25. Attack on the Lake

Wynne caught the boy before he could crawl out the door. He was getting to be quite a handful, and the old mage realised that she was not as spritely as she once was. She could not help but smile as he giggled adorably in her arms. She planted a kiss on his forehead. He was a happy child and had grown more beautiful with each passing day, very much resembling Solona now and less of Alistair. He still cried for his mother on occasion, although not as often as he used to.

As for now, he was contented to play quietly by himself, giving Wynne a moment to contemplate the situation with the girl. She had not heard from Solona since that fateful day. She hoped in her heart that she was safe somewhere. No amount of persuasion or threat on her and Irving's part, had changed the Templars' minds. They were hell-bent on capturing and executing her in atonement for Greagoir's death. In their eyes, she was a deadly maleficar and what she had done was an unforgivable crime, end of story. Knight-Commander Davesh, who had replaced Greagoir, was a good many years younger than his predecessor. But he was as brute and as ruthless as Greagoir, if not worse. My poor girl, Wynne sighed. I pray that you will be reunited with your son again, soon.

Wynne had left the child with his nursemaid so she could get some much needed rest. She had been working on some new incantations, which were mainly defensive wards and anti-magic spells just in case the Witch had dared return. She must have slept only a few hours before being awakened by the noise of footsteps running in the corridors.

"Darkspawn, by the Tower!" the young apprentice said fearfully as he fled past her.

Wynne composed herself and hurried after him. Before reaching the stairwell, she made a quick detour to check on Lucas. He was sleeping soundly in his crib.

"Stay here, do not leave this room, and never take your eyes off him," she motioned to the nursemaid. The girl nodded, frightened. "And that includes you," she turned to the young Templar guarding the room.

The mage was puzzled. Darkspawn had not been seen around Lake Calenhad ever since the Blight ended. Probably just stragglers, she thought. It would not be difficult to take them out. How they had managed to cross the lake, she had no idea.

Wynne was taken aback by the carnage that greeted her at the entrance into the Tower. Dismembered bodies of Templars littered the courtyard. Mangled weapons and shields torn from the hands of its owners were strewn about, as if a terrible blizzard had just struck. There was blood everywhere. A few dead Darkspawn lay on the ground, their foul blood pooling between the gravel.

"To the door!" Davesh hollered. His platemail was bloodied and he bore a deep gash on his cheek.

Around eight Templars held the heavy wooden gates to the Tower shut as the Darkspawn outside fought to gain entry. First Enchanter Irving was directing a group of senior magi to attack from the level above. A few apprentices cowered behind them.

"The door cannot hold!" Wynne shouted a warning as the hinges creaked and strained with the battering. Irving and the magi stood their ground, poised to attack.

It did not take long before the hinges finally gave way and the gates burst open. The Templars furiously held the creatures at bay whilst the magi conjured their offensive spells. Wave after wave of powerful energy bolts and deadly firestorms failed to eliminate all but a small handful of the creatures. They seemed to be at least partially resistant to arcane effects.

These are no regular Darkspawn! Wynne thought to herself, alarmed. The vile things retaliated with their own spells, sending chunks of earth and rocks flying towards the magi. The Templars had started to falter, beaten down by the savagery of the Darkspawn's attacks. Wynne evoked a strong barrier, shielding them for a while whilst the group hastily retreated back into the Tower.

What are they? The old mage continued to wonder. These creatures were unlike any Darkspawn she had ever seen, and she had seen her fair share of them.

As soon as the Templars had regrouped, ready for a flank-side attack, something strange happened. The vile creatures, so ferocious just a moment ago, began to disengage and draw back towards the lake, disappearing from sight as quickly as they had appeared. It was truly perplexing.

"Hold back!" Davesh yelled at his men as they stared in amazement.

"They are retreating!" Irving proclaimed the obvious. "But why?"

Most strange indeed. Unless it was...of course! Why had I not seen it earlier? It was a diversion! The thought suddenly occurred to her as a sinking feeling rose in her gut. Wynne raced up the tower, desperate to reach the child. Please, let him be safe.

The old mage stopped short at the doorway, hand over her mouth. Her blood ran cold. The young Templar lay lifeless in a pool of blood, his limbs torn from his body, face locked in terror, telling of his agony at the moment of his death. The nursemaid was slumped over the bed, very much dead, open wounds carved by large talons crisscrossed her back, her blood drenching the sheets. The window was wide open, curtains blowing in the breeze; the sound of fluttering in the distance, getting further away. The crib where the child slept was empty.

Lucas was gone.

Solona and Zevran rode like the wind. The magnificent beasts carried them easily on their backs, their powerful legs propelling them quickly through the great plains of the Drylands. Vast, open space spanned for hundreds of miles ahead of them. Solona put her troubles behind her as she finally felt free again, even if it was only for a short while. Memories of her travels during the Blight came flooding back, when she would journey for weeks on end with her companions, who were like family to her. She thought of Alistair and how they used to make love so passionately under the stars. It was during one of those nights that their child was conceived. I wish it had not ended the way it did.

"Look, above us!" Zevran pointed towards the sky. A lone, silvery wyvern flew gracefully overhead, slowly disappearing into the clouds.

Solona shivered. Dragon-kin commonly inhabited the mountains, although it was more usual to see them hunt in packs. She felt an inexplicable sense of dread as ominous, dark clouds gathered above them.

It started to hail. Rocks of ice, some as large as river pebbles, rained down painfully. Zevran steered them towards the hills for shelter. Solona's horse, spooked by the hailstones, reared suddenly onto its hind legs, throwing her to the ground like a rag doll. Zevran jumped from his steed.

"Are you alright?" he asked worriedly, taking her arm. She had landed badly.

"I...I think I'm fine," she replied, dazed. Her head hurt.

"Solona, your ring!" Zevran pointed to her hand, alarmed. Wynne's onyx ring glowed a faint yellow.

The colour drained from her face. "No, it cannot be!" she said, shaking.

"Wait, Solona!" Zevran chased after her as she raced back to her horse.

"We must go to the Tower," she said adamantly. "I should never have left the lake."Not knowing exactly what harm had befallen her child was excruciating.

"Just think for a moment," he said, trying to reason with her. "You cannot go back there, for the Templars will kill you. And if Morrigan has taken your child, and it is very likely that she has, then we must find her without delay. We will do whatever it takes to get Lucas back." Her beautiful eyes were so sad that it pained him to look into them.

Solona choked back her tears as he drew her towards him in a comforting embrace. She knew that the Antivan was right. He was particularly instinctive, and almost always correct in his assumptions. It would be futile to return to the Circle Tower. And there would be little the magi could do to help them now. She knew that the Witch would one day return for Lucas. Without her there, the child was easy pickings.

"But what if we are too late?" she lamented tearfully. "I dare not think of what may have already happened to him."

"We do not know that. We must press on before further harm befalls him."

The steeds galloped through the hailstorm as the Hundred Pillars loomed ahead.

To Nathaniel, the King was as good as dead. He did not know, nor cared about, what happened to Alistair after he had left the palace. What was done, was done. To the people of Ferelden, he was a hero and the King was a tyrant. Oh, how ironic it is that the King had been their saviour not so long ago. But men were such fickle and ungrateful creatures with short memory spans.

A messenger had brought urgent word from the Tower. This did not bode well. With trembling hands, Nathaniel opened the letter. It was from Wynne. He swallowed hard as he read the first few lines, his heart sinking with each paragraph. His worst fears had come true. He did not know which made him feel worse; the fact that Lucas had been kidnapped or that he had delayed pursuing the vicious Darkspawn to conduct the coup, only for them to take his son. His inaction had cost him dearly.

There were no leads from the Tower. The magi were as bewildered by the creatures as he was. They described strong and intelligent elven-like emissaries, corrupted by the Darkspawn taint. Were they drawn to the child? Nathaniel wondered. They will soon corrupt him, like they did Urthemiel before.

His instincts told him that he must leave for the ruin city of Arlathan immediately. I must find my son.

Nathaniel had gathered fifty of his best men to ride with him. It would be a long journey, but they would sail across the Waking Sea and ride north through the Free Marches, through the mountains and into the old Imperium where the remnants of Arlathan lay. His mind raced with questions. Solona would be looking for Lucas too, he knew. This also meant that her life was probably in danger. He was determined to find them.

The mountain pass had narrowed and a night fog had begun to set, making it difficult to ride. The steeds were exhausted, and so were they. A hollow enclave provided much needed shelter for the night. Zevran lit a warm fire whilst Solona sat pensively by herself. She had said little, her face stricken with worry. A familiar sickness had risen in her gut, which she put down to nerves. Her blood hummed in her veins, reeking more of the evil now. Morrigan was near. Wynne's ring continued to glow a faint yellow.

Strong winds battered the entrance to the enclosure. Zevran shivered as he struggled to keep the fire going.

"Blasted wind!" he cursed. "It never gets cold in Antiva. That is why I do not wear layers."

Solona sighed and conjured a fireball from her hands, igniting the kindling into a large bonfire. The flames crackled as it lit up their faces, much to Zevran's delight. The pair huddled together for warmth. She felt his hand resting on her breast, but was too tired to object.

A scratching sound emanated from somewhere behind them, followed by loud fluttering of wings. Solona and Zevran turned to look at each other, a feeling of dread crossing their faces.

Dragonlings! The sudden realisation occurred to them at the very same time.

Zevran was on his feet immediately. He scanned the darkness around them. Nothing at first, then a barbed tail knocked him over. The dragonling screeched. A strong blast of cold from Solona froze the creature solid to the ground. Nathaniel grabbed a heavy rock, smashing it down on the small dragon, causing it to shatter. Their relief was short-lived. Deafening screeches and fluttering of wings surrounded them. Ten, maybe twenty dragonlings waited to feast on their prey.

"Son of a..." Zevran muttered under his breath.

The two friends backed nervously into the enclosure as the creatures slowly closed in on them. Zevran spotted a narrow crevice, as wide as a man's body, and yanked Solona's arm. They scrambled through the gap as the dragonlings scuppered towards them like a pack of hungry hounds, claws and beaks snapping at their clothes.

"I could have taken them out quite easily really," the Antivan said, as soon as they were safe again.

"I'm not sure about that. But I can say with certainty that your insolence is unmatched," Solona replied unhesitatingly.

They had emerged into a large cavern. It must be at least forty feet high and about as large as a manor. The grey slate was punctuated in places by the most beautiful crystals growing like bunches of colourful trees from the rocks. Large stalactites hung menacingly from the ceiling. The drip drop of spring water echoed throughout the still air.

"There must be a way out through one of these," the elf said as he pointed towards a tunnel. There were many of them in fact, some with entrances so small one would need to crawl on their belly to get through.

"No, we must go deeper." Solona did not know why she said it, only that her senses had compelled her to head in that direction.

They clambered through a narrow and damp burrow, one passageway leading into another as the winding tunnels brought them deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Hundred Pillars. It had begun to get hotter, they noted. Further afield, the iron-rich rocks glowed a sinister red colour. Caverns both large and small adjoined the passageways, branching further off into the unknown.

It was difficult to keep track of time down there. There was no day or night, just darkness. They slept whenever they could and ate a little of what they brought with them. They encountered numerous hostile stalkers and a variety of overgrown carapaced insects which made for easy kill and some foul-tasting fodder. Solona had grown visibly weary and the sickness persisted, but undeterred, she pressed on.

"May I ask you a question?" Zevran asked in that voice. They sat around a campfire, readying themselves for another night's rest after spending what seemed like eternity underground.

"Do I have a choice?" Solona sighed. She knew he meant to pry, as he had so often done with her lately.

"I am asking only as a concerned friend. Well, how shall I put this?" he said hesitatingly. "When was your last...visit from the crimson curse?"

"Whatever in this world do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Well, you have been sick and tired a lot lately," he tried to reason.

"I'll have you know that your euphemisms are cringe-worthy and that is a completely inappropriate question to ask, friend or no friend," Solona replied in a huff. "And I should know for myself if I were with child again, so you needn't feel the need to tell me."

"Your crankiness serves only to further my suspicions."

"Well, I am most certainly not, and you are impossible. We are no longer having this conversation." She was blushing, feeling both embarrassed and offended.

"Fine, deny it," he shrugged. "You know I am always right."

"Often, not always," she corrected him.