CHAPTER NINE: The Wilds
When we rise, the eastern horizon is still dark. Other than the occasional sentry, no one moves in the camp; other than the occasional gust of wind, our footsteps are the only sound. Orange coals glow in the army's braziers, and torches flicker here and there. These provide the only light, the clouds above so thick that they blot out not only the stars but the moons as well.
In this dim, flat silence, Ostagar seems even older than it did yesterday. Even more indifferent to the history that plays out over its ancient stones.
The soldiers at the Western gate, Garret Hawke among them, cast us pitying looks as we pass by.
So do the archers posted along the worn dirt track that leads to the cliff's upper edge. There's a local hunter among their number, a tall, broad man whose powerful arms are covered with scars. As soon as he understands our intent, he asks, bluntly, what we think we're doing, going out there with so small party.
"Warden business," Alistair says curtly.
The hunter doesn't reply. He just shrugs. But his eyes say we're dead already.
Our route down the cliff can't really be called a path. A recent landslide has shallowed the angle, leaving a slope of clay and gravel that is still dizzyingly steep. We'll have ropes for the first hundred or so feet, and then proceed on foot. The archers tell me that it's shallower there, but I can't see that far.
We walk backwards over the brink, holding tight to the ropes, and rappel almost straight down. It feels like this goes on for an age, but when the ground underfoot is solid enough to support my weight, I look up and find I can still see the archers' faces above. Soon after, we're able to walk without the ropes, and call out for them to be pulled back up.
As the ropes snake away and I turn to face the rest of the descent, I get a sick feeling in my gut. Loathe though I am to agree with Jory on, well, anything, I can't help wondering if he's right. Maybe it's just that I don't like heights, or maybe it's the darkness all around, or maybe it's just that I'm up too early and grumpy, but I can't shake the premonition that this is all hopelessly reckless.
Even if killing a darkspawn and draining its blood into a jar is somehow an integral part of becoming a true Warden, I simply cannot fathom the logic that compels Duncan to send us deep into the Wilds, searching for some long-forgotten treaties. What good will those treaties do if we're killed before we can return them? And why press so far from camp to search for the enemy, when they will surely come to us in battle soon enough?
But I trust Duncan, I tell myself. I suppose I trust the other Wardens, too. None of them seemed less than completely confident in the necessity of this mission; they responded with outright hostility to Jory's questioning, in fact. They are seasoned warriors to the last, and none struck me as fools. Not even Alistair, awkward though he is. So there must be some purpose, one I can't yet see.
I hope so, anyway. If I'm going to break my neck in this descent, or eat a darkspawn's blade while wandering in the Wilds, I'd like to believe it'll have been for more than some wild goose chase. I don't want to die without purpose. Not with Highever's blood still unanswered.
I recall the memory of Iona's whispered words. You will avenge me, vhenan. This, the Dread Wolf has promised me. Spoken by her spirit, beneath the statue of Fen'Harel himself. That cannot be meaningless.
So I focus on thoughts of Howe's neck under my knife, and I choose my steps carefully, and take advantage of boulders and saplings and exposed roots, and, sooner than I expect, we reach the bottom of the slope.
From here, looking back up, it doesn't seem so bad. Funny, the way your place determines your perception.
Alistair consults the map Duncan provided, then gestures that we should gather round.
"The good news is, there aren't any darkspawn nearby," he says. "And I don't plan to look for a fight, at least not until after we've found the archive and the treaties. If we trip over any on the way, so be it, but I'd rather not draw their attention. There's nothing like a few darkspawn to ruin a nice stroll through a lovely swamp. At least, that's what they always say." He looks each of us in the eye, as briefly as possible, before nodding decisively. "Let's be off!"
And off he goes, along a small footpath. He hasn't unslung his shield, nor drawn his sword. In fact, he looks for all the world like he is just out for a stroll.
I glance down at Madra. She, too, seems relaxed, and I trust her more than Alistair. Not enough to take any risks, though.
Working quickly, I uncork the bottle Clayne gave me and coax Madra into swallowing a few drops. She coughs twice, low and deep, and then shakes her head vigorously. When she finally settles, she fixes me with the mournful stare of a dog betrayed.
"It's for your own good," I protest.
She blinks once, slow and deliberate, to emphasize how disappointed she is in me.
While my hound continues to sulk, I switch my quiver to the edge of my hip for an easy draw. Then a quick pat-down of my various packs and pouches, making sure I didn't lose anything on the climb down. I check my short sword and boot knife, too, to be sure they will not bind in their sheaths.
Last, I unsling my new bow, a workmanlike ash recurve from the Warden's small stock. The grip is unfamiliar, the string coarse beneath my fingers as I test its draw. My old, familiar whitewood, passed down from my grandfather, felt like an extension of my body; this is stiff, requiring all my strength at the start of the draw before going almost slack when I pull the arrow to my ear.
Grimacing, I release the tension and select an arrow. As I draw once more, feeling the strange slackness in the line, I've got a sinking feeling. If this bow is as worthless as it feels, I'll be worthless, too.
Still, there's nothing for it but to try.
I take aim at a moss-covered stump maybe twenty yards away.
Breathe in, hold, release.
The arrow flies true, sinking into the bark with a satisfying thwack. It doesn't pierce quite as deep as I'd hope, but it'd be more than enough to down a man or deer. Or a darkspawn, I hope.
Satisfied, I sling the bow over my back again, hooking it onto the same straps as Father's longsword, and take off at a jog after the others, Madra chasing at my heels.
…
The forest begins a stone's throw of the cliff. It feels like we're entering a different world. These trees are unlike any I've ever seen, as ancient as they are enormous. Trunks as wide as silos rise higher than castle walls before the first branches reach out, gnarled and strong, supporting a blanket of darkness. Though sunrise is still an hour away, the darkness has an air of permanence, as though the forest itself brooks no change.
All around, gnarled bark and thick cloaks of moss speak of seasons weathered and ages endured. These trees were here before Ostagar was carved out by the Tevinter. Maybe before the Dread Wolf's statue was erected by the elves, I think. Certainly long before the problems of today. And they will stand long after memories of this Blight have faded, and my frail tragedies have been lost to the Fade.
This is a solemn place. Sobering, even. The others have noticed, too. For a long time after we enter, no one speaks. Even Madra is quiet.
The forest floor is grassy, the ground even and solid. There were patches of underbrush between the trees – berries, ferns, and the like – but nothing impassable. Fallen trees block our way now and then, but otherwise the path is clear.
As we press further, the air grows colder. Darker, too, although the sun ought to be rising. A fine mist hangs suspended in the dim light, a misty haze obscuring the canopy above and the path ahead. The fog, the silence, the cold - it all feeds a sense of mysticism.
When Daveth falls in step with me, he starts out in a whisper that's almost reverent: "Never been in this part of the Wilds. Where I'm from, it's all thickets and brambles. Nothing like this. Never seen nothing quite like this, honestly. Not in all my life."
"Wait. You've actually been in the Wilds before?"
"Told you that, I thought."
"Maybe. Probably. I remember you saying you grew up near Ostagar, but the rest…"
I let the thought trail off. I don't need to explain; Daveth's well aware of the haze I stumbled through after Highever fell.
"Used to scavenge there with pa, long time back. Back when I was knee-high to a dwarf. Scared me half to fuckin' death, being in those woods, what with all the stories we used to tell. But them woods were nothing compared to this. This…this is something else, isn't it?" He looks up, staring through dim light at the branches high above. "You could see legends walking in this place, you know?"
I do, but he's said it well enough that I've nothing to add beyond a nod.
"It an old place," he continues. "Or it's supposed to be, they say. Sure looks the part, eh? Supposed to be an odd place, too. 'Odd place to put an army.' Pa used to say that about the Ostagar. Stories say there's cannibals, and monsters, and witches. Now darkspawn, too?" He chuckles. "Well, what isn't to be scared of, right?"
Something tells me I ought to reply. It takes me a moment to settle on the words. "You watch my back," I offer, "and I'll watch yours."
Daveth grins. "Got yourself a deal. Maybe all we do is watch other's backs peeled off by some giant spider, but, sure, we can watch."
"Oh, stop it. You're being unbearably cheerful."
"Bit hard to be cheerful, place like this." He winks. "Try my best all the same, though, just for your sake. Gotta keep your courage up, right?"
"You have my eternal gratitude."
"Heh. Well, that's something. You are a noble, ain't you? Maybe you're gratitude's worth more than most."
"Not for much longer. I won't have a title once we're through with this Joining business."
"Damn. And me, planning to cash in once you got your little kingdom. Had visions of the high life. Mead and mutton and women…"
"Well, you seem to have the women well in hand, at least. Speaking of which, I owe you an apology. Until Alistair and I interrupted you yesterday, I was beginning to think you'd exaggerated your prowess with the fairer sex."
"Done what with the what now?" It takes a minute, but then he laughs. "Oh, girls! Right! Just caught me on a bad day, that's all. Getting with a Chantry sister is always a long shot, you know? Never have sealed that deal yet. As for the pretty one at the barricade – well, that was just bad luck, wasn't it? She'd have been the sort you remember til you take that last breath, I swear. You could tell just looking at her. Kind of woman you never forget."
For a moment, Iona's face flashes in my mind – her head back, eyes closed, body bare as she moves above me. I force myself to blink, banishing the images. The thought. The memory.
"Some things just aren't meant to be," I say.
"Ain't that the truth. Still, one door closes, they open the other. Or something like that, isn't it? Wonder how far you can get just on being a Warden. All tragic and heroic, you know? Might lift a few skirts, you play it right."
"Speaking of which – what'd you say, to that Templar, to get her to abandon her post? You must have a silver tongue indeed. Or did you just win her over with raw desperation?"
"Me, desperate?" He laughs again. "Well, alright, could've been I guess. Truth is, I don't know. But if I were that, then she were, too. Seen her on my way out, just sitting, there, not at no post, just whittling on a stick. Think she was looking for a distraction, and then, lucky for me, I just happened to come along."
"Lucky for you," I agree. "We didn't – ah – interrupt too early, did we?"
"Hah! No. Not for me. Poor girl, though, I don't think she got hers. I would've finished her off, if it weren't for you lot. I'm a gentleman, see, and you should never let a lady leave wanting. But when it comes down to it, between us two… well, I'm a bit of a selfish gentleman. Wartime brings that out in a fella, I guess. I got what I wanted, and I doubt I'll see her again, so… it ain't no bother for me, really."
"You got information, too. Thanks for that."
"Don't mention it. Hardly took any asking. She was ready to talk. All shook up about whatever them problems are, back at that Tower."
"Still, I appreciate it. Every piece helps the puzzle. I wasn't sure if you'd forgotten your promise – to be an extra set of eyes, I mean – when you ran off. But I shouldn't have doubted you. It was all part of the plan, get a girl and get information both at the same time. I see that now, and my hat's off to you, ser."
"Never seen you wear a hat," Daveth remarks. He looks down for a moment, almost sheepishly. "But, yeah, been meaning to say, sorry about that. Just…got a bit…I don't know the words for it, just…bothered, I'd say. That quiet fellow, I mean. Just bothered me."
"The Tranquil?"
"Yeah. Well, no. Not really. Not him, exactly. Bothered me what they done to him."
"I wondered. You seemed… shaken up, I guess."
"Thought of doing that to some bloke…" He shakes his head. "Fucked up, that is. No other way to say it. Fucked up to do that to anyone."
I press my lips together, not sure how to respond. Not sure if I ought to. A tangle of roots obstructs the path ahead, each one at least knee-high and several feet across. Climbing between them is a welcome distraction, especially since I have to coax Madra. Her barreled chest and muscular legs were made for leaping, not scrabbling over old bark, and watching her strain and tumble is almost comical.
By the time we're past, I've almost forgotten the Tranquil, but Daveth hasn't.
"You don't think it's fucked?" he asks.
I shrug uncomfortably, watching him from the corner of my eye. "It was…unsettling, I guess." Even that, honestly, is a stretch, but I'm trying to mollify, not argue. Then I remember the moment that passed between Aenid and Wynne, and I add, more honestly, "I guess it seemed sad, too."
"That all?"
Reluctantly, I nod. "I've seen what mages can do. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd never have believed how dangerous they are. The one in the castle – it tore through guards like they were nothing. I've ever seen anything like that. Highever – you know, Highever never would've fallen if Howe didn't have those bastards on his side. So, if there's a solution – a way to deal with mages, with the ones that go bad – then I suppose I'm glad to know it."
"How dangerous they are?" he says slowly, repeating my earlier words. "Dangerous, sure, I'll give you that. They are. But yanking the feelings out of someone? Just because they're dangerous? Whatever that thing was, it weren't no man. Not really. Not all the way. Not no longer."
"Right, but… it's got to be better than just killing them, though, don't you think?"
"No!" Daveth's vehemence startles me. "Fuck no! It's worse, and that's why – what you just said, that's why it's worse! It's easier to say to yourself, 'Well, it ain't killing him, is it?' You yank a man's soul out, but at least you didn't kill him, right?" He shakes his head. "Mage goes bad, you kill him. Like you did the one at Highever, right? That's life. But not…not that."
"So… you're saying it would've been better to kill Aenid than make him Tranquil?"
"Same damn thing, isn't it? Better dead than have your soul yanked out just cause some priest decides you're dangerous."
"I'm sure there's more to the decision than just a priest's whim. We don't know what Aenid did, but he told me himself he's safer now that he's –"
"And how in fuck all would he fucking know? He's not himself no more, that's clear as glass the minute he says a bloody word! And safe? The fuck does that mean, safe? Safe's nothing if you've got no life to live."
It's the first time I've seen him this way – this angry – and it's caught me off guard.
"All I meant," I say carefully, "is it sounds like there's a method to it. It wouldn't be done just in case a mage might become dangerous. The Chantry would never stand for that. So the Templars must only be allowed to use it when they know a mage is actually a danger. Aenid said so himself, and so did the other mage, Wynne, the one that came out after you left."
The cords on Daveth's neck are standing out as he continues to shake his head. I'm not getting through, not at all.
I spread my hands wide, placating. "All I'm saying is that if the Templars think it's necessary, I'm not going to second guess them."
His jaw works several times before replying, calmer than I expect. "You're just saying that cause you don't know no better. That's all."
Now my temper is pricked. I'm not about to be talked down to, or dismissed. But I bite my tongue, force myself into silence for several paces. Once I'm calm again, I ask what he means.
"Look, you – it's not your fault, not really," he says. "You're from good people, you know? Your family I mean. People who used their power the right ways. So you haven't seen what it really is. You never seen how it gets used the rest of the time. On the rest of us. And if a Templar can say to himself, 'Oh, it's not killing him,' then it's that much easier to do. It's cowardly, is what it is. If a man needs to die, all right, I can see that. But fucking own up to it! I seen beggars with their whole hands cut off, cause some noble caught 'em stealing and thought just cutting off a hand was some kind of fucking mercy."
His words come in a staccato rhythm, a stream of bitterness and venom so concentrated that I'm genuinely speechless.
"Seen children whipped for not looking down at the ground when some fucking exalted so-and-so walked by. Seen girls given gold, after they was dragged off, kicking and screaming, so some little lordling could have his way, like the gold makes it all right, and then Maker save them if they have a child and come asking for more, to put food in its mouth. Seen girls and their babies just disappear, so some fucking bloodline ain't sullied."
Daveth spits.
"Fucking cowards, that's all it is. Like I said, it's not on you. Your family, I told you before, even in Denerim people said they was good folks. But it ain't that way, not everywhere. Not most places. Most places, the people with the power piss on the rest of us, and call it charity. Like making that man a Tranquil and thinking it's mercy. Bullshit, that's all it is."
All I can do is nod. I've got no reply. No idea whether the picture he's painted is truth, or bitterness, or some combination of the two.
Maybe the rage and sadness I've just witnessed were always brimming beneath Daveth's ribald humor, and I missed them, blinded by my own pain. Or maybe I wouldn't have seen them in any case, not without Daveth rubbing this in my face. Maybe it's best he did, if only so I can understand him a little better.
After a few minutes, I clear my throat. It's an olive branch, one Daveth accepts with a sheepish smile.
"Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to rip your head off like that. Like I say, you're from good people. Not your fault you ain't seen the worst. Just… guess I just wanted you to know what's out here, really. Reckon I got a bit carried away, is all."
"It's all right. I never – I never knew things were like that. And, I don't want to beat a dead horse, but I just want to be sure I understand – what you're saying is, you're worried that making a mage Tranquil would be too easy to abuse, because it might be easier to justify than killing them outright?"
"Aye, that's what I said, isn't it? Seems to me, the easy way's the evilest of all sometimes. Heard that in a sermon once, I think. Took a long time for me to see truth in it, but I do now."
…
About an hour into the Wilds, we come across the first swamp. Alistair pauses to consult his map, then leads us around its edge. Bugs swarm over algae colonies and clusters of lily pads, and the air is choked with the smell of fetid water.
There are oddly-shaped rock outcroppings at the center of the bog. Their dark shapes, too angular to be natural, protrude from the mist in regular intervals that suggest a ruin of some sort. Maybe an old bridge. Alistair pauses, studying them for a moment, before we continue.
We're just reaching the far end of the bog when I hear a splash behind us, and Madra growls. We all spin, drawing weapons. Whatever it was, it's already gone, leaving only a wide ring of ripples. We watch the water move until it is almost still again, and then turn away slowly. Our weapons stay out for some time.
…
There are more swamps after the first, many more, until at times we have to walk single file, threading our way along narrow strips of dry land.
Madra stays close by, passing the time by growling at random tree trunks. This scares me half-senseless at first. Even after the fifth or sixth time, when no monsters or enemies have sprung out with talons bared, and when I still can't pick out any difference between the trees she growls at and the ones she doesn't, it's hard not be unsettled.
Alistair consults the map often, requiring us to stop each time. At first, I'm curious how he's able to navigate without compass or any obvious landmarks. Then I realize he's relying on more of the stones we saw in the first bog. They aren't ruins – they're landmarks, and we turn a bit further south every time we glimpse one in the distance.
At last, we come closer, passing within maybe ten yards of one of the landmarks. The stone is polished with age, but there are markings on its side, faded but still visible. It is a script I don't recognize, along with a shape that might be a stylized eye turned on its side. Between the lichen and the darkness, it's hard to tell. And it is still dark, I note. There's been no sign of daybreak.
No sooner has this thought crossed my mind than sunlight appears, far ahead, filtering down through the distant canopy, each ray so distinct as to be tangible. It is more the color of a cloudy afternoon than the brightness of a sunrise; after so great an expanse of shadow, however, the impact is powerful.
None of us speak, but I know we're each relieved when Alistair turns that way, leading us toward the light.
…
Reaching it takes longer than I expect. And when we finally do, we find it completely impassable. I'd assumed the break in the canopy might be caused by a clearing, or perhaps a swamp large and deep enough to choke back the forest.
Instead, we find a swath of shattered trees. There are dozens, maybe hundreds. I can't begin to count them all. They're toppled in every direction, jumbled over and under each other. Some have been ripped up by the roots, leaving gouges in the earth that have filled with rainwater; others have been snapped off, leaving fractured trunks that rise dozens or hundreds of feet before ending in jagged splinters.
Beside me, Jory whispers a benediction.
"Blimey," Daveth says.
There is no order to the destruction before us. This wasn't caused by a fire, or a storm, or a flood, or any other disaster I can bring to mind. More than anything else, this recalls a field, trampled by a frenzied animal. What animal, though, could wreak such havoc?
It's childish, I know, but I can't help thinking of dragons.
They're said to be all but extinct. Even in the distant past, before their kind began to fade, dragons were never particularly plentiful in Ferelden. Brother Aldous liked to joke that they must not have liked our flavor; as a child, I always wondered why, if that were true, all the other monsters in the tales didn't seem to mind. The High Dragon whose rampage preceded the Battle of the River Dane was the first to venture south of the Waking Sea in centuries – and, to my knowledge, none have been seen since, despite the naming of our present age.
What other explanation there could be, however, I have no idea. Giants, maybe? I seem to recall that they prefer warmer climates, but I could be remembering that the wrong way.
Then, suddenly, the realization washes over me. There is a dragon that could have done this. One with a reason to be here, in these Wilds.
The Archdemon.
…
I don't share my theory with the others. I'm not sure why.
There's the chance I'm wrong, of course. Alistair might know, if I cared to ask him. But I don't, because it doesn't matter. It really doesn't.
If the Archdemon was in that clearing, then it was weeks ago, and of no consequence to us, at least until the battle. If, on the other hand, it is still nearby, and Alistair hasn't sensed it yet, then we're already dead.
And if it was never here, then I'll just sound like a fool.
That's what I tell myself anyway. The fear, though, won't leave. It settles in my stomach, twisting into painful knots. Though it's still cold, I'm drenched in sweat.
…
The going is harder now. We have to wade sometimes, choosing the shallowest route through muddy bogs. Even when the path is dry, it's choked with vines and brambles. The earlier silence has been replaced constant hum of bugs, crickets, and frogs. And still there is no sign of the Warden outpost.
When I ask, Alistair says we should be there within the hour. Or within a few hours. He equivocates hopelessly, mixing in a few jokes at his own expense. None of it inspires confidence.
Still no sign of any darkspawn, either. Alistair says they're "not near, but not far, either."
Whatever the hell that means.
…
A few miles past the clearing, we the path crosses a stream, and Alistair calls for a halt. The water runs fast and clear, down the side of a rocky slope. Though it feeds into the endless bogs, here it looks safe enough to drink. A stroke of luck, too, as my waterskin is almost empty. Even if I weren't thirsty, though, I'd be grateful for the rest.
After so many days in the saddle, I'm unused to walking, let alone in these conditions. My feet are soaked, my boots caked with mud. As I kneel down in the soft gravel at the stream's edge, my legs shake, and standing again takes effort
Groaning, I stumble over to a moss-covered boulder and sit, massaging stiff muscles. Madra nuzzles my knee, water still dripping from her lips. Her attention reminds me of Clayne's medicine, and the flowers I'm meant to find. I lean forward, studying the area around the stream. There are none, of course. No, that'd be too easy. Much too easy.
I lean back again, my fingers brushing over Madra's ears.
A few paces away, Daveth yells. There's a spray of water and a splash, followed by cursing.
The rest of us leap up, ready for a fight – but before we've even drawn weapons, it's clear there's no threat. Daveth was startled, not attacked. He's on his knees now, pushing reeds back to reveal… something at the water's edge.
"All right. I'm all right," he says, waving us off.
He's found a large bundle of mud-caked beige cloth, half-submerged in the creek. I have to squint to recognize it as a human body.
"Lucky stroke he's downstream a bit." Daveth is grinning. "Poor fucker's been in the drink a while now. He'd of poisoned us, likely as not."
Quite nonchalantly, Daveth begins to check the corpse's pockets. With a grimace, he rolls the body, exposing a leather rucksack and a deep stomach wound. He gags, turns away, then gags again.
Once he's regained his composure, Daveth unbuttons the rucksack and spills its contents out on the ground. There's molded food, a canteen, a few utensils, some clothing – all the things you'd expect – along with a small, felt-covered lockbox, a bundle of letters bound with twine, and a small coin purse.
Immediately and shamelessly, Daveth pours the coins into his palm, counting them. Behind me, Jory makes a strangled noise.
"What?" Daveth asks, without looking up. "Not like he needs them anymore."
Ignoring the post-mortem larceny, Alistair picks up the letters and slips them free of the twine.
Jory throws up his hands and stalks several paces away, where he proceeds to breath heavily through his nostrils. Perhaps it's a bit dramatic, as reactions go, but I can't argue with the disgust. The dead are no less deserving of respect than the living; they may even deserve more. What I'm watching doesn't look so much like theft as desecration, and I can't decide whether I'm more bothered by Daveth's greed or Alistair's nonintervention.
"His name is Jogby, I think" Alistair says after a moment. "He's a missionary. Well, he was a missionary. He was here to spread the Chant to the local tribes."
"Then he was a bloody fool," Daveth says. "Barbarians got their own gods. Probably them that killed him, for trying to change their minds."
"I don't think so… The letters are mostly from his father, a fellow called Rigby. He was already established, preaching to one of the clans, and Jogby here was coming to meet him. But… it sounds like the Wilders left. He says they heard from another tribe that there were monsters coming from the south."
"Well, we know what that's about, don't we?" Daveth stands and dusts off his breeches. "If it weren't barbarians, it was darkspawn. There now, we've solved the mystery of the dead preacher."
"He wrote a will," Alistair says, still focused on the letters. "Jogby did, I mean. By the sounds of it, he knew he was going to die. It says to …says he wants that lockbox taken to his wife in Redcliffe. Her name's Jetta."
Daveth barks a laugh. "Well that's bloody hopeful, isn't it? Who's going to find your body out here?"
"We did," Jory remarks, turning and fixing Daveth with a stare that would curdle milk.
"Fair point." Daveth turns the lockbox over in his hands. "How do you suppose you unlock this little beauty?"
Alistair shakes his head. "We don't. It says here he wants it delivered to Jetta, still sealed."
"So? You're not thinking of trying to find her, are you?" Daveth chuckles, then looks up when he realizes that no one else is laughing. "Oh, for fuck's sakes. You are, aren't you?"
"Why not?" Alistair holds out his hand expectantly
"It is the only decent thing to do," Jory says firmly.
"Decent…" Daveth shakes his head incredulously, then tosses the locker to Alistair. "No skin off my nose, I guess. Bloody waste, though you ask me…" He returns his attention to the rucksack, still grumbling.
Alistair pockets the lockbox, then shuffles through Jogby's papers. "This one's torn from a book. There's a note here that says Jogby found this at some ruin nearby, near some skeletons. It's about…" Alistair frowns. "About how to summon a spirit called Gazareth, using a pinch of ashes."
Grimacing, Alistair hurriedly refolds the papers. "No good can come of that!" he exclaims. "Start sprinkling ashes for demons and, whoops, shazam! You're a frog!"
Again with the frogs. I'm about to remark on it –
Suddenly, and with a loud, deep-throated growl, Madra leaps to her feet. She lunges into the middle of the creek, barking furiously. Her lips pull back from her teeth, and every muscle in her body tenses as she lowers her body until her belly is below the water.
We move almost as quickly as she does, drawing weapons and closing ranks. Even if I hadn't seen this before, in the moments immediately before Howe's men crashed into my bedchambers, there's no misunderstanding Madra. She's not unsettled, not just growling at trees. She's ready for a fight.
And not a second too soon. The attack comes so quickly, you could miss it in a blink. They don't come from across the stream, the direction Madra is focused, but from our flanks. A blur of grey fur and bared teeth at the corner of my vision. Not darkspawn. Not giants or dragons.
Wolves.
Before I can begin to pivot, one has already hit me. The arrow I'd knocked goes wide as I tumble to the ground. The beast would've had my throat if it weren't for Jory, who has smashed it away with his shield.
He's still on his feet, sword flashing. A wolf yelps like a wounded puppy, blood spraying.
"Back to back! Back to back!" Jory is bellowing the command. He's retreating toward Alistair, blood on his sword, shield up.
Daveth's still on his feet, long knives in each hand. The three of them are shoulder to shoulder, standing over me as I scramble to my feet, drawing another arrow. Madra is at my side, thank the Maker, her weight pressed against my boots, her growl drowned by the howling of the wolves.
The one Jory cut is slinking away; another lies dead, where Alistair stood moments ago.
The rest of the pack is not deterred. There are at least a dozen, circling patiently. They watch us with fierce, yellow eyes, and moving in careful patterns that offer no avenue for escape or attack.
They're waiting for us to move, and we're waiting for them. All of us, waiting for action or opportunity.
There were wolf packs in the forests near Highever, I recall. Sometimes they would trouble local farmers. Fergus was particularly fond of hunting them, and of the thick, silver-grey pelts he could mount on walls and corridors throughout the castle. There was a certain scrappy dignity about them that even Fergus respected, and I saw the same. I used to feel rather solemn whenever we made a kill.
These wolves are nothing like those I remember. They were barely larger than a Mabari; these are easily twice Madra's size, with ink-black hair growing coarse and matted around the shoulders, and wiry and sparse over the rest of the bodies.
I'm just drawing an arrow back, lining up a shot, starting to draw my breath in.
One lunges, snapping. Alistair raises his shield, jabs with his sword. The wolf draws back immediately, never coming within range, and Alistair is thrown off balance. He stumbles forward, almost losing his footing, but Daveth reaches out and catches his belt.
At almost the same time, a wolf on the opposite side of the pack lunges, taking advantage of our distraction. Jory bats it to the ground, then skewers it with his sword.
Before he has finished with his thrust, however, another is lunging, snapping and growling, threatening his legs. He pivots, wrenching his sword free, and drives the beast back with a wide slash. Even as that wolf slinks back, though, another darts in from behind.
I'm already tracking this wolf with the point of my arrow. As Jory begins to spin, I release the bowstring. No time for a full draw. Not time for proper breathing. Hardly even time to aim. Even so, the arrows flies true, sinks between two ribs.
It's a fatal wound, puncturing both lungs, but not immediately fatal. The wolf smashes into the dirt at Jory's feet, thrashing and growling in pain, forcing the knight to jump back, away from the safety of our party. The rest of the pack shifts immediately, circling around, meaning to cut him off from our help.
As I'm drawing my next arrow, I whistle once and gesture with three of the fingers on my bow-hand.
Madra reacts immediately, springing to Jory's side. She ducks below one of the wolves, then raises her head, jaws open, tearing into its belly. It yelps and drops on top of her, trying to twist inward, to bite back, but she's already got the advantage. She's locked onto its throat. They pinwheel away, a mess of fur and blood and teeth. It might look like there's still a fight, but I know better. The moment Madra got at its belly, she won.
Skipping away from the dogfight, Jory is still on his feet. He kills another, opening its neck to the bone as it snaps at his boots. He's in constant motion; every wolf that comes close earns a cut or a strike.
Just like Madra's fight, though, this battle is already over – no matter his skill, Jory cannot keep them all back, not for much longer. Not without help. And with the bulk of the pack now between us, there's no chance we can reach the knight in time. The best I can do is try to buy him opportunities, and hope it's enough.
I send another arrow at a wolf that's circled behind Jory. This time, my shot isn't blessed by luck. The arrowhead barely pierces flesh, sticking into the meat and bone of the wolf's shoulder. It winces, but barely slows. Its haunches tense and it begins to rise, coming up toward Jory's back.
I don't want to watch.
Something hums past my ear, a blur of motion. One of Daveth's daggers.
It sinks into the neck of the same wolf, just inches ahead of my arrow, but to greater effect. Blood arcs, splashing Jory's back, and wolf spasms in mid-air before crashing to the ground.
Madra is back up now, blood on her muzzle, light in her eyes. She twines between Jory's legs, snapping at any that make it past his guard. She's defending him, but I know she's also guiding him back toward us, using subtle movements to guide his footwork so he can focus on the enemy. She and I have worked these drills a thousand times; Jory, too, has clearly trained with war dogs. He surrenders control of his position, trusting Madra, and together they part the circling wolves.
We push forward too, Alistair and Daveth doing the bulk of the work as I'm forced to swing my bow like a common staff, rarely having enough time to draw arrows.
And then we're back together, the four of us and Madra, at the center of the circling pack.
Now the wolves are cautious. A few are injured, and many more are dead at our feet. None of those left seem eager to rush in first.
Next to me, Jory begins to yell. "Drive them back! Drive them back!"
He smashes his sword's pommel against the face of his shield, then roars a battle cry. Alistair begins to mimic him, and then Daveth and I join in the yelling.
I'm not sure what we're thinking. Maybe enough noise will intimidate them?
I kill two more wolves with arrows before the survivors charge – all of them rushing in at once. I try to line up a shot, but they're too quick. For the second time in maybe a minute, Jory's shield saves my life, smashing away a pair of snapping jaws.
An instant later, though, another makes it past. I don't see it, only feel the pressure on my boots, something yanking at me from behind. I tumble to the ground, kicking blindly. My foot connects with something solid. A wolf yips, and the pressure releases.
There's no time for relief. Not even time to check my ankle for injuries. They're all around me, right at eye-level, teeth bared, twisting and snarling, held back only feet away by my desperate allies.
They should have overwhelmed us already. They nearly took us apart earlier, when they came one at a time. The whole pack, working in tandem – we shouldn't stand a chance.
But that's just it. They're fighting more like cornered animals and less like a pack. As I push myself up, drawing my short sword as I rise, I can clearly see a wolf's eyes. They're frighteningly blank, missing all the intelligence I'd expect. There's only anger. Anger, and panic, but no hunger, and no fear.
For an instant, I'm reminded of the rats in Highever's store room, dozens of them rushing at Aeron and I in one furious wave, oblivious to anything but bloodlust.
Then I'm on my knees, sword in hand. Daveth stands almost directly above me, slashing wildly.
One of the wolves slips in under Daveth's pin-wheeling blades and comes at me, but I open a wide gash on its nose. It yelps and rolls away, then sprints into the underbrush, abandoning the fight.
I seize the opportunity and jump the rest of the way to my feet.
Instead, I see only one wolf still on its feet, limping away. Madra, who has just savaged the throat of another, moves to follow, but I whistle twice, signaling her back.
Reluctantly, she obeys and returns to my heel. Her coat is slick with blood, almost none of it her own. She pants happily, tongue lolling out, and regards me with something bordering on adoration.
"The fuck was that about?" Daveth gasps.
He's panting too, with considerably less enthusiasm than Madra.
I look around the muddied dirt and trampled ferns. I count at least ten wolves, dead or dying.
Beside me, Ser Jory flicks blood from his blade. "I've never known wolves to behave in such a fashion." He wipes the sword clean with a rag, checks the length of the blade, and sheathes it. The whole while, he's shaking his head. "I would call them crazed, rabid even. It may have saved our lives, and yet it strikes me as an ill omen."
Though I'm hardly an expert, I find myself nodding. They hunted as a pack at first, but it only took only a few casualties before they seemed to lose their minds.
Alistair has dropped to one knee beside the most gravely injured of the wolves. It tries to twist toward him, giving a feeble snap, but doesn't have the strength. I expect Alistair is going to put it out of its misery, but instead he removes a glove and places his bare hand against the wolf's flank.
I watch in silence, massaging my boot where the wolf grabbed my ankle. It didn't break leather, let alone skin. Lucky again. My bow, laying nearby, is also miraculously unbroken. Relying on feel alone, I check it for cracks, for the slightest sign of imperfection. I don't know it nearly as well my old bow, but I can find no flaw.
After almost a full minute with his hand on the wolf's side, Alistair nods, seeming to have confirmed something for himself. He sighs heavily, then rises and runs the beast through.
"You weren't far off, Jory," he says. "They're Blighted. Well, this one was, anyhow. And I'd wager the rest of the pack was, too."
"Blighted?" Daveth leaps back from the nearest corpses. His terror might seem comical if he weren't my friend, and we hadn't nearly died a minute ago. "Fucking darkspawn wolves?"
"Didn't you take any notice of Commander Duncan's training?" Jory asks, though I think I hear a bit of a tremor in his voice as well. "The Blight spreads to all living things, even animals. Are they ghouls, then, Ser Alistair?"
"For the millionth time, it's just Alistair," says Alistair, sighing. "And, no, they're not ghouls, but they're well on the way. The Taint has – well, had – taken hold in this one. I'm sure it spread to the rest of the pack."
"So this really is a Blight," Jory says heavily. "Duncan said the land itself would become infected."
"Yes, for the last time, this is a Blight! Has that ever been in doubt?" Alistair is starting to sound cross. "Or did you sign up hoping this was all just a misunderstanding? That we'd get down here and someone would say, 'Oops! Turns out they were just some hideous old women who got drunk and ran around with pruning shears, everyone can go home now.' We've told you this was a Blight since Caer Oswin! What did you expect?"
Jory looks down at his shoes, his face mottled red.
For my part, I can't help noting how pale Alistair's has become. Even in the dim light, it's obvious his cheeks have drained of color. The anger in his voice is nowhere to be found in his eyes, nor in his expression. He's shaken, though not, I think, because of the wolves or the Blight.
With some effort, Alistair takes in a long, steady breath. In a softer tone, almost conciliatory, he says, "I'm no expert, but if the land itself was truly Blighted, we'd be able to tell. There are other ways the wolves could've been infected." He cracks a nervous grin. "Most likely, they ate a darkspawn or two, got indigestion. I've heard you have to cook the buggers all the way through, get 'em really well done, before you eat them. Lots of garlic, too. But I doubt anyone told the wolves that."
Daveth chuckles, and even Jory smiles begrudgingly.
Alistair nods once, seeming pleased with himself. A bit of confidence returns. "We should get moving," he says, hefting his pack from the ground.
"Wait up a minute," Daveth says, like he's working something out. "Hold up now. They've got that Blight, you said. They're not darkspawn, but it's the same Blight, right?"
"I… suppose."
"Right then." Daveth takes a hesitant step toward one of the corpses. "So… so, then, would their blood do for us? For this Joining business, I mean?"
Jory starts to nod, and I can't deny surge of hope, myself. This expedition feels more ill-fated by the hour. I wouldn't mind cutting it short.
"Uh, no." Alistair rubs his jaw. "Well…" He's silent for a few moments, then shakes his head. "No, no, it wouldn't be the same."
"Well, fuck," Daveth says, which, I think, just about sums it up.
Alistair clears his throat like he's about to say something, but nothing follows. After a few seconds of silence, he shrugs the rest of the way into his pack and walks off down the trail.
He's out of his depth, I decide. But there's nothing I can do to help. It's not as though I have any more experience leading men, and I'm certainly not against a Blight. All the same, I wish I could do something to help the younger man. We need leadership.
But all I can think to do is hoist my pack over my shoulder and whistle for Madra to follow, so that's what I do. Leaving Jogby's body in the creek, and the blighted wolves where they fell, we push on, unease growing with every step.
…
…
…
CODEX: JOGBY'S LETTERS
The following letters were found on the body of the missionary Jogby, in the Korcari Wilds, in 9:30 Dragon.
My Dearest Son,
It pleases me that you wish to follow in my footsteps and bring the Maker's word to the unenlightened. I wish you had chosen a less dangerous place to do so, but in this way, it seems, you and are I too much alike.
I must apologize for leaving early for the Wilds, my son. I wanted to set up camp and get things started, so that once you arrived, we could begin our ministry together. I reasoned this would give you time to see your sweet wife back to health after the birth of my grandchild. When we see each other, I hope to hear all about our newest family member.
The Chasind respect those with the skills to survive in the Wild. I hope, by the time you arrive, to have proved to them my mettle; I have already met some of the local tribesmen, and though they are cautious, they seem friendly enough. Once they realized I was not seeking their protection, and could fend for myself, at least for the time being, they proved willing to trade a few items with me. I think they are still skeptical of my skills, but a few more weeks here and I shall have proved myself worth their time.
When you reach the Wilds, you'll find it difficult to navigate. There are old ruins that can be used as landmarks, though calling them ruins is generous. They are distinguishable only as old stones, almost like highway markers. I've enclosed a crude map, which also shows a number of natural terrain features.
I've left supplies near a clearing that appears to have been made by a most frightful creature. It brings to mind tales of giants. Once you find the supplies, camp a few days there; that will be our meeting point.
I love you, Jogby, and am proud of the man you have become. I hope to see you soon.
Your Father,
Rigby
The first letter is folded neatly, and sealed within an envelope.
The second is smudged with dirt, and appears to have been nailed to a tree at some point, before being torn down.
Jogby,
If you are reading this, you have found the camp and supplies. I will be with you in a few days, no more than a week. The Chasind seem to have disappeared. They left markings on their chieftan's hut, which I believe are intended for me, though I cannot decipher the meaning. They seem to have traveled north, though I cannot be sure how far.
When last I saw them, they told me that another tribe had passed by, also going north. That tribe claimed there were monsters deeper in the Wilds. What they described sounded like the scriptures about darkspawn, though what they'd be doing in the Wilds, I can't guess.
I was making progress with the tribe, so I'm going to try to follow their trail for a few days. If I can catch up to them, I hope to sing to them from the Chant at least one more time. Perhaps they will see the Maker's light before continuing on their journey.
In case there is credence to their fears, I've left a weapon with the supplies – and the supplies are everything I could spare. If more than a week passes, or the supplies run low, you should return to Redcliffe. I'll hope to meet you, whether here or there, in safety.
If you see your mother before I do, or if the worst should happen, be sure that everyone knows how much I love them.
Hopefully we'll see each other soon. Do be careful.
Your father,
Rigby
There are no more letters from the missionary Rigby. However, there are several notes in another hand, most likely Jogby's. The first is written carefully on parchment, and was sealed with wax before Alistair broke the seal.
To Whoever Finds This Note:
This is the last Will and Testament of the Missionary Rigby, son of the Missionary Jogby, proud speaker of the Maker's word. I have come to the Wilds to speak the Chant to the Chasind, following in my father's footsteps. Instead, I have found only monsters. I believe they are darkspawn, and I escaped them only by the Maker's grace, but they have wounded me gravely. I fear I will die of my injuries, if they do not find me first.
I leave all that I came with to my wife, Jetta. Should the reader of this note feel charitable, I would ask that they deliver whatever possessions, if any, remain, to Jetta, who lives in Redcliffe, near the Chantry. There is a small lockbox in my pack, and it is my wish that this be delivered to Jetta, still sealed.
To my wife and newborn son, I apologize that my work has taken me from you. Please know that I died in the service of the Maker, and that you were His greatest gifts to me.
Another note, scrawled by the same hand but with considerably less finesse, is folded alongside the torn page of a book. Someone else – not Rigby – has written in the books margins. The note reads:
Found this in the ruins near where I believe father camped. Was next to a pile of bones, probably two men, dead for years. No explanation for how the paper survived so long, if it belonged to the men at all. The place gave me chills, left immediately. Something was wrong there. Profane. Turn this over to the Templars if I make it back.
The torn page, printed in dark ink, reads as follows:
rife with legends and myths that have amazed and confounded scholars since the fall of Ostagar in ancient times.
One such mystery lies behind the tale of Astia and Nebbunar, two young lovers who lived in Ostagar during the height of Tevinter's power.
The legend says that Astia, who possessed magical abilities, grew up in the company of Gazareth, a spirit of the earth bound to a ruin on a bluff beside a lake in the Korcari Wilds. Gazareth began to fancy her, and they spent many days together, talking and laughing. Gazareth taught Astia many secrets of magic, and she brought him joy. Over the years, however, Astia became a woman, and she began to seek the company of men.
When Astia met Nebbunar, the two fell immediately in love. Astia hoped to bring her lover to see her spirit friend. But Gazareth, angered and jealous, bade her begone. Gazareth told her that she would never see him again until she brought her lover's ashes to his ruin and sprinkled them in the lake.
Astia was horrified, and fled from the spirit. But she began to miss Gazareth, and returned to the lake, hoping to find her friend. No matter how many times she went, or how much she begged, or how many tears she cried, Gazareth would not appear.
Not long after, Nebbunar asked Astia to marry him. She agreed, but soon after, knowing that such marriage would mean she would never see Gazareth again, Astia changed her mind. One night, as they shared a bed, Astia cut Nebbunar's throat, burnt his body, and brought his ashes to Gazareth, as proof to her friend that she would never leave him again.
What became of Astia is unknown, but there are legends among the Chasind that Gazareth still haunts the lake, and that those who sprinkled the ashes of the deceased over the right spot can summon the spirit. It is said that, in memory of the contract he made with his beloved Astia, Gazareth will grant a single wish, and then vanish, never to be heard from again.
In the margins of the page, someone (not Jogby or Rigby) has scribbled a note:
Markus – I think this is reel. If we take the ash's I gave you and skatter them on a pile of roks by that klif – the one next to the sunk Tavintur place – maybe Gazareth will appear and give us a wish. Worth a try, right?