CHAPTER ELEVEN: What We Do

For some time after leaving the massacre, we walk in silence. What is there to say, after all? Nothing I've seen in my life – not even the violence and heartbreak of Highever's fall, as devastating as it has been – nothing could have prepared me for the darkspawn.

Howe's treachery, the sack of my home, the deaths of so many I love – these things nearly destroyed me. I will carry the pain, I think, as long as I live. But on some level, I can understand what happened there. Rationalize it, at least. It fits within the framework of humanity's darker nature, of politics and power and sin.

The slaughter behind us, however, cannot be understood or rationalized. It is unrecognizable. Unfathomable. Utterly inhuman. Evil for evil's sake.

It's hard to imagine the others are less shaken. As well as I've come to know him these last week's, it's easy to read the shock on his face. Even Alistair, if he has seen such things before, does not strike me as a hard enough man to be unaffected.

Only Madra seems unconcerned. She romps ahead, nose to the ground, crisscrossing from pond to pond, occasionally running back to loop around my ankles before bounding away again. It's almost enough to calm my nerves. Honestly, at this point, I'm following her more than Alistair. I trust her nose more than a map, and certainly more than ill-defined sixth sense gifted to Wardens.

The isthmus we've been walking on since the site of the massacre begins to broaden, opening up to more woods as the lakes grow further apart. Our path curves left, following close to the shore at first, then weaving between clusters of large ferns and winding brambles, before returning to the lake again.

We're heading east now, I think. Maybe southeast.

It's hard to tell.

Jory falls into step beside me, then clears his throat. "May I walk with you?"

He sounds almost sheepish.

I nod.

"Still no sword?" he asks.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Not…you're not carrying a sword."

This again. He's right, though. My sword is still at my side. I'm carrying the bow, and arrow nocked. "I haven't forgotten what you said. I'll go for a blade if they get close." I'm not really sure why I'm humoring him. "Out here, we'll see them coming. I can drop a few and still have time to switch."

"I understand."

I'm not sure if that means he agrees, or if he's just acknowledging me. I'm not sure why he brought this up at all. At this point, I really don't care.

"Do you think me a fool?" he asks. "For praying over those children, I mean, or over the dead."

The time it takes me to form my response probably says more than my eventual response. "Not a fool," I reply, carefully. "The truth is, I'm not especially religious. I don't understand the…etiquette, I guess you'd say. I think the only concern was the – the timing. The place, maybe."

He seems on the verge of letting the conversation drop, remaining silent for several beats, before continuing in a rush. "I believe you're right, Liam. It's as you said: if you are not religious, you would not understand. I doubt the others would, either. But I believe there is no time when it is unwise to seek the Maker's blessings, nor any time when we ought not to seek His guidance."

There's not much I can say, so I just shrug. He's driving toward something, I think.

"Tell me…" Jory continues slowly. "Do you have any clear picture of what this Joining entails?"

"Only that it's dangerous. It must be. Otherwise, why all the secrecy?"

"You don't find it odd, then? That no one told us of the ritual before we were recruited? I fought hard to be here; impressing Duncan was no easy task. Now I wonder if I chose correctly. We may die today, all of us, on some fool's errand. Never seeing my wife or child again…I knew the cost when I asked to join the Wardens. Yet I never imagined they would ask me to throw my life away searching for baubles, far from battle, nor abandon children in a wilderness. I fear now what will be asked of us next. Surely, you must have asked yourself the same?"

Again, I shrug. "I wouldn't be here if there'd been any other options."

Jory begins to nod emphatically. "Yes! That in itself is troubling, is it not? Remember, I was witness to your recruitment. Duncan may not have invoked the Rite of Conscription, but do not think it an exaggeration to say he coerced your pledge."

"That's not what I meant. I had a choice. This just happened to be the best of a bad bunch."

"Was it?" Jory sighs. "Surely coercion is not too strong a word, when he bargained your nephew's life against your oath?"

"Except he didn't." I'm a bit surprised to find myself defending Duncan, but fair's fair, I guess. "He promised to help whether I joined or not. All he said was that he could do more to bring Howe down if I were a Warden."

"Your memory of that night may be better than mine," Jory says, reluctantly. "But even by your account, he held justice hostage to extract your pledge. Surely, this gives you some pause?"

"It did," I admit. "At first, I resented him for putting a higher priority on this Blight, or whatever it is, than on justice for my family. Now…" I shrug uncomfortably, and gesture back the way we've come. I'm not sure why I'm explaining myself to Jory. "What we just saw, it puts Howe to shame. It's hard to judge Duncan for judging treason as the lesser evil."

"I do not believe in lesser evils," Jory replies softly, almost automatically. He sighs again, then continues. "You must understand, I do not question Duncan's motives. I saw the same tragedy you did.

He has a seemingly impossible task, with a scarce handful of Grey Wardens, yet he does not complain, nor flinch from his duty. Yet I do fear the methods he may choose. I fear what else he might do, or cause to be done, for the sake of victory."

"What is it that worries you?" I ask. "Alistair already told us the Joining is blessed by the Chantry."

"And yet it is a ritual that requires Circle mages, and blood!" Jory shakes his head adamantly. "No good comes when mixing blood and magic, and I can imagine of no righteous purpose for the blood of an abomination. Since we left Ostagar, I've tried to puzzle this out, to understand what the Joining might require of us. Each theory proves worse than the last."

"Well, we'll know soon enough." It's not that I disagree with him, I suppose. I'm just tired of his pessimism. "Until then, worrying won't help anything."

Jory grunts, apparently concluding the conversation. Fine with me. He continues to walk beside me when the path is wide enough, but we walk in silence.

As we go, the terrain changing slowly from the flat expanse of ancient forest to hills and valleys. There are fewer and fewer of the great evergreens that towered at the bottom of the cliffs, or drove up from the swamps we first passed. In their place, we encounter thick clusters of ferns, sprawling brambles, and stands of thin, sickly-looking trees with pale, peeling bark. And still the path goes on, drifting back and forth between lake and forest, never ranging too far from the water's edge.

…

"Would you look at that!" Daveth is pointing out across the lake.

The path has just brought us back down to the shore. Perhaps a hundred yards out, a large dome rises from the water. I squint, trying to make out its detail. A haze hangs over the water, obscuring my view, and though it must be close to noon, the light is strangely flat. Still, I think I can see faded tiles and exposed beams – a half-submerged roof, the remnant of a building swallowed up long ago.

The soldier said they were ambushed near a sunken dome.

He mentioned Dwarven ruins, too. We've passed ancient stonework, something more than boulders. Though covered with moss and crumbled by time, the ruins look angular, crude. They could be Dwarven, I suppose, though nothing about them stands out.

Still, I'm unsettled. Whatever happened, wherever the majority of the scouting party made their stand, it can't have happened far from here. I expect we'll find more corpses soon.

…

I'm not wrong. We're climbing away from the lake again, up the side of a hill, when Madra and Alistair give simultaneous warnings – hers a growl, his a hissed demand for silence.

We freeze in place, fingers tightening around weapons.

The air around us is silent. There ought to be crickets and frogs, I think – at least some of the bugs that plagued us an hour ago. But nothing moves, and there is no sound except the distant lap of water and a slow, rhythmic creaking that I can't quite place. It brings to mind the belfry in the Highever Chantry, or the sailing vessels in the harbor.

Ropes. That's the sound I'm hearing. Ropes, stretched tight and swaying in the wind.

As soon as I realize this, I know what we're about to find. I know before we're close enough to see.

Ahead, the path leads through a dip at the hill's crest. On one side, the hill is covered in rubble, the remains, I think, of an old watchtower. On the opposite side, a tree once stood. It toppled long ago, its moss-covered trunk bridging over the top of the dip. The path will take us directly beneath the fallen tree.

The darkspawn chose this place deliberately. They wanted anyone who came this way to see their handiwork. To pass under it, if we dare.

At least a dozen soldiers have been strung up, though most were surely dead before they hung. They are missing eyes or limbs, or sometimes both, and all have suffered grievous injuries. Between the men, there are individual body parts, too, arranged like macabre ornaments.

"Look there," Alistair says, though we don't need prompting. "Poor sods. That just seems so…excessive."

"Are they still nearby?" Jory asks.

Alistair frowns, concentrating like he's testing the air. Then he nods. "Not far now."

"How close?" I ask.

Alistair hesitates again, before admitting, "It's not a precise sense, exactly. I can tell they're close, but I couldn't tell you how many yards."

"They're within yards?" Jory demands, near panic, his voice rising almost to a squeak. It'd be easy to think less of him, but I'm no less fearful.

"No, I – that's not what I meant," Alistair says. A sheen of sweat on his forehead undercuts the confidence he's trying to project. "They're close, but not that close. And before you ask, no, I can't tell exactly how many. There's more than a dozen. Maybe two or three dozen? No more than that, I think."

"Oh, good," Daveth mutters, apparently not reassured. "No more than three dozen. Well, that's just fucking perfect, isn't it?"

Jory hisses at him to shut up. It's the right tactical choice, but I find I agree with Daveth's assessment. Fuck this. I don't want to do this. I don't want to be here.

Walking under that log, beneath the bodies and limbs of men already slaughtered by our enemy, isn't an appealing prospect to begin with; knowing darkspawn are nearby, and in no small number, only adds to our mounting paranoia. Even Madra seems cowed, her hackles up and a low growl continuing at the back of her throat.

There's nothing for it, though. We go forward or we go back. And none of us are willing to go back, not alone at least. So there's only one choice.

It's pride, really, that pushes me forward, fear of being called a coward. It's certainly not courage, and certainly not commitment to our purpose, because it's increasingly hard to argue that Jory's wrong in his fears, about our chances out here and about the wisdom of our mission, especially with corpses overhead, and these ridiculous treaties so deep in this wretched place, and only four of us, four men and a Mabari, against dozens of these monsters, the same monsters that butchered an entire patrol, a patrol and an entire tribe…

But then we're through, or at least out from under the log and the bodies.

We're greeted by more of the darkspawn's bloody handiwork. The path ahead is lined with pikes, each crowned with a disembodied head. Mostly soldiers, a few Wilders mixed in. As though decapitation alone was not enough, many of the faces have been mutilated further – eyes gouged out, mouths widened, skin peeled back.

I look away, squeeze my eyes shut. It's too much. I don't want to see any more.

"They're coming," Alistair announces, quite matter-of-factly.

For a second, I'm grateful. Anything to distract me from the horrors all around. I start sidestepping on instinct, moving right and back at the same time, toward one of the rises we've just passed between, toward higher ground. Good position will let me kill a few more before they reach us.

Choose the spot on which you fight. That was one of the first lessons I learned on Highever's training grounds, just a little boy with wooden weapons, giddy to become a warrior – back when war wasn't real, back when violence was play.

To my surprise, the others follow me. Daveth shadows my steps almost as tightly as Madra, hissing something about remembering to pull my sword. Alistair is close behind, but stumbles on a root and fails to catch himself, his sword getting tangled with his shield. Jory, furthest from me now, moving with deliberate slowness and practiced confidence, somehow manages to help Alistair to his feet without lowering his own guard.

It's easy to be put off Jory's manner, even more so by his constant complaints, but there's no denying the knight's skill.

Just as Alistair is back on his feet, an unearthly screech cuts through the silence. At first there is only one voice, a grating ululation that sets saws against my bones. Then, one by one, echoes rise from all around, a hideous chorus that seems born of earth and stone and air. I want to cover my ears, close my eyes again.

An instant later, I see the first of them, a dark shape loping toward us along the path with inhuman speed. I'm not sure where it came from. Even as fast as its moving, I should have seen it coming sooner.

Gangly legs throw the beast forward in great strides, while sharp, grotesquely long arms grasp ahead, pinning into the ground as anchors for the next leap. It's ungainly, a lopsided skitter that should slow the beast down. There's no way it should be moving this faster, as fast as a horse at full gallop. Faster, maybe.

My first arrow is loosed without thought, whistling down the hill. I know it finds its mark – the creature wails, and one of its legs misses a step, almost tripping it up – but the thing barely slows.

"Shrieks!" Alistair yells, as I draw another arrow.

Sharlocks, Duncan called them. Darkspawn skirmishers.

They're swarming the path, rushing us. I can't get a count. There are too many, moving too fast. My eye doesn't want to follow them. They get lost, somehow, against the backdrop of trees and ferns and boulders.

I try to find the one I've already wounded, hoping a second arrow will bring it down, but I can't find it.

The nearest, then.

Maker, it's so close already. I've got seconds until it's on me.

Breathe, release.

It recoils as the arrow finds a home, but doesn't go down.

They're almost on us. Still wailing, a sound that pierces my ears, waters my eyes.

This is happening so fast. I'm moving on instinct. Training takes over, but I've never trained for anything like this.

One more arrow, then to blades.

At my ankle, I feel Madra tense for an instant, then burst forward.

She hits the new beast in the knees as my arrow takes it in a shoulder. Dog and darkspawn go down in a tangle of movement.

There's no time for another shot, I know that. But I thought I'd have time to sling my bow, draw a sword.

I'm too slow.

The next of the Shrieks is already in midair, hurtling toward me.

Time doesn't slow, exactly. Instead, it's like individual moments freeze, the whole world stopping for a breath, before rocketing forward.

Crystallized in one such moment, I see the Shriek for the first time. Really see it.

The creature's face is covered almost entirely by a crude metal helmet that rises to a spike above its forehead. I can see eyes, glowing blackness, and I can see a mouth that's too large, almost canine in its shape, lined with sharp yellow teeth that are open wide, so wide it seems in that instant that they might swallow me whole.

Blindly, I throw out my hands, using the bow like a ward.

The Shriek hits me. Hard. Time splinters again, and I could swear we're colliding and falling apart at the same time.

The bow splinters in my hand, and the force of the impact knocks me off my feet.

I'm sprawling backwards, suspended in midair.

Something sharp passes directly in front of my face, my life spared by a matter of inches.

There's a sudden, intense pressure on my right shoulder, a grip I couldn't shake even if I were on my feet. It yanks me to the side, so I'm no longer falling but instead flailing through the air.

Still spinning, I hit the dirt, pinwheeling across shrubs and roots. The pressure is gone.

As I roll, something sharp rakes across the back of my thigh. I feel my breeches tear and a wound open, but I can't tell how bad.

Before I've stopped rolling, I pull my knees and elbows in, pushing off the ground. I come to my feet, still staggering with my own momentum. As I stumble, I draw my sword. I manage to stay upright.

My leg is bleeding, but it holds my weight. That's enough for now.

The Shriek is yards away, crouched on all fours. It's turning toward me, its eyes already fixed on mine. Those eyes. How can something so black burn so bright?

All around, the darkspawn are still shrieking. I can hear shouts from my companions, the clash of steel, Madra growling.

The Shriek lunges again, slashing with its forearms as it twists through the air. Only they're not forearms – they're long, serrated gauntlet that are begin at the elbows and extend well forward of the beast's hands. Made for driving down and through, or for flailing at masses of enemies. Not for precision.

I roll forward again, under the arc of the gauntlets, but I'm clumsy, and instead of passing the darkspawn, I smash into its legs.

As the Shriek collapses on top of me, I'm startled by how light it is. The speed, the ferocity, the unnatural way it moved – I expected a powerhouse. Instead, even in its armor, I'm able not just to push it off me with enough force to throw the creature several feet.

Not without cost. I feel another cut open, this one my left shoulder, slowed but not deflected by my leather hauberk. I couldn't see what got me, but I think it must have been the tip of a gauntlet, a luck strike as the Shriek was hurled away.

The wound isn't bad, but it throws my off balance, and instead of rising to my feet, I end up scrambling sideways, bumping over one of the large rocks on the hillside before hauling myself upright.

Dizzied, I search wildly for the Shriek, knowing it will lunge again, but not knowing where it will lunge from. My vision begins to swim, pressure in my temples tightening with every heartbeat.

I gasp for air, no idea what's going on – if I hit my head on the rock and didn't notice, or have lost more blood than I think.

For an instant I'm nauseous, but then the fear cuts through the nausea, and my surroundings snap back into focus.

Alistair is yelling at me. He not far away. Just ahead. "Draw the sword!"

I look up, see him standing over the Shriek that wounded me. It's on its knees, facing me, its head lolling to one side as Alistair pulls his own sword from its neck.

The darkspawn topples, black blood gushing over its crude breastplate. The same blood, almost as black as the creature's eyes, drenches Alistair almost from head to toe, like he was caught in a rain storm, or bathed in the stuff.

Yet his eyes are bright.

Behind him, the hillside is littered with corpses. At least a half dozen Shrieks, all dead. All killed by Alistair, I realize. The same young man who nearly fell into the wolves – who can't do more crack wise when Jory challenges his authority, who can barely read a map.

He killed them all.

Fuck me, I think he's grinning.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" he yells, and he sounds positively joyful. "Draw the sword! What're you waiting for, a written invitation?"

Numbly, I reach for my family's blade, still scabbarded across my back. My fingers close on the pommel, but even before I've got a grip, I see another of the Shrieks rising behind Alistair, one gauntlet drawn back, already midway through its leap.

Though I'm too far away to reach him, I draw my sword and begin to run. As I go, I scream a warning. It's incoherent, but I think he should see the danger in my face, see where I'm looking.

But he doesn't. The grin doesn't leave his face, not even as the Shriek brings down the point of its gauntlet, the cruel metal piercing the back of Alistair's neck.

Except it doesn't. There's no scream of pain, no rush of crimson.

At the last possible instant, Alistair shifts his weight, pivots his shoulders. Without looking, he drives his sword backwards, locking his shield under the sword's guard, and lets the Shriek impale itself.

Gracefully, like a dancer, Alistair steps back, the Shriek rolling, lifeless, off his blade and down the hill, back toward the rest of the fight.

Daveth and Jory are down there, back-to-back. One of the Shrieks is dead at their feet; another lies motionless nearby, where I think I last saw Madra, the broken shaft of my arrow still lodged in its torso.

The others are circling, just like the wolves earlier, though these are fewer in number. Four, by my count.

I start to whistle, hoping Madra is still on her feet, but almost before I can whet my lips, Alistair bellows a challenged and rushes down the slope.

Sluggishly, pain beginning to blossom in my leg and shoulder, I follow, trying to keep the heavy longsword in a high guard. The whistle dies in my lungs, and I've no battle cry to join Alistair's.

Two of the Shrieks break off immediately, each swinging away wide, planning to come in on either of Alistair's flanks, one from each side.

After what I've just seen – the swath of dead darkspawn that Alistair's left in his wake – I ought not to fear for him. I ought to laugh at the Shrieks.

But I've trained too long to let one face two alone. I turn slightly, so I'll intercept the one on the left if I can only get there in time. I should be able to. I'm barely running, and its downhill, and the injury on my leg can't be that bad, can it? But there's nothing left in me, no reserve of strength to call upon.

My sword arm falters and my feet start to land too far ahead of themselves, fighting just to keep my body upright.

This will be a fine way to die, I think: tumbling past my enemy and slamming face-first into a tree trunk.

But the nearest Shriek sees me and decides I'm worthy prey. It plants one gauntlet in the earth and using it as an anchor on which to pivot, adjusting course so that it's running straight at me.

There's only a moment to prepare before we smash together. I have just enough time to tilt to the longsword, angling the blade so that even as the strength in my arms fails, I parry the first strike from a gauntlet.

The impact as we collide nearly knocks the wind from me, but somehow I stay upright. The Shriek, off balance, tumbles to the dirt just a few feet away. It's just outside the reach of my sword, so I stumble after the creature, hoping I can cut it down quickly, before the last of my strength fades, before it rises and strikes again.

And then Madra is there, pinning the creature to the ground with her weight, savaging one exposed arm, growling over the sound of tearing flesh.

The Shriek squirms and bucks, trying to break free, but Madra is too big, too tenacious, and the Shriek's only remaining weapon, the gauntlet strapped to its opposite arm, is too clumsy to strike at a target so close.

Even as weak as I am, it's no challenge to stagger forward and plunge my sword into the gap at the base of the helmet. My family's blade cuts straight down, separating its jaws, driving its thick, forked tongue back into its spine.

The beast shivers once, then goes still.

Madra loses interest immediately. She drops the Shriek's arm and turns to look up at me adoringly.

Two fights in one day! She couldn't be happier.

Behind me, I hear only labored breathing. No more shouts. No more weapons. No more of unearthly cries from the darkspawn.

I stumble forward until I hit a tree trunk, then use its support to turn.

The last three Shrieks are dead. Jory is already cleaning his sword, Daveth filling one of the vials Duncan gave us.

Alistair is striding toward me. There's a confidence to him that I don't recognize. Not the smug cockiness when he jokes, or the sarcasm that hides his inexperience. Genuine confidence. He looks more alive than I've ever seen him.

"Let's take a look at that," he says, nodding at my shoulder.

I glance down, expecting to see a clean notch in the leather armor, a gash opened on my arm.

Instead, the armor is mangled, like it was caught in a trap, and though there's very little blood, there are four or five separate holes in the cloth of my sleeve. I have to stare for a few moments before I realize that I'm not looking at a cut.

I'm looking at a bite.

"Oh…shit…"

"Sit down," Alistair says. When I don't move, he grabs my elbow, forcing me to slide down the trunk. "He got you, all right. Lucky for you, you're already halfway to being a Warden."

"What…what's that got to do with it?"

My ass hits roots and dirt, and pain spasms through my shoulder.

As the adrenaline fades, I can feel the muscles near the bite tightening and swelling. I want to curl my arm in toward my body, but Alistair has a hold of my wrist. He's kneeling on it, I think, as he rummages again in his pack.

I try to focus, but my vision swims again. My arm feels swollen, like my sleeve is suddenly too tight. The pain in my temples is back.

"What…what's happening…"

My breathing quickens as I begin to put things together.

A bite.

The Taint.

"Am I… is it…?"

"It's poison," Alistair says, rather too cheerfully for my taste. "But it won't kill you. At least, I don't think it will..."

Then his hands are on my wound, and suddenly the pain is incredibly sharp, like a hot iron stuck straight to my bone.

I throw my head back and scream, just once. Then blackness closes in, and my head drops to one side, away from the injury.

I think I hear Alistair saying something, still nonchalant. His tone is disorienting. I think I hear Daveth and Jory speaking, but it's like hearing through water. It's hard to make out the words…hard to focus. I think I feel Madra, snuffling in my ear. Her warm breath centers me for a moment. My vision might be coming back. There are shadows that could be the rocks and trees on the hillside...

But then the world spins again, and though I know Madra is still there, I can no longer feel her. Noises warp and distend, turning into a dull hum that fades to silence. The only thing I can feel is the pain in my shoulder, until that, too, ebbs.

The shadows around me are swallowed up, and the world drifts away.

…

And then its back, in one great rush of sound and pain and light.

"…be fine," Alistair is saying. To me, I think. "The medicine will control the pain, and slow the infection. You've got a few days before we have to worry about anything else, and by then…well, the Joining will take care of you before we have to worry about that."

I blink once, and the world snaps into focus.

Madra is curled at my side, her head resting on my lap. She might be asleep.

Beyond my dog, I can see that my leg is bandaged where the Shriek cut me. I flex my foot, and find there's no real pain, just a bit of stiffness.

Jory and Daveth are nearby; it looks like they're wiping their hands on a rag, though I can't for the life of me think why they'd be cleaning themselves right now.

Madra looks up as I shift my leg. She studies my face for a moment, then blows out a long sigh that makes her lips flap. Her expression is somewhere between relief and reproach, but as soon as she stands, she licks my face affectionately, her little stub of a tail wagging fiercely.

"What…" I have to stop talking and turn away to keep from getting Madra's tongue in my mouth. "What happened?"

"One of the Shrieks bit you," Alistair says.

He offers me a hand, pulls me upright. Gingerly, I shift my weight until it's evenly balanced on both feet. My leg holds up just fine.

"Oh, that," Alistair says, nodding at the bandage. "That's barely a scratch. The bite on your shoulder is a bit more serious. That's what made you pass out. Well, actually, the medicine is probably what made you pass out."

"It's that bad?" I ask.

"Well, yes, technically. Yes and no. I think you were in shock more than anything else. You'd have come to in a minute even without my help, but a darkspawn bite is serious business all the same. You remember what we said about darkspawn's blood, how it can spread the Taint? Their bites do the same thing. Shock aside, that's a nasty wound. Still, you'll be all right for now."

The Taint. That was one of my last thoughts before I passed out.

"Is it…did it get…in me?"

"It? You mean the Taint? Yes, it's in the wound."

The words land like blows. I want to throw up, and the world becomes dangerously wobbly again. It's a fight to keep my legs under me.

"Whoa there!" Daveth, whose presence I'd almost forgotten, catches my shoulder. His hand keeps me upright. "You're all right, now. You're all right."

I nod shakily, and after a moment he lets me go.

Alistair is still studying me. He looks a bit skeptical.

"Am I…was I becoming a ghoul?"

"Ah. No, no you're not. Well…actually, I suppose technically you're becoming one. But don't look so glum – it's nothing to worry about!" Alistair chuckles. In poor taste, I think. "Like I was saying, it'll take a few days at least, maybe a week, before you'd have to worry about anything irreversible. You'll last until the Joining."

"Last," I repeat. "Until the Joining."

"Right. The Joining is…it's what really makes you a Grey Warden, you see, and us Wardens are…well, I guess you could say we're immune to the Taint. It's more complicated than that, but what it boils down to is that once you go through the Joining, there's no danger of your turning. Anyway, I already told you all of this, but apparently you weren't as awake as you looked."

"Was I…was I out for long?"

"A few minutes. Maybe a five minute beauty sleep. You're looking better already."

Daveth snorts. "He can say so if he wants. You ask me, though? You look half past dead, mate."

In spite of myself, I start to laugh. "You're a master of encouragement."

"I just tell it like I see it."

"Yeah, well…" I glance at my shoulder again, then shrug – a gesture I regret even more than my attempted laugh. "Half dead is better than all dead, isn't it?"

"Heh." The cutpurse shakes his head. "If you can laugh about being Blighted, I guess you can laugh about anything. You got some balls on you, don't you? Not every day you find a noble can claim that. Speaking of which."

Daveth holds out one of Duncan's glass vials. Its filled with thick, black blood. "Here you go. One premium bottle of darkspawn blood, courtesy of yours truly. Took the liberty of filling yours, while you was nodding. Messy."

Reluctantly, I take the vial from his palm and slip it into my pocket. Even in a glass vial, the blood feels…wrong. Something about it raises hairs on the back of my neck. Sets my teeth on edge.

"How many of them were there?" I ask, looking around the hillside for the first time since coming to back to consciousness. The fighting ranged further than I thought. All across the slope and down to the path below, ferns have been tramples, trees scarred by blades, and dirt and moss churned apart. Blood is spattered on bark, earth, and stone. Darkspawn bodies are scattered everywhere.

"Twelve," Alistair says casually. "Maybe fourteen."

"Aye," Daveth agrees. "And we all got at least one, each of us did. Even your hound. Isn't that right, girl? You did more than your share, didn't you?

Madra snuffles into Daveth's hand appreciatively, then positively fawns when he begins to scratch behind her ears. She may be bloodthirsty, but she also loves compliment and a good head rub.

"You got at least two, Ser Knight, isn't that right?"

Jory nods. "Two."

"And I gutted one, spilled its nasty innards all over its knees." He grimaces. "And all over my front, too, I'm afraid. Cost of doing business, all that. Still, smelled awful. How about you? You got one or two yourself, didn't you?"

"Only one, I think. Even then…" I glance at Madra, who is still basking in Daveth's attentions. "I had help. I can take credit for maybe half?"

"Two halves," Alistair says cheerfully. "You threw that one on my sword, up on the hill. That was very thoughtful of you, by the way."

"And you – you killed at least ten, didn't you?" Daveth shakes his head, apparently as awed as I am by Alistair's fighting prowess. "Like nothing I ever seen. How'd you fight like that?"

Alistair blushes – actually blushes! He seems about to answer, his mouth half open…and then his face clouds, and he turns away. "It's just – well, it's what we do," he says, his back to us. He walks to the nearest Shriek, kicks it over, and stares down contemptuously. "They were out here looking for survivors, I'll bet, or for another patrol to ambush."

"You think…you think these are the lot that did…" Daveth lets his question trail off. We all know what he means.

"No, I don't think so," Alistair replies. "They might have played a part, but that would've been a larger party. Shrieks are shock troops. They come in fast, hit hard, then fade. They don't usually stick around to fight large groups, let alone massacre a whole caravan. Whoever did that…I'd guess it was a full war party, probably led by an Emissary."

"An emmi-what now?" Daveth asks.

"An Emissary. They're – well, they're nothing good," Alistair says. "And nothing work talking about now. Come on, let's get moving."

"Back to Ostagar, I trust?" Jory says. His voice is harsh.

"Haven't we talked about this already?" Alistair exclaims, throwing his hands up dramatically. He's mocking Jory. "You guys remember, right? It's not just me?"

"This is not a joke! We've fought wolves and we've fought darkspawn, and it's by the Maker's grace alone that we've survived at all. Liam is wounded and – and – and Blighted! – Andraste save him, and none of us has got away without injury, at least none except you, Ser Alistair, and the day is nearly half done! We have what we need for your accursed ritual – it's time to end this foolishness and return to Ostagar, while we still can!"

"Are you always such a ray of sunshine?" Alistair is smiling pleasantly, almost mockingly. "No, don't answer that, we can figure it out ourselves."

"I said, this is not a joke." Jory speaks through gritted teeth. "This has been a fool's errand from the start, and now we have what we need. I'll not see our lives thrown away for some scrap of parchment!"

Alistair's shoulders tense, and for the first time he turns and stares Jory directly in the face. Still smiling. "Now. I'll not hear any more yammering about this. Duncan said we get the maps, so we get the maps. That's it, end of story, etcetera. Clear enough for you?"

"By the Maker, boy, do you have no mind of your own?" Jory bellows.

For a moment, I see fire light in Alistair's eyes – all the confidence I saw after he cut down the darkspawn, but girded with steel and righteous anger. But it's only a moment.

Alistair turns away abruptly, waving Jory off.

"Oh, yes, I'm a boy," he says acidly. "Well, this boy won't stop you if you feel the need to flee, Ser Jory, but what he won't do is go back empty-handed."

"Maker take you!" Jory exclaims. "Are you so mule-headed that you'd risk all our lives to curry approval from Duncan? What spell has that fraud cast –"

Before Jory can finish, Alistair has spun around, hand on his sword. The fire is back in his eyes, and he begins to advance – ready to spill more blood, I think.

Jory, too, reaches for his sword, his face pale with anger.

"Oi!" Daveth leaps between them, hands outstretched. "Oi! The fuck is wrong with you two? The both of you, but you especially!" He's stabbing a finger at Jory in accusation. "I was there when you was recruited, Ser Knight! Nobody twisted your fucking arm! You knew then this might cost your life, and you know it now, too!"

The raw intensity in Daveth's voice is backing Jory down. Alistair, too. Hands are no longer on swords.

"You all saw the same as I did. All them poor bastards, cut up and splayed out like they was less than fucking cattle? Women and kids…"

His voice has dropped almost to a whisper. He's shaking his head. Reliving what he saw. What we all saw.

"If that's what the Blight is," Daveth says, "I'd give a lot more than my life to stop it. And I know you would too, Ser Knight. So if them treaties is a part of that, you're damn right we've got to go and grab them. And if they're not part of that, and Duncan is some sort of con, or some kind of idiot, then we're all buggered anyway, aren't we? Might as well be buggered here as in Ostagar, I say."

Slowly, Jory begins to nod.

Though I've no part of the argument, I find myself nodding, too.

What we saw on the land bridge changed everything. There's no question of stakes, or of calculated risk. No question of being only half-committed. I know it, and I think Jory knows it too, even if he's only slowly coming around.

None of us look at each other, or say a word. We retrieve lost weapons, check packs. I take a long draw from my waterskin, emptying it. Then we all fall in behind Alistair, and return to the rough dirt path.

…

…

…

CODEX: THE FIRST BLIGHT

Chapter 1 - The Second Sin

Thedas is a land of fierce diversity, from the assassin-princes of Antiva to the faded griffons of the Anderfels, but in my travels, I have found one tale that unites the people of this land. It is a story of pride and damnation, and although the telling differs, the essence of the tale remains the same.

At the height of its power, the Tevinter Imperium stretched over much of Thedas, uniting the known world under the rule of the tyrannical magisters. It is said that the Old Gods whom the magisters worshipped gave them the knowledge of blood magic, and the magisters used this forbidden power to cement their rule. The blood of elven slaves and humans alike ran down imperial altars to fuel magister greed, the tales of their excesses so horrifying that one can only be grateful that blood magic is prohibited today.

But all that stands tall must eventually fall.

Perhaps they foresaw their ruin, or perhaps their pride knew no bounds, but whatever the reason, the magisters dared to open a magical portal into the Golden City at the heart of the Fade. They sought to usurp the Maker's throne, long left unattended in the Golden City after the Maker turned His back on His creations. They would storm heaven itself with their power and become as gods.

This is what the Chantry, in its oft-exercised tendency to understate, refers to as the second sin.

According to most versions of the tale, the magisters did indeed reach the Golden City and walked into the home of the Maker, where no living being before them had dared, or been able, to tread. But humanity is not meant to walk in heaven. The magisters were wicked with pride and other sins, and their presence tainted the Golden City. What once was a perfect, holy citadel became a twisted home of darkness and nightmares.

The magisters were expelled back through their gateway and cursed for their treachery. As the Golden City had been tainted, so were the magisters twisted and transformed into things of darkness—the very first of the darkspawn.

The Golden City, once a shining beacon at the heart of the Fade, became the Black City, a reminder of all that man's pride has cost.

Excerpted from Tales of the Destruction of Thedas

by Brother Genitivi, Chantry Scholar