Chapter 14: Warden's Fall
Alistair, somewhat dejected, led the way back to the Warden tent. They were surrounded by a frenetic mass of people – soldiers falling into formation as they marched towards the valley road; Wardens distinctive in blue and silver among them. Archers hurriedly checked the tension of their bowstrings as they followed; a contingent of Templars escorted the mages as they followed in the crowd's wake. After weeks of tension and nervous inactivity, the inhabitants of Ostagar had finally been summoned to the field. Loghain had already departed on a fast horse to join his troops, who were stationed on the adjacent hill.
The Warden tent felt damp and empty without its usual inhabitants. Alistair and Flora withdrew to their corner and, as was customary, turned their backs on one another to change.
"Why do we need to wear armour if we aren't taking part in the battle?" complained Flora, her voice muffled as she struggled to pull the striped tunic over her head. The mesh-lined material dropped heavily around her thighs, weighing down her shoulders. She slid a hand inside her shirt, felt Duncan's sheaf of papers against her skin.
"I don't know," replied Alistair, a slight edge to his voice as he buttoned up the padded undercoat. "In case one of us falls down the stairs inside the Tower?"
Flora fastened the belt around her waist, clenching the loose folds of material together over the grey breeches.
"By one of us, you mean me," she grumbled, freeing her hair from the collar of the tunic before reaching down to pull on her leather boots. Alistair snorted, distracted.
"Hm? Yes."
Straightening, Flora reached behind her blindly and patted Alistair's elbow. This served the dual purpose of reassurance and confirmation that he was fully clothed. Turning around, she looked him up and down.
The dull Warden armour was plain and functional, lacking elegance but well-made and sturdy. The only embellishment was the carved silver griffon on the breastplate, claws outstretched. He held the helmet cradled beneath an arm, his dirty blond hair rumpled and stubble just beginning to form. His hazel eyes were clouded with anxiety.
Flora reached out and laid her hand on his breastplate, her fingers spreading over the silver griffon. Her nails were bitten almost to the quick.
"Alistair," she said quietly, her grey irises searching his. "Worrying won't help anything."
He looked down at her, wondering at how a month ago, a mage stood at this proximity would have caused him to break into a sweat.
Now he half-smiled down at her, nodded.
"Of course, you're right, little sister. Let's go to the battlements, we can watch the troops moving out."
He picked up his Warden shield and hung it on his back, sheathed the sword at his belt. The freshly honed blade made a satisfying metallic sound as he slid it home. Flora reached under the damp, straw filled pallet and retrieved her staff. She held it to her nose, grimacing.
"Ah, it smells like mould!"
Indignantly, she followed Alistair out of the tent and up the gravelled slope towards the main courtyard. He was shaking his head, unsympathetic.
"Well, if you insist on keeping it under your bed, what do you expect?"
She caught up to him just as a contingent of grim-faced mages approached, accompanied by their omnipresent Templar guard. The two Wardens stood back against the crumbling wall to allow them to pass.
"If I leave it out, I get dirty looks from everyone," Flora grumbled, eyeing the stony faced expressions of the mages as they marched past. Several of them shot her supercilious glances as they passed; recognising her as the mage-warden with the embarrassingly limited repertoire. She flushed slightly, dropped her eyes to her feet.
As they continued towards the battlements, Alistair noticed Flora's head hanging. He nudged her in the ribs, gently, trying to prompt a smile.
"They won't be sneering like that when you're patching them up later."
Flora, still glum faced, nodded. "I suppose not."
They came to a halt in the middle of the upper rampart, not far from the foot of the Tower of Ishal. Beneath them they could see the main road curving down and away from the fortress, descending through the mists to the valley floor below. Although the fog seemed to be clearing, the forest was obscured by lengthening shadow as the sun began to sink beyond the Frostbacks. Somewhere, hidden within the darkened pines on the opposite side of the valley, the King's general was waiting with two thousand men.
The majority of troops had already departed Ostagar, the Kingsguard and Wardens at the head of the forces. The Templars escorting the mages had been the last of the main contingent to leave. The Chantry sisters were praying at their makeshift shrine; a few lookouts and guards still remained at their posts. The ruined fortress seemed very quiet without the majority of its inhabitants; a pall seemed to settle over the old, mossy stones.
Alistair leaned over the battlements, sword and shield leaning against the stone wall. The last of the Templar retinue dropped down from sight as the cobbled road descended, and he exhaled under his breath. Glancing sideways at Flora, he saw that she was peeling wax paper from a wedge of cheese.
"What?" she demanded indignantly, tearing the twine with her teeth. "We need to conserve our strength."
"Conserve our strength for what? We aren't fighting!"
"You never know," she retorted, taking a overlarge and deliberate bite and then regretting it immediately.
Alistair took the crumpled square of wax paper and smoothed it out against the stone. The rampart slowly descended into shadows around them; those usually responsible for lighting the braziers were somewhere on the valley floor, far below.
"Have you never been able to cast anything else?" he asked, thinking back to the derogatory sneers of the mages while absentmindedly folding the paper.
Flora swallowed the mouthful of cheese with difficulty, grunting in the negative.
"No. I've never even been able to light a candle."
Alistair raised his eyebrows, grateful for any distraction that averted his mind from the valley and the approaching horde; where he still believed his rightful place should be.
"I wonder why?"
Flora shook her head, swallowing the last of the cheese with a triumphant gulp.
"I don't know. Never been able to. The instructors couldn't understand it."
"Did you just eat all that cheese? I don't know how you stay so skinny. Anyway, at least healing's a good skill to have. Other people appreciate it, even if the Circle doesn't."
Flora snorted, leaning over the battlements and pointing out a circling hawk hoping for early evening prey.
"I'm still a mage, though. No one likes me."
Alistair glanced sideways at her, then held out his hand. Resting on his palm was a small flat dog, which he had created by carefully folding the wax paper. She took it, holding it up towards the sinking sun admiringly.
"Ah, where did you learn how to do that? Teach me how."
"An old bard who lived in Redcliffe taught me. That's where I grew up."
Flora gazed at him curiously, fingering the delicate folded ears of the paper dog. Although they had spent over a month in each other's company, they had shared little in the way of personal history. Conversation had mostly been focused around current events, and speculation about the future. She only knew that he had spent nearly ten years in the Chantry, the latter five in preparation to join the Templars.
"Redcliffe," she said after a moment, holding the dog back out to him. "That's the village on the southern shore of Lake Calanhad."
He nodded, then gestured down towards her palm.
"Keep it."
Flora tucked the dog inside her shirt, sliding it beneath the twine binding Duncan's papers together.
A short time later, the sun had sunk fully beneath the horizon. A forlorn moon rose slowly in its place, issuing its weaker alternative light. Dim pinpricks of torchlight were faintly visible on the valley floor, but no movement could be seen.
Alistair had been pacing back and forth between the narrowly spaced battlements, treading the worn flagstones down further. Flora was sitting on the cold tiles, back against the wall, absentmindedly twirling the magic dampener around the end of her staff.
"I just wish it was daylight," Alistair exclaimed suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt.
"Does the dark give them any advantage?," mumbled Flora, running her finger over the lyrium-infused iron ring. Alistair shrugged, then shook his head. Shadows obscured his expression.
"Not that I know of. It's just- everything seems worse at night."
Flora looked at him for a second, then hoisted herself up by her staff, scrambling to her feet.
"Here."
Holding the staff upright, she gazed up at its nondescript beech end. Raising her fingers, she began to coax a pale white-gold light from the dull wood. As the movements of her fingers became more pronounced, the light expanded and grew. Finally she held up the staff, the end dancing with incandescent, fluid white-gold flame. It bathed their section of the ramparts in mellow light, reflecting brilliantly against the metallic griffon on Alistair's breastplate.
Alistair gaped at it, then at her.
"I thought you said you couldn't summon a candle flame!"
"It's not flame," Flora said, lowering the base of the staff to the flagstones. The arcing glow seemed to change shape every moment, clinging to the wood like molten metal. "Not really. It's not hot. It's just my healing magic."
Alistair approached cautiously, staring at the strange white gold flame with a Templar's suspicion. After a pause, he raised a hand, fingers still bare from folding the dog. Inhaling, he passed his hand quickly through the flame.
Letting out a grunt of surprise, he moved his fingers back and forth. The magic clung to his skin, falling in small sparks when he shook his hand, but it was indeed not hot. Instead, it felt lukewarm, like bathwater left out too long.
"You can't cook meat on it" Flora whispered conspiratorially, watching the light dance over his face. "I've tried."
Alistair laughed and withdrew his hand, striding back over to the battlements to pull his gauntlets back on.
"Is food all you ever think about-?"
His words were cut off abruptly by the sound of a bugle, thin and distant, from somewhere in the shadowed valley below. Faintly, like the cries of ghosts, the angry shouts of men were carried on the wind up to the fortress ramparts. Alistair started as if he had been struck from behind.
"That's the signal," he breathed, then moved swiftly to retrieve his shield and blade. He turned, looking for Flora but she was already beside him; her staff slung over her back with the arcane glow reduced to the scale of a single lamp.
"Ready?" he asked, glancing up at the ancient stone mass towering behind them, a thousand year old marker of the Tevinter Imperium's once-dominance.
Flora nodded silently, her eyes scaling the height of the structure. As her stomach churned, she wished that she had not eaten the entire wedge of cheese.
As the faint war cries of men and monsters drifted up from the valley below, the two young Wardens made their way to the foot of the Tower of Ishal.
As they approached the massive set of iron-bound wooden doors that marked the front entrance to the tower, there was the sound of shouting from within. Alistair strode forward and was about to open the door when it burst open before them. A man clad in Loghain's livery stumbled out, pale-faced and bloodied.
"Shut the damn door!" he bleated weakly at Alistair, who did as he was told, gaping. "Bloody Tower is filled with Darkspawn!"
Flora approached anxiously, her fingers reaching behind her shoulder to rest on the haft of her staff. Alistair stared at the man, his head already beginning to shake back and forth.
"No, that can't be possible."
"Everyone is dead in there!" Loghain's scout hissed, sitting heavily on the top step and mopping some of the blood from his forehead. "They must have burrowed up from the lower chambers."
Alistair raised his hand to his head with a grimace, while Flora eyed the bloodied man.
"Do you need me to- ?" she asked, at which the man shook his head, grimly.
"It's not my blood, lassie. And anyone in there- " he gestured at the double doors behind him, "- is beyond healing."
The wind carried the sounds of the battle below up the sloping sides of the valley, men's cries echoing around the walls of the ruined fortress. Alistair gritted his teeth, glanced up at the top of the Tower. It stood above them, vast and dark, starkly silhouetted against the moon.
"We need to move quickly," he said, lifting his shield from his back and glancing at Flora.
Flora nodded, gripping the staff, her face set and pale. A small knot of fear was forming in her throat. Alistair turned to the shaking man, raising his eyebrows.
"Are you joining us? The King depends on that beacon being lit!"
To Alistair's dismay, the man let out a hollow chuckle, remaining hunched and motionless on the steps.
"I've seen enough Darkspawn to last me a lifetime. No, you two Grey Wardens can deal with it. That's what you do, right?"
Flora scowled at him, while Alistair let out a sigh and moved towards the doors, sword in hand.
"Fine. Ready, Flo?"
"Partially," mumbled Flora in response, gripping the staff more tightly to prevent her fingers from trembling. Alistair nodded tightly at her, before nudging his shoulder against the door and edging it open. The inside of the Tower was dark, the braziers extinguished. Their footsteps on the flagstones echoed around the chamber like thunderclaps.
As the heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, they were immersed in suffocating darkness. Then Flora held up her staff, coaxing the white gold flame from the end of it until it formed a blazing torch. She swung it before her, sending a sweeping arc of light around the hollow chamber.
There was no sight of movement. The vast stone chamber had become a giant mortuary, a mere receptacle for the two dozen corpses which lay scattered across the tiles. They lay face down, mutilated and broken, uniforms torn beyond recognition. Dark washes of blood swept across the stone beneath them, pooling in the mortar-filled cracks.
Flora felt her whole body slacken in shock, as if someone had suddenly turned her bones to liquid. Suddenly unable to stand, she dropped to her knees, and the staff fell from her hand. The torch dropped too but was not extinguished, illuminating the twisted expression of a man who had been slain only feet from the door. Although she had treated plenty a gruesome injury and did not squirm at the sight of blood, she had never before seen such wanton carnage.
After a moment, she heard Alistair's voice, urgent and low in her ear, muffled as if through a blanket.
"Flora! Flora, come on. There's nothing to be done for them. FLORA!"
He had to shout in her face before she appeared to recognise him. Her grey eyes stood out starkly against her skin, her dark pupils massive with panic. He gripped her shoulders, mail clad fingers clenching her hard enough to bruise.
"Flora, we have to light that torch."
He hauled her roughly to her feet, gave her another shake.
"Let's go, we need to get upstairs. Everyone here is with the Maker already."
She followed him wordlessly, the arc of light before them shuddering as her hand trembled around the staff. They made their way across the vaulted chamber, towards an archway leading to the main stairway.
As they reached the foot of the stairs, Alistair reached out an arm to stop her.
"Careful. Look." He pointed towards the corner of the stone passageway, where the shadows seemed to pool darker. Flora directed the light in the direction of his finger, and the white-gold glow illuminated a gaping hole in the floor. The flagstones had caved in, revealing a clawed out void into the earth below.
"So now we know how they got in," Alistair said grimly, eyeing the ruined flooring. "I liked the pattern on these tiles, too."
Flora blinked at him, unsure whether she had just heard an attempt at humour. He gave her no more time to contemplate, but grabbed her arm and began to haul her up the uneven steps.
"They're on the other side," he warned her outside the wooden door at the top of the stairs, alerted by the preternatural warden senses. She nodded, having forced the knot of panic down into her stomach.
"Let's light that torch," she whispered, holding up the glowing staff. He half-smiled at her, then quietly leaned into the door.
Despite his attempts to be stealthy, the iron fixings of the door gave a rusty creak of protest. This floor still had its braziers lit, illuminating a group of four Hurlocks as they crouched in the centre of the room. The corpses of more men surrounded them. The noise of the door opening echoed around the chamber; their mutated faces immediately turned to the archway. Slightly thrown, Alistair paused for moment, then held his sword aloft.
"For the Grey Wardens!"
Raising his shield in front of him, he charged forward. They lurched upright, blood dripping from fanged maws, raising their own rusted weaponry. Feeling the knot of panic rising into her throat once more, Flora followed him, raising her staff.
It was at once both like and unlike the Darkspawn encounters they had faced in the Wilds. The half-light made it difficult to see, but the stone pillars offered useful cover. Alistair used his sword to thrust straight into the snarling face of one Hurlock, withdrawing it in a spray of gore to slash sideways into the shoulder of another; while blocking the curved Dwarven blade of a third with his shield.
Flora saw the fourth dragging a vast spiked mace as he hurled himself towards Alistair, and swung her hand upwards with a yelp. A swathe of dripping white-gold light arced up to form an incandescent barrier; the Darkspawn's rusted weapon bounced off it as if it were solid steel. The creature itself fell to the floor, momentarily stunned. Flora brought her staff down onto its head with a loud crack, then spun it and brought the other end down even harder. Dark blood began to seep from its nostrils, and she turned to see Alistair grunt in shock.
With two Hurlocks dead and a third incapacitated, a Genlock archer had emerged from behind a pillar and launched a black arrow into Alistair's leg. The depth of the injury had been mitigated by the mail, but the junior warden still let out a snarl of pain as he wrenched it awkwardly from his knee. Flora shot out a hand towards him, her lips moving silently.
The gasping Alistair felt a wellspring of energy suddenly burst inside him, his injured knee temporarily numbed. His shield felt as light as a feather as he swung it into the snarling face of the fourth Hurlock. As the last creature, enraged by the deaths of its companions, lifted a massive broadsword, a shield of shimmering light sprung up between them.
Meanwhile Flora had seen the archer at the pillar loading another arrow to take a second shot. She skidded across the blood-slick flagstones towards it with her staff out, one hand held behind her to maintain Alistair's shield. As it raised its bow, she lifted the glowing staff towards its mutated face. The white gold flame increased in brilliance, cool and incandescent.
The archer, temporarily dazzled, dropped the bow and let out a vicious shriek of rage, lashing out blindly towards her. A muscled arm struck the staff full force, stinking claws coming within inches of her face. She staggered backwards, dropping the staff, the light extinguishing in a second. As she fell, she looked behind her, to see Alistair withdrawing his blade from the chest of the fourth Hurlock, still protected by the sheath of light. He looked to her and she saw his mouth begin to form a shout of warning.
The barrier around him collapsed and reformed around Flora just as the Genlock hurled itself on top of her, going for the throat. Its foul breath seeped through the misty barrier as it scrabbled hopelessly, trying to slash its way through. She grunted, hands held before her as the golden mesh bent inward. Suddenly, the Genlock's head was cleaved from its shoulders, enraged expression intact as it rolled across the floor. Alistair, sword in hand and breathing hard, dragged the body off her. She sat up, the barrier disintegrating, eyes wide.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, sheathing his blade and exhaling unsteadily. She shook her head mutely, staring at the limp body of the Genlock as it bled out on the tiles beside her.
"We need to keep moving," Alistair continued grimly, shooting a glance towards the stairway.
Seeing that he was resting his weight unevenly, Flora leaned forwards and put her hand on his leg. Bringing her face close to his knee, she saw the bloodied gap between his mail tunic and the greaves, and opened her mouth. Exhaling, she breathed the whitegold energy over the wound, moving her fingers quickly in a long-practised pattern.
"That's only temporary," she said thickly, feeling the tingling particles of light still clinging to her tongue. "I'll fix it properly later."
He smiled at her, offering a hand. As she clambered to her feet, retrieving her staff, he gestured across the chamber.
"We have to hurry. They're coming up through the hole."
They made their way up through the Tower of Ishal, managing to keep to the shadows and avoid the clusters of Darkspawn on the third floor. A vast bonfire of human flesh was taking place as the Hurlocks capered around it in celebration. Gagging on the smell, Flora and Alistair made their way to the stairs and reached the fourth floor.
Here, they ran into two smaller separate packs of Darkspawn; two Genlock archers and a group of injured Hurlocks. The two junior Wardens worked together in a synchrony developed out of weeks of practise; Alistair leading with Flora at his back, staff raised. If she kept close enough, she could encompass both within a glimmering sheath of protection. Leaving the bleeding corpses behind them, they made their way to the next set of steps.
These led out onto the stone balcony which encircled the top of the Tower. High above the crumbling fortress, the valley below seemed to be bathed in fire. Even from this lofty height, the sounds of desperate battle were audible, carried by and mingling with the howling wind. It had started to drizzle, the flagstones slick underfoot, rain blowing sideways into their faces. Alistair stopped so suddenly that Flora collided with his back. He turned to her, his face pale.
"They've caught up." His words were swept away by the gusts of air buffeting the Tower.
She stared at him, her senses not yet refined enough to match his. Then she realised that she did not need to, she could hear the horde surging below them, a seething mass single-mindedly bent on pursuit. Alistair glanced over his shoulder, desperately, eyes searching for the small stairway that led to the Tower roof.
"There's no time- " he began, then Flora raised her staff towards him. He gaped at her, rivulets of rain dripping down his face.
"The magic dampener," she breathed, jabbing a finger towards the nondescript iron ring that encircled one end of the staff. "Take it off. Only a Templar can."
He blinked at her in confusion and she thrust it impatiently at him.
"Hurry up!"
"Flora, what are you-?"
"I'll stay here and hold them off. You light the beacon."
Alistair stared at her for a moment, shocked. She scowled up at him, the loose strands of red hair plastered damply to her cheeks.
"Alistair!" she hissed, her grey eyes suddenly fierce. "Just do it!"
Numbly, he reached out and fiddled with the iron ring. It came apart in his hands and he let it fall to the flagstones. She exhaled, lowering the staff and returning her gaze to Alistair. He was staring at her, with an awful expression.
"Alistair, I will push you off this tower myself if you don't leave now," she hissed at him, removing a strand of windswept hair from her mouth. "Duncan is waiting for you! Your King is waiting for you! Go!"
He nodded, looked as if he were about to say something, then backed away. Forcing himself to turn, fighting the urge to vomit, he headed around the stone balcony.
Glancing behind him, he saw Flora standing at the top of the steps, her slight figure clad in grey lost against the imposing stone. His stomach constricted and he forced himself to turn away. The stairway to the roof was before him; he began to fight his way through the rain towards it, shielding his face with a gauntlet.
Flora watched him go, then returned her gaze to the narrow steps descending to the fourth floor. Through the closed wooden door, she could hear the bestial sounds of the approaching horde. Swallowing her panic, she instinctually twisted the gold ring around her little finger. Feeling the familiar carved F C beneath her fingertip calmed her, allowing her to regain focus.
"Flora Cove, don't you mess this up," she mumbled to herself, lowering the end of her staff to the wet flagstones and closing her eyes. "This is the only thing you've ever been good at. Apart from eating for Ferelden."
As she snorted despite herself, white gold strands of light began to stream from the bottom of the staff. Lifting one hand, the streams of light rose upwards and surged across to join with each other. Shimmering strands interwove, weaving together to create a great gleaming barrier across the stairway.
Opening her eyes, Flora stepped back to survey her creation. Even she was impressed the size of the undampened barrier, glancing at the naked end of her staff in shock. A gold stream of light connected the base of the wood to the barrier, constantly renewing its energy.
"If only the other mages could see this," Flora breathed, wiping damp strands of hair from her eyes. "They might stop- "
She was cut off abruptly by the door in front of her buckling, the wood creaking in helpless protest. All other thoughts fled; she tightened her grip on the staff and swallowed. Her heart began to throb painfully in her chest and she gritted her teeth.
Stay focused, Flora. Keep it up for as long as possible. The Blight stops here.
Maybe they'll build me a commemorative statue in Herring.
They're more likely to name a fishing net after me.
The door splintered as the horde broke through. There appeared to be no distinction between individual creatures; it was a surging mass of Darkspawn moving towards her, bloodied maws gaping, cruel blades thrust forward. Flora planted her feet either side of the staff and braced herself. The mass struck the barrier and fell back, letting out twisting cries of rage. Flora felt her staff shudder and gripped it tighter, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. The terror surged up from her stomach and she fought it back.
You've faced demons, Flora. Be brave.
They struck the barrier again and again, hurling themselves against it, the ones behind not waiting for those in front to stagger upright before they too flung themselves forward. The noise they were making was indescribable, a ghastly screeching that chilled bone to the marrow.
Flora closed her eyes against the cacophony, focused instead on the warm whitegold energy passing through her body. She felt a ringing echo inside her skull, heard the whisperings of unseen things as she allowed herself to become a conduit for the only type of Fade energy she could harness. The barrier bent against the surging mass, but did not break.
Yes. Good girl, yes.
Hold on.
She smelt something and opened her eyes; saw smoke drifting through the grey drizzle. The top of the tower was glowing, orange light illuminating the crumbling stone buttresses. Despite herself, she grinned, squinting up through the rain.
"Alistair!" she shouted triumphantly, the wind sweeping her words away. "Alistair!"
Then all hell broke loose.
The stone wall of the Tower shattered outwards, revealing a vast mutated form in the shadows. It was six times the size of a Hurlock, with vast curving horns and malevolent eyes like a spider. Flora, who had never seen an ogre in the Wilds before, gaped at it. It was breathing hard, pallid flesh covered in mucus, razor like claws gouging the flagstones. It raised its bull-like head and looked at her.
Then from overheard came a shriek, far more terrible than any Darkspawn could produce. The moonlight darkened as a shape crossed it, circling the skies above them. Then there was a deafening sound of an impact as the top of the Tower seemed to topple, ancient stonework crumbling. Flora lost her grip on the staff, stumbled and fell backwards. The last thing she saw was the barrier disintegrating before her, golden light evaporating into the fog. She reached out her hand, light streaming from her fingertips in a futile effort to defend herself.
Then the world receded from her and she fell into darkness; her fall accompanied by the faint beating of leathery wings.