy. And yet, as Theresa's snores turned into a choking snort that preluded awakening, she decided it was better if her cousin never knew what just happened. The slight warmness in her own cheeks had nothing to do with that, she told herself.


Commander Duncan pressed an empty vial of shatterproof glass into her hand with orders to fill it to the brim with darkspawn blood for the Joining ritual, then sent them on their way. The large ranging left shortly after dawn under the command of the newly arrived Lord Fergus Cousland of Highever.

Filling the mage recruits in on the reasons behind what to Bethany sounded a lot like feeding men to the darkspawn by the spoonful apparently wasn't high on the Commander's list of priorities. Alistair's sudden inclination for Daveth and Ser Jory's company, punctuated by the rosy color marching up his face like a conquering army every time she caught him glancing in her direction, left Brosca to walk the green mages through the ins and outs of the King's and the Commander's tactic. Stuff that, as a former Legionary of the Dead, turned out to be again quite up his alley, as with nearly anything concerning the disgusting, terrifying creatures.

The lecherous waggles of the dwarf's heavy-set brows also made subtle cooling spells a precious trick, what with Theresa in the vicinity.

"Sendin' so many's a risk, aye, but we can't sit on our arses while big 'n' scaly mucks about. Gotta pinpoint the 'spawn entrance - or entrances - into the Deep Roads. These trees-forest-thingies you have up here are chock-full of warbands and the like, but they ain't the soddin' horde, trust me. Stone, they're like these blasted mosquitoes!" He squashed one on his forehead, barely grunting as the thick gauntlet smacked his bare skin hard. "They poke us, bleed us out, and make scoutin' deeper with small numbers a death sentence. Works like a screen of sorts. Commander sent Alec and Judal in, few weeks back." Brosca shook his head. "Last decent skirmish we had 'fore you dropped by was the 'spawn that chased Alec back to camp."

"And Judal?" Bethany asked before she connected the dots.

Brosca rolled his eyes. "Tree-hugger always said he felt right at home with all the green 'n' critters. Now he's rottin' in there, somewhere."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Heh, it's war." He shrugged, casting a critical eye around the force assembling at the foot of the fortress. Bethany followed his example. Two hundred pikemen, halberdiers, and crossbowmen from Highever and about as many mixed levies from the South Reach Arling made up the backbone of Lord Cousland's forces. A strong group of Ash Warriors and their painted mabaris had been tossed in as well, with Chasind wilders to act as scouts and support.

The wilder that had grabbed her weeks back out of the infirmary was among their number, off by the supply cart and not mingling with the other Chasind. Now that she saw him close to the other wilders, their clothes and armor looked markedly different. The stalker's furs were heavier, as if to ward off the cold rather than the damp heat of the Ostagar. He'd kept his distance after the incident, but still, she'd caught glimpses of him nearly every day. Even now, with a heavy helmet hiding the top half of his head, she felt his eyes probing her.

"Anyho, they did figure out a general direction 'fore things got messy, so that's somethin'," Brosca continued as they approached the prohibitive treeline. The ankle-deep mud, softened by the odd downpour, was already trying to tear the boots off her feet with every other step. Terrible sucking and squelching sounds came from the supply wagon rolling behind them, enhanced by the huffing of oxen and the encouragement of the driver. She almost missed Brosca's whisper in that confusion.

"A group this large won't screw up the army and can absorb losses 'till we get close 'nough for a few people to sneak closer. That'll be Corbus' and Torren's work." He tilted his chin up to the center of the column ahead of them. The two Wardens were leaning in thick conversation Lord Cousland. From what she glimpsed of the northern noble, he looked far from pleased. "Other scouts ain't worth their weight in bronto crap if most of them 'spawn stay underground, and we can't plan a defense if we dunno how many we're up against. Still, even with luck and Stone on our side, a lot of these lads won't make it back."

Bethany gulped, trying to imagine the scope of death Brosca pictured, and failing as she saw the collection of faces surrounding them. Under the cowls and helmets, many looked about her age, or younger. Others reminded her of Damien and father. She quickly focused on the back of Brosca's head and forced her thoughts to contemplate other avenues, like how would the Wardens scout an underground force without descending themselves.

"So, they're bait?" Theresa asked, toying with the hem of her hood. Bethany had yet to see her outside without it, but the few times it got knocked back during training, her cousin hadn't been reduced to a panicking mess anymore. At least, not for the few seconds it took to replace it.

"We all are, lass. Ya two just double up as artillery," Brosca corrected. "Corbus and Torren don't need no company and ya recruits are my responsibility. Alistair's too, I guess, but the lad's kinda distracted today." Bethany rolled her eyes surreptitiously and Brosca chuckled. "We're gonna find some decent defensive spot and bunker down for a wee while. Thatol' Warden outpost we're swingin' by sounds bloody ideal. Tevs 'n' Avvars know their stonework. Themtreaties'll be, how do you surfacers say it - ah, the cherry on top!"


If Ostagar was still in the grip of summer, autumn had fallen early and harsh over the Wilds, stewarded by the rolling leaden sky; a carpet of dry leaves and dead wood e covered the serpentine, boggy paths, making the march a challenge of stubbornness and fortitude against nature from the get-go.

Despite her magic, the abrupt drop in temperature as the ranging made Bethany wrap herself in the thick coat and scarf she'd been offered before departing.

The sheer abundance of trees and the uneven, treacherous terrain made it impossible to see clearly in any one direction; a dense roof created by the canopies entwining their leafless branches blocked out what little light would filter through the clouds. Less than an hour out, it was up to torches and lanterns to lighten most of the path and anything beyond their immediate surroundings.

Blight sickness affected nature as much as it did men. Bethany passed trees stripped of their bark to show the rotting core beneath and ponds were the water was so murky and thick with dead fish, light barely reflected off its surface. The wilds were never really silent, but the only sounds were those of marching men, sedated chatter, and the wind whistling through the naked trees. Bethany imagined eyes on her behind every tree and rock; by the number of turning, snapping heads around her, she wasn't the only one.

A few times, someone along the line intoned the notes of some popular song to try and stave off boredom and apprehension, but few picked up on it and the bold voices soon became quiet. She saw Lord Cousland march up and down the column with his household guards and retinue, speaking to some of the soldiers and receiving the reports from Chasind scouts and Ash Warriors alike; even the great, painted mabari were restless, their ears twitching without pause.

From her position somewhere in the middle of the column, brightened more than most by their twin mage-lights, Bethany soon saw emaciated wolves run parallel to the column and skulk around. At one point, a few of the bolder - or hungrier - tested the soldier's reactions, only to be feathered by crossbow bolts and arrows, then left to rot. As she walked past the first of the bodies, she saw the tumorous growths, festering wounds, and its milky white eyes.

"Blight wolf. Poor beast; better burn it," Alistair said, having walked up with Daveth and Jory after a while, "the carrion eaters won't touch it, but it's going to spread even more corruption."

"Better make a bonfire of the whole soddin' place, salroka," Brosca grunted, "just take a look 'round."

"Don't say that aloud," Daveth hissed, stealing worried glances around. "The Witch of the Wilds lives in these woods. You don't want to anger her; she'll boil you in a cauldron and eat you for dinner."

Brosca scoffed. "If some lyrium ghost or sparkle feet's gonna get pissed over these tree-thingies, then I reckon she'll be mighty pissed at the 'spawn 'fore she notices me."

Bethany studied the carcass as the dwarf and the thief bickered back and forth in the background; her hands were warm under her armpits, and she really didn't feel like removing them from their shelter to use her staff. She drew a simple pattern with her foot, then channeled her mana down her body and into the soft muck below. The mud and tainted blood pooling around the blight wolf simmered, then started to boil. A moment later, a short column of fire erupted from under it, consuming the carcass in a contained inferno.

Daveth jumped back with an undignified yelp; Ser Jory's hand went to his sword, panicking eyes glued to the flames. Behind the small circle of Wardens and recruits, dozens of passing heads turned abruptly their way, sprinkling the air with curses.

Bethany gave them a sheepish look as Brosca guffawed, slapping a bewildered Daveth in the back. "Priceless, sparkle-feet! See, ya got your Witch right here."

Alistair sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's an insult, you know, especially to a mage. The Witch of the Wilds is like the Apostate, with a capital A. Kidnapper of babies and leader of barbarian armies, that one."

"Only a choir boy would call that an insult," Theresa snarked back, then nudged Bethany. "That was lazy."

Bethany stuck out her tongue and channeled a little bit more mana through her foot in response. Ice came very easy to her with all the humidity and the unnatural cold around her. The fire was out in moments, leaving blackened bones and ash coated in white frost.

"Just practice." She cleared her throat, recalling one of her father's favorites. "If your hands are busy -"

"- cast with your feet. Yes, yes, I know," Theresa echoed in mock annoyance. "Still a lazy bumpkin."

The same happened with the other carcasses fresh and old they passed. Bethany had felt her reserves grow almost on a daily basis since entering Brosca's tender care; as a result, the repeated spells resulted only in a minor drain, where they'd have left her winded only weeks before. Even if that hadn't been the case, however, she'd still have scoured the path clean: if it could spare even one more soldier an end by deathroot or strangulation, then she'd bear the extra fatigue.

As they negotiated their way further and further into the Wilds with no sign of darkspawn but the trail of their passage, she found her mana reserves replenishing far too fast; the very air, under the pervasive smell of rot and pressed human bodies, vibrated with an undercurrent of raw Fade energies that made her fingertips hitch. Up and down the column, mabari whined and huffed. Her thoughts began to wander in a weird mix of helplessness and euphoria that just begged her to use her magic. Her consuming fires grew taller, hotter; her ice coats thicker, blanketing in a larger radius around the corpses.

Alistair eyed her in concern; Jory and Daveth, as well as many soldiers around them, started to give her a wider berth. Brosca didn't seem to notice or really care.

Then Theresa started to giggle.

"Oh crap," she chirped loudly, then brought a hand up to stifle another giggle, "I think the Veil is damaged around here."

Bethany swallowed; little relief came from giving the new development a name. Still, knowledge was power; for a mage, only more so.

"How bad is it?" She asked around the onset of a headache.

Theresa made a so-and-so gesture with her hand, snorting through her nose. "Heh, enough for a few shades, maaaybe? Those would be fun."

"Great. Perfect," Alistair grumbled. "Darkspawn, meet demons. Oh, so nice to know you. We'll have the best of time together."

"Don't worry, choir boy. The big bad mage is here to protect your purity from the big rapey demons."

It was Brosca who asked the inevitable question. For once, humor didn't touch his voice, leaving the laugh lines under his tattoos flat. Maybe it was the sudden paleness that overtook Jory and Daveth, who were the only other people within hearing range. The squelch of marching boots at leaned made sure their words didn't carry too far.

"Lay it on me. How bad are we speakin'?"

Bethany turned to Theresa, but her cousin was clutching at her sides, face red from trying to hold laughter in. Alistair's arched eyebrow spoke more than a hundred snide words.

"The Veil, the barrier between the waking world and the Fade, is weakened here. It usually happens in places where a lot of blood has been shed," she explained as simply as she could. "That means some demons could slip through and enter the waking world. If Theresa says it's damaged enough for shades, we could be dealing with possessed corpses and animals. And the shades, of course." 'Or this could be just the outskirts of the affected area.'

"We must tell Lord Cousland at once," Ser Jory said, "but - what's wrong with her?"

"Nothing's wrong with me!" Theresa declared, "I'm awesome!"

"I believe the words you're looking for are 'drunk with magic'," Alistair chuckled, then stopped Theresa from twirling her staff as she walked by putting a large hand on her shoulder. "Just, wow. I'd heard it was possible, but I thought the sergeant was just messing with us."

"Everyone reacts their own way," Bethany offered, eyeing her cousin with concern. She couldn't help but wonder. 'Is this why she was kicked out by the Seekers?'

Theresa disentangled herself from Alistair with wide, dramatic motions. With a flick of her finger, she levitated two nuts from a belt pocket and shattered the shells, all with a drunken smirk plastered on her face. As she chewed on the seeds, she pointed a finger at Alistair.

"Last warnin', choir boy! Keep your stinkin', lyrium-y paw-hands off me!"

Ser Jory shook his head in exasperation and started off, jogging up to the head of the formation. Brosca grabbed Theresa by the arm and led her out of the marching column despite her protests; Bethany, Daveth, and Alistair followed.

"This was fun, but like she's now, a nug's gonna floor her 'n' ask for a refund." Theresa tried to free herself, but the dwarf's grip was of stone. Unrelenting, she started to poke his face with a finger. Despite her headache, Bethany found her lips curling up on their own. Alistair was keeping a suspiciously blank face. "How do ya stop her?"

"To repair the Veil we'd need several mages or a lot of lyrium and I don't know -" Brosca gave her a look, while Theresa made boop sounds every time she poked the tip his nose. "Or a templar or another Spirit Mage to Cleanse her mana."

"Hey!" Theresa protested. "Don't touch my magic!"

"Well, I could do it, I guess," Alistair offered with the tone of someone volunteering to be drawn and quartered with those very words.

"Weren't you just a trainee?" Bethany asked, hating the sudden note of wariness in her voice.

"Oh, you remembered. Duncan got me out before they fed me the first bit of lyrium."

Bethany's brain stopped, then restarted on a heavy note of skepticism. "And you say you can Cleanse a mage's mana?"

"Cleanse, Smite, the full kit. Too bad for the spiffy armor," he said proudly, puffing his chest a little. Then he quickly added, "of course, you know, I'd never use it on you if you didn't ask or -"

"Yeah, that's bloody gallant and shit," Brosca snapped, grabbing Theresa's poking hand by the wrist. "Just make her stop!"

"But - I thought you liiiiiked me!"

Alistair hesitated. Bethany sighed, well aware of the attention locking on them as the tail end of the column approached. "Go on, I'll take the fall and stop her from crushing your squishy bits."

"Well, that's a relief. I'm rather fond of them."

It was like being dropped into a pond in the middle of winter, and that was only by standing nearby. In fact, surprise piled upon puzzlement as she underestimated the range and power of Alistair's Cleanse and ended up being marginally affected too. Her headache receded, as did the sneaking euphoria, leaving her feeling oddly empty. Theresa, hit by the brunt of it, went slack-faced and cross-eyed; her legs buckled, but Brosca kept her on her feet.

Lord Cousland's appearance with his retinue silenced Theresa's tirade and retribution before it could get started. Only then did Bethany notice that the column had stopped marching, and every single soldier was staring at them. She had an inkling Ser Jory had exaggerated some details of his brief report, because the noble's guards and knights held their hands on the pommels of their swords.

"I'm told there's a risk of demons and reanimated corpses in the area. Is that correct?" Bethany nodded. The noble didn't show any outward reaction; he just sized her up, then Theresa, who swayed once as she tried to stand on her own, before turning to Alistair. "There's a Chasind village up the bath, burned down and apparently empty. Your brothers alerted me that the darkspawn is strong in the area and went in to investigate with some of the locals guides. I need to know if it's safe enough for my men to cross through, or if we must walk the long way around it and if so, how far. Will you help?"

Alistair glanced at Brosca, who in turn looked at Theresa. When her cousin offered a thumbs up, the dwarf cleared his throat. "We'll go in, aye. Might take a wee while, though. Better set up a watch 'n' let your men rest while we're at it, milord: it's almost midday."

"Do as you must, Warden, but do it quickly," Cousland said, then glared up at the intertwined canopy and the leaden sky above. "I want to reach the outpost by sundown, before travel becomes impossible and we fall into an ambush. I'll leave some crossbowmen by the main path, in case you need assistance. Take care, Wardens."


A broken totem of blackened wood, bone, rope, and what might have been crow feathers once lay discarded against the demolished remains of a palisade. A single crow, the first untainted animal she'd laid eyes upon since entering the Wilds hours before, cawed and took flight, disappearing among the branches. The smell of smoke and blood still lingered on the destroyed village; it fouled the entire clearing, mixing with others that Bethany couldn't identify and one she was all too familiar with. Blight sickness.

It was the missing bits that set her teeth on edge, however. No stench decay. No buzzing flies. The air was still, positively throbbing with ambient magic. Even their steps of the muddy planks and scattered straw were muffled. Once the echo of the bird's farewell petered out, the silence was deafening.

Corbus, Torren, and the scouts were gathered ahead in the central glade around some wooden statue or sculpture; a number of the Chasind were kneeling around it, heads bowed in silent prayer. Bethany's eyes averted from that scene and fell on the bodies littering the village grounds; men, children and elderly, covered in soot and ashes where they were cut down as they fought or fled. Almost none were women. She bit down on her knuckles to choke a whimper but was unable to look away as she followed the others on a zigzagging path. There were dozens of corpses in the streets alone and the numbers only grew as they approached the village's center, but the bodies spared by the touch of the fire that had consumed nearly all of the wood and thatch houses remained disturbingly well preserved. The taint had killed everything the darkspawn didn't, even the flies and carrion trying to feed on the bodies.

Dead darkspawn dotted the village as well, half-burnt and horrifying even in death. Large numbers of them choked off part of the village square, torn to ribbons and squashed to a pulp. Bethany didn't dare set fire to any of them, despite her hitching hands and her naked fear of catching blight sickness. Her senses spoke to her of a fragile balance that reigned over the dead village, one she dreaded to upturn by conjuring magic. Theresa, her face a blank mask of indifference, nudged Brosca and dangled the crystal vial in a silent request. The dwarf shook his head.

"Blood's too old, lassie."

Bethany didn't know whether to envy or be worried for her cousin; at the moment, the entirety of her focus was relegated to keeping her breakfast down.

Alistair's grimace had the color of sickness. "No way in the Void anyone's marching through here anytime soon. What are those wilders thinking? Why did Corbus even allow them in?"

"The Chasind have certain rituals to prep the dead for burial," Daveth spoke up of all people, "but if any of the scouts are from this village, then they won't leave without first placating the leshy, or the spirit will haunt them and take their lives as payment." He swallowed at that, wiping sweat from his brow. "What?" He asked the four pairs of confused eyes and one sparkling settled on him. "I grew up some twenty miles to the north. Everybody knew the shaman here had a leshy, we just didn't speak of it with the templar hunters."

"The soddin' fuck's a leshy?" Brosca grumbled.

"A leshy? For real?!" Fatigue from the Cleanse washed off Theresa like the morning dew. "I've always wanted to see one!" Her enthusiasm petered off, snuffed out like a candle; she blinked and took a look around, as if really seeing the frozen massacre for the first time. "Oh, fuck me sideways."

The earth shook, cracking under their feet; the magic in the air screamed at her sixth sense as the facade of graveyard tranquility shattered. The air rippled, charged with energy, and demons clawed their way into the waking world through the holes in the Veil; black, oily shapes dripped into the material plane while faint whisps a lyrium blue outpaced each other to the nearest body, making no distinction between the living and the dead.

Theresa's anti-magic burst sent the closest demons reeling back from the party of Wardens and recruits just as sharp roots as thick as Bethany's leg burst out of the ground in the village center; the ethereal screech of repelled demons and the guttural growls of reanimating corpses were drowned by very human cries of agony. The lightly-armored Chasind dangled off the ground like broken puppets, impaled on the roots that seemed to be drinking their blood.

At the center of it stood a misshapen humanoid figure of scorched wood and chipped bone, faceless and silent as death incarnate, yet burning with unbridled hate and rage..

"Maker protect me! That's the leshy!" Daveth cried.

"Fuck it!" Brosca shouted back as more and more bodies shuffled and twitched into non-life. "Form up on me, just like we practiced! We're surrounded! Gotta get out of here!"

"No! We must destroy it now!" A couple of arcane bolts slammed into the nearest undead, tearing it to pieces. Theresa's hand twitched and the pale aura of force magic enveloped the warriors' steel. "Now that it's awake, it's acting like a bridge for the demons! The more it feeds, the more will come!"

Ser Jory roared and swung his two-handed sword in an arc, bisecting an undead Chasind from shoulder to navel; Brosca shattered a kneecap, then brought his hammer down, pulping the head of the crippled corpse; Daveth forwent his blades in favor of a poleaxe abandoned on the ground, thrusting and slashing from behind the bulwark of Alistair's shield. Ichor splashed on Bethany's face, shaking her out of her trance; all the weeks of training came back to her, containing the voice that just kept screaming and screaming in her head. A wall of fire manifested from thin air at her beseech, immolating more advancing undead.

"It's wood! I can take it down!"

"Then whatcha waitin' for, sparkle-feet?!"

The leshy trudged towards them with ponderous steps now, leaving most of the Chasind impaled behind him, propped up like sick sculptures, or blood sacrifices. The magic-enhanced blades tore into the undead all around her; a well-aimed fireball blasted a cluster of them to bits, but before she could turn her magic on the creature, Warden Torren emerged from the carnage of the square, swinging his double-edged axe. The blade thudded into the leshy's side, biting deep, but roots growing from the leshy's wound wrapped around the weapon. Torren had to let go of the stuck weapon, lest the tendrils grab him too; not a moment too soon, as razor-sharp claws sliced the air where his head had been a moment before. The appendages tore into the Warden's shoulder instead, slicing through metal and leather and drawing a cry of agony from the Warden. As he fell, a javelin struck the leshy square in the chest; the weapon skidded off, barely chipping the enchanted bone; the creature didn't even seem to notice.

Fear and mana pumped through her heart in equal measure; Bethany switched from fire to frost at the speed of thought. She slammed the butt of her staff to the ground and the air around the leshy crystallized into a gleaming white pillar that stopped the creature as it brought its arm down to finish the scampering Warden. Yet, even as she prepared the next spell, cracks splintered the ice's surface.

A couple of shades, hunched figures of boiling, hungry darkness, detonated violently to her left, torn apart by Theresa's spell; Brosca caved an undead's chest in to her right just as Alistair drove the sharp edge of his kite shield through another's face, before disemboweling it. Corbus darted out and grabbed the wounded Torren, half-dragging half-supporting him away from the now free leshy. Bethany's paralysis glyph barely slowed it down; it made its arm swipe a sluggish thing, but the roots that exploded her way up the village's path were no less lethal. She met them head on with fire so hot it burned nearly white, consuming everything on their path and spilling into the village square. When the flames dissipated, however, the leshy was gone.

The ground shook under he feet; Bethany turned this way and that, searching frantically. Then she was flying and her ears were full of screams and her own heartbeat.

The impact left her a breathless heap on the ash-covered ground, staring up at the unforgiving sky. Crossbows twanged and bolts hissed; a scream turned into a gurgle. As survival instinct urged her to stand and fight or die, she saw the leshy, somehow smack behind them, throw Daveth's leaking, bolt-riddled form away. He thumped to the ground with a puff of ashes and a spray of blood, then lay unmoving, staring right past her.

Bile and horror climbed up Bethany's throat but refused to turn into a scream. Undead hands closed around her head with the strength of a millstone, then slackened as she put an ice spike through the possessed skull. She scampered to her feet to see Lord Cousland's crossbowmen turn around and beat it, leaving behind the impaled corpses of half-a-dozen companions.

'Why won't it die?' Her firebolt only cracked and blackened wood, giving Brosca an opening to strike high directly at its hip to nearly no effect. 'Why won't it die?!'

"Theresa!"

"I'm trying!" She called back breathlessly. Alistair and Jory, grim-faced and shouting, dispatched the last of the undead in sight, leaving them free to support the harassed dwarf. A crushing prison of pure force magic formed around the leshy, to the only effect of restraining its movements. "Nothing works! I don't - Oh, fucking shit! The shaman that bound it has gotta still be around somewhere! Keep it occupied, I'll find the bastard!"

"No!" Brosca shouted over the din, "Alistair -"

The leshy broke free of the crushing prison. A vicious backhand sent Brosca; roots burst out of the ground in every direction, forcing both Alistair and Ser Jory into a hasty retreat or risk be skewered. More roots enveloped the leshy like a cocoon, and then it was gone.

"Look out!" Theresa warned, running up to Bethany. "It's moving through the ground!"

A tremor like a breath went through the earth right under her feet. When she turned around, the leshy, smoking and covered in the ashes of its own body, towered only a few, meager steps behind her, its saber-like fingers coiled to impale her.

Theresa's arcane shield and her own barrier withstood the first strike, but cracked and shattered on the second. Bethany dove to the ground, trying to encase it in ice again, only for the leshy to shrug off the spell before it even took hold of him.

Faced with imminent death, she did not expect the leshy to shudder and howl.

Theresa's next blast of pure kinetic force made it stumble.

"Now! It's vulnerable!"

Panic screamed into Bethany's ears and fire surged from the ground beneath its clawed feet, bathing the avatar in a column of blue-white flames. Panting in terror and euphoria, she coaxed her magic into making the flames swirl and turn, faster and faster; the whirlwind trapped the thing within, until it was just too bright and painful to look at.

When the flames abated, only blackened ground and a small pile of fine ashes remained.

Bethany dropped unceremoniously to the ground, gulping down lungfuls of air and coughing from the smoke and heat tickling her throat. The unnatural euphoria receded; with the destruction of the leshy, the gaps in the Veil shrunk, trapping the minor demons of rage and hunger on the other side once again.

The fall of loud, approaching boots shook her out of the daze; she looked up and accepted Alistair's hand with a grunt, then her head spun when the man lifted her to her feet too fast. All around them, the ruins of the village and its once-inhabitants lay still again, but the unnatural silence that almost stole their voices before had lifted.

Groans, curses, and assorted chatter rose from both within the village and at the edge, where Cousland's forces hung, curious and hesitant in the same breath. Bethany plodded up to where Ser Jory knelt by Daveth's side, steeling herself for what she already knew. The knight, his face covered in soot, grime, and ichor, gave her a meaningful, fearful look and shook his head.

Bethany swallowed, finding the knight's beleaguered visage and silent prejudice easier to bear. "Are you injured?"

"Nothing serious. You should see to Warden Torren and Brosca, I think?"

The last of her energies were expended mending Torren's shoulder and helping Brosca reabsorb a minor concussion. Despite feeling tired to her bones and numb, she found herself still surprised at the dwarf's resilience: she'd half-expected to be dealing with a cracked skull and maybe some internal bleeding, but he was back on his feet faster than her.

Lord Cousland approached them as the sorry procession filed out of the village, past the impaled crossbowmen, now lying in a messy heap. With the leshy's death, the roots had retreated into the ground.

The noble was visibly shaken, as was his retinue, but he held his own admirably, purporting strength for his men's sake.

"What manner of creature was that? Are there more?"

"Fuck no," Theresa breathed out. "As the late Daveth said it, that was a leshy. A powerful demon or spirit bound through some kind of ritual to a container and forced to serve as a sacred guard dog or some shit like that. Shares a bond with the shaman that created it, making it a bitch and a half to put down without killing the shaman first." She massaged her neck with a grimace. "Wish I had remembered that one sooner now."

"You're not the only one," Cousland agreed, casting a pained glance at his dead men. "I assume the whole area is off limits. We'll have to move around it, and now we've lost half our scouts." He regarded them with a burdened look. "How much time do you need to rest up?"

Bethany wanted to ask for a bed and a week of blissful oblivion. Brosca and Corbus exchanged a silent conversation, then the senior Warden said they'd be ready to go when Cousland's forced were ready, only to retire with Torren to speak of the Maker knew what. Bethany groaned aloud, a wordless echo to Theresa's grumbled, vivid curses.

"Who found the shaman, anyway?" she asked nobody in particular, too tired and filthy to care for formality even as her mana reserves replenished at a heady speed, drawing from the raw energy still saturating her every breath. She needed a bath to at least wipe the tainted ichor and dirt from her face, not to mention her hair, but had to make do with a spare shirt she then burned.

A passing soldier overheard her question and pointed towards Lord Cousland and his retinue. "It was that wilder over there, Warden," he said, bobbing his head and never quite looking her in the face, "the one speakin' with milord right now. Went in on his own and brained the maleficar; must be mad, or very brave."

She recognized her stalker in the man she was indicated. As she studied him, he took his leave from Lord Cousland; his head turned in her direction, but between the helmet and the cowl, she could only see his bearded jaw. With a nod, he vanished behind a wall of soldiers, then into the woods.

"That dipshit again?" Theresa said coming up from behind her, puffing her cheeks in annoyance. "First he follows you around like a lost puppy, now he steals my kill. Asshole."

"Steal your kill?"

"I'm the Mage Slayer here. It's a matter of professional pride." Theresa's hand found hers and gave it a squeeze. "You alright?"

"Not really." She contemplated elaborating, but she didn't really know where to even start, so she went with the first thing that crossed her mind. "You really wanted to see one of those things?"

"Yep," Theresa confirmed, popping her lips, "ever since once nearly wiped that fucking superiority complex from my teacher in the Seekers, and the rest of her with it. That one took down two Seekers and a whole bunch of templars before they got to the shaman, so I'd say we got off pretty well."

Her careless dismissal of over a dozen deaths and Daveth's, whom they'd known for weeks, stoked worry anew in Bethany's breast, but then it was time to move out.

Overhead, the caw of a crow echoed through the canopy.


AN: My sincere thanks to DmCrebel25, Aegon Blacksteel, Vampirelord101, lupusadaquilonem, and CMY187 (who transcends the boundaries of reviews and ascend to word-by-word commentaries nearly as long as my own chapters) for their reviews, feedback, and support.

A bit of a heads up: as some of you may already have guessed, while Bethany and Cormac (for now) will be the two main, parallel POVs, the chapters do no actually happen at the exact same moment in time; for example, Bethany arrived at Ostagar around the same time Fergus left Highever, which means that this chapter takes place around two weeks after the events of Cormac's previous one; the next Cormac chapter, however, won't "wait" two weeks, but rather happen not too long after where we left off last time. In a way, Cormac's POV will have to "catch up", time-wise, to Bethany, but as she'll still be in the Wilds on her next chapter, there won't be continuity issues.

Regarding the mention of Ferelden troops being heavy on pikes and crossbows, my reasoning is that Fereldan's army and combat doctrine would have been rebuilt (by Loghain, mostly) with a heavy anti-Orlesian focus, and we all know how much Orlais loves their Chevaliers.

Next up is Cormac again *the crowd jubilates*. Thank you for reading, don't forget to leave a review.