Hours later they stop for the night, though it could be noon for all Marian can tell. She misses the sky, and the wide-open spaces aboveground. She still feels like the ceiling could fall on her at any moment, but now she's past caring.
Marian finds a corner as soon as they make camp and strips right down to her skin. Her armor is soiled and unsalvageable, at least with what she has at hand. Maybe it can be mended in Orzammar. She manages to shove it all into one pack. Out of sight, out of mind. She sacrifices the last of her shifts and a precious little bit of water to scrub as much of herself as she can, and then her other set of armor goes on, and then she's as clean as she can get at the moment.
She doesn't feel clean, though. She feels disgusting, because the filth is under her skin, and no amount of scrubbing will ever touch it. She stares at her hands; the Blight swims in her blood even now, something that kills not in a blow but by inches, over years. If she'd been told of the Calling, of everything she'd have to give, of broodmothers and the myriad of ugly deaths facing a Warden all those months ago, would she have come with Duncan anyway? Or would she have stayed in the Tower, at Greagoir's tender mercies?
No. Even now, Marian's unable to be less than honest with herself. She'd been so starved for any bit of freedom that she would have taken the first opportunity to get out. Even this. Even if she'd known. She could never have imagined what was in store for her, any of this, not in a thousand years; she would have chosen to leave with Duncan. To her, anything would have been better than the Circle. The thought doesn't bring any peace with it. Marian rather thinks that peace will be in short supply for a long, long time.
Cú's waiting for her when she comes back around the corner. So is Alistair, though he's pretending to muck about with the supplies. She goes straight to him, taking his hand. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice still husky, her throat raw. She searches his eyes for any hint of resentment or unease. She hadn't meant to drop such a weight on his shoulders, but good intentions don't count, not in the end.
He's a little thin in the face, and she is, too. They're not eating enough.
"Don't be sorry," he says, squeezing her hand. "Though you might be when you see what's for dinner tonight." Then he grins, gaunt, scruffy, weary beyond belief. Marian smiles reluctantly back; she's nowhere near steady again, not by any stretch of the word, but at the same time, she can't help it. He does that to her. "That's better. Come on, it's time for some of Oghren's cooking."
When he puts it that way, how can she resist?
Again Oghren's the one to spot the steady line of chip marks in the stone. They're back on Branka's trail. It's a straight shot, with no deviations or crossroads to confuse them. There's no thinking required. That's good; Marian is aware that something isn't quite right with her, inside her head, something beyond the horror and devastation of the broodmother. Alistair isn't quite his normal self, either. As little as she knows of Oghren, he seems the same to her, a walking and talking collection of noxious odors and filthy jokes. Shale is the same – except it's been uneasy and almost nervy since they entered the Deep Roads, moody and quiet at times, knowing things it has no right to know. Something's going on with it. She'd ask, but she knows Shale won't talk about it. And it's growing harder and harder to care. For now, her job is to put one foot in front of the other. She can do that.
There's three more days of this, of the Deep Roads, of endless corridors and caverns and tunnels, brackish water, and something Oghren calls lichen stew.
She feels the darkspawn hovering at the edge of her senses, motion and anger unfettered by thought, but they don't approach. Maybe they have the sense to be afraid, after what they'd done to the broodmother. Or maybe they have something new and even more terrible in store.
The chip line abruptly comes to an end in a rough-cut tunnel of bare rock. This has happened before, usually when the rock around them is visibly the same from one section to another, so they're not worried. There's only one way to go.
Oghren slows; Marian nearly bumps into his back before she catches herself. "If Branka is anywhere, this has to be it," he says, glancing at her as she comes up next to him. "She will not be unprepared."
As a warning, it's not much, but it'll have to do.
She can't imagine what made Oghren stop here, though; it's just a tunnel cut through bare rock. There's nothing, no signs of passage or trail marks, but she picks her way carefully, looking for anything: trap triggers, darkspawn, lights, the inevitable refuse created by many people camping in a spot for longer than a night.
They turn a second corner and then the tunnel dead-ends into a cavern, long and low; at the end she can just see a tent cast atop a tall rock. Marian can't help the impulse to move faster, presented with something that might be an end to this long and soul-crushing trip; the others have to work to catch up and it's lucky they do, because a metal wall slams up behind them, cutting them off from the tunnel. She whirls, her staff already out, but there's nothing there to fight.
It's so hot, heat like a physical force that slaps her in the face. Sweat breaks out on her brow. Her armor is weighing heavy on her shoulders right now, and if that's how she feels, how much worse is Alistair?
She takes a slow breath, stowing her staff as she does. The wall is forged from things she would have called trash at any other time; she can see some flattened darkspawn armor and old dwarven shields scattered throughout. Marian tests the wall with one hand. It doesn't budge. They are well and truly trapped.
"Let me be blunt with you," someone says behind them. Marian spins again – she's going to get whiplash at this rate – and finds that a short, stocky, dwarven woman has miraculously appeared near the tent while their backs were turned. She stands next to the tent and regards them dispassionately, just out of their reach. This can only be Branka. Please Maker, let this be Branka. Marian is so ready to be done with this place. "After all this time, my tolerance for social graces is fairly limited. That doesn't bother you, I hope."
It clearly doesn't matter to her whether it bothers them or not.
Oghren laughs, loud and incredulous. "Shave my back and call me an elf! Branka? By the Stone, I barely recognized you!"
Oh, thank the Maker, it is her.
Though Marian's starting to get an uneasy feeling about their reception...
"Oghren," Branka says, staring down at him with just the same dispassionate expression on her face. She has dark circles around her eyes, and it's hard to tell if it's natural or early signs of the taint. "It figures you'd eventually find your way here. Hopefully, you can find your way back more easily." Marian had suspected there was something wrong with their marriage, but this seems cruel to her. Oghren's her husband, foul and crude as he is, and this is all the greeting she has for him? She had to have known what she was leaving him to, the disgrace and humiliation Orzammar would heap upon his head, and she just... doesn't care. At all.
And then Branka turns her head, dismissing Oghren and pinpointing Marian with her cold eyes. "And how shall I address you? Hired sword of the latest lordling to come looking for me? Or just the only one who didn't mind Oghren's ale-breath?"
"Be respectful, woman! You're talking to a Grey Warden!"
Marian wishes she could believe that she'd done anything to deserve Oghren's defense, but it's probably due more to the uniform she wears than anything else. Grey Wardens aren't heroes to the dwarves, not when fighting the darkspawn is something that the dwarves do every day, but they're a damn sight more useful than most surfacers.
Still, it's nice to hear.
"Ah, so an important errand boy, then," Branka says, relegating Marian to utter insignificance. "I suppose something serious has happened. Is Endrin dead? That seems most likely. He was on the old and wheezy side."
As she speaks, she looks over their little group; Marian and Oghren she has dealt with already, and Alistair is quite obviously another Warden, so she's not surprised that Branka ignores them all. But when she glances at Shale, a more disturbing glint comes into her eyes, something avaricious and grasping, and it's a long, uncomfortable moment before she turns her eyes away.
What was that about?
"Yes," Marian replies slowly. "Endrin is dead. The Assembly finds themselves incapable of choosing a new ruler."
Branka snorts. "There's a surprise." She eyes Marian now, tilting her head; they're taking each other's measure, Marian realizes, like two fighters circling each other in the ring, probing for weakness and doubt.
She wants something, Marian realizes, something she thinks that they wouldn't normally allow.
"Tell me, Grey Warden, what is your involvement in this?" Branka asks, her cool eyes prying and strangely perceptive. "Why would a surfacer be interested in dwarven politics? You must have a patron. A highly-placed patron. And they must want something in particular. Now, what might that be?" Branka snorts. "I don't care if the Assembly puts a drunken monkey on the throne, because our protector, our great invention, the thing that once made our armies the envy of the world, is lost to the very darkspawn it should be fighting." Her voice is rising, passion and anger in equal measure; the sheer belief that rolls off of her is a heady thing indeed. "The Anvil of the Void. The means by which the ancients forged their army of golems and held off the first archdemon ever to rise. It's here. So close I can taste it." Branka's nearly spitting the words at the end; she's almost raving.
Oh. There it is. And now her preoccupation with Shale makes sense; an army of golems would be a potent force indeed. Marian has considered this before, especially after meeting Shale, but it was always theoretical. It couldn't be done.
But if it could...
There's a cruel edge to Branka's smile when she looks up; suddenly Marian's uncomfortably aware of how much of her internal thought process must have reflected on her face. Branka looks like the ratter who's caught the mouse out of their hole.
But who could blame her? If they could have the dwarven armies and a sea of golems to fight the horde – she can almost see it, the implacable, relentless spearhead of golems, who by Shale's example must be an incredible asset at her back. They could save so many lives. Isn't that worth being a little bit greedy?
The Anvil of the Void has been lost to the dwarves since the First Blight. What are the odds that no one has ever stumbled across it before? If it's really here, then they would have had to fight through everything Marian's party has just endured, in some of the furthest reaches of the Deep Roads – but in a millennium, there must have been someone.
But they hadn't returned with the good news. Something stopped them, something more than darkspawn.
Marian lifts sober eyes back to Branka. She's beginning to think this part is compulsory. "There's a catch, though." Branka's eyes tighten, almost imperceptible. Marian knows she's right. "Isn't there."
Branka begins to pace again with a nervous, frustrated energy that worries Marian. "The Anvil lies on the other side of a gauntlet of traps designed by Caridin himself. My people and I have given body and soul to unlocking its secrets. This is what's important. This has lasting meaning. If I succeed, the dwarven people benefit. Kings, politics..."
The disdain with which she says politics rings a bell with Marian, because she is starting to agree – but that's wrong, isn't it? If Branka succeeds in taking the Anvil, whoever ends up as king will do anything in their power to possess it, to take it from her if that's what's necessary. With an army of golems, Branka may be able to hold it, but the dwarves are near to dying out as it is. A war like that would be apocalyptic. And that is politics, just the same as the petty manipulations and double-crossing that Bhelen and Harrowmont are wasting their time with. She's never seen one without the other.
Perhaps some things are so important that they're worth enduring the bullshit.
"All that is transitory. I've given up everything and would sacrifice anything to get the Anvil of the Void."
"Anything," Marian echoes, the words numb on her tongue. "You mean, like Laryn. Like Hespith." She regards Branka, so cold, inside and out. Branka led her entire house down into the Deep Roads. Not a one of them is here with her. "What happened to your people, Branka?"
Branka snarls. "Enough questions! If you wish me to get involved with this imbecilic election, I must first have the Anvil." Marian tilts her head a little, still so cold inside, though now it feel s more like the slick coat of hoarfrost on something impossibly hard. Branka narrows her eyes. "There is only one way out, Warden. Forward. Through Caridin's maze and out to where the Anvil waits."
She could kill Branka here, where she stands, with no more than the lift of her hand. Branka thinks herself so safe upon her little hill. Dwarves think more of cold steel than of mages; they don't know the dangers. What happened to your people, Branka? They are not here, nor are there any traces of their presence, and Branka refuses to talk about them. If even a fraction of them had suffered Laryn's fate –
Marian is not normally the sort to pass preemptive judgement, but Laryn, and Hespith, and a hundred other names Marian does not know whisper in her head, begging for justice, for vengeance, for pity and damnation and peace. For an end, once and for all.
Killing Branka does not get them what they need. Killing Branka means that the Assembly will devolve into endless rounds of debates, politics, and finally civil war; killing Branka removes the dwarven army from their grasp forever.
Marian takes a breath, the first breath in a while, then another, and on the exhale forces herself to let go of her anger and frustration. The hard heart in her chest recedes.
Frustrated, Oghren snaps, "What has this place done to you? I remember marrying a girl you could talk to for one minute and see her brilliance."
Branka just looks at him, her husband, a warrior of her house, the only person in Orzammar who cared enough to find her, and there is nothing at all in her face. "I am your Paragon," she says, and turns, and leaves.
Oghren takes an abortive step forward, lifting his hand like that's going to stop her; but he must realize it's futile, because he doesn't say anything, turning away from them. It's anger that tightens his shoulders, Marian thinks dully, an anger she understands; but with the flush of rage she'd felt earlier gone, she just feels empty.
Of course there's something else. This is never going to end.
Alistair's already examining the wall behind them. "I think we could get out of here," he offers.
"And then what? Go back empty-handed?" Marian shakes her head, echoes of her thoughts before prodding her forward. "We need her, and she knows it."
"It is merely delaying the inevitable," Shale says, sharp, staring at her with those glowing eyes. "The Anvil is there. I can feel it."
Is Shale still somehow linked to the Anvil? Even after all these years?
Marian sighs. "I can't go without you," she says to all of them, avoiding looking at anyone in particular. "Not on my own. But this is not what any of you signed up for." She gives up and closes her eyes entirely. It doesn't really help, but she doesn't want to see their faces right now. "If any of you want to turn back – or just wait here – I understand."
"It is wasting time," Shale snaps, immediately, but further away than before – in the only direction left to go, where Caridin's traps must be.
Startled, she opens her eyes again to find that Shale's six feet down the tunnel, with Oghren trudging behind her, determined and silent. Alistair's waiting for her, hazel eyes watching her steadily. "One day, you're going to stop asking me that," he says mildly as she draws closer. She doesn't think she's imagining the slightest reproof in his voice.
She manages a smile for him. "Maybe I just like hearing you say yes to me."
Alistair leans in and quietly says, just a whisper of air in her ear, "I'll always say yes – to you." And then he leaves her there, threading his arm through the leather straps of his shield as he follows the others.
Marian takes a breath, sweeter than the one before, and lets that wash through her like a rising tide. And then, when she's ready, she turns to enter Caridin's gauntlet.
They find the dwarven bodies first. Oghren is already turning one over when Marian catches up, his huge eyebrows cutting a hard line across his face. "There's another one over there," he says, jerking his thumb at the other side of the corridor. "Not dead long, by the looks of him."
The one in front of them is unmarked. It's impossible to say how he died. The other one, though... His entire abdominal cavity is missing, ripped out of him by something impossibly strong.
"Darkspawn," Alistair says flatly. He draws his sword and paces softly and cautiously up the tunnel. There's a corner there, and straight ahead – is that lava? Of course it is; no wonder it's so hot down here. Marian follows at a slight distance, taking down her staff, watching Alistair's back like a hawk.
Branka's voice echoes from somewhere in front of them. "I needed people to test Caridin's traps," she says. "There is no way to break through except by trial and error. I sent them in..." She doesn't even sound like she's talking to them, but who else is there in this place? "They were all mine, pledged to be my house, and they didn't want to help. They tried to leave me, even my Hespith."
Mad as she must be, as Marian must believe that she is, Branka actually sounds truly hurt.
Marian can feel the darkspawn here, closer than ever, pressing on her every nerve. It feels like a medium-sized pack, but there's a bright, pulsing point among them; she doesn't know what that means.
And then Branka says, her voice dropping to implacable, far-away depths, "But even she couldn't understand that when you reach for greatness, there are sacrifices. As many sacrifices as are needed."
She can see Branka now, standing behind a wall that keeps her safe, at both a literal and figurative remove from the carnage before her.
Sacrifices, she'd said. Damn her to the Void. They'd been her house, to preserve and defend, and she threw them away on a whim to further her mad ambitions. Orzammar simply does not have enough people in it to absorb this kind of loss. Are even limitless golems worth this kind of wholesale murder?
Then Alistair shouts, his battle cry echoing off the roof of the cavern, and throws himself shield-first around the corner. Marian whistles forward and defend at Cú to keep the heat off of Alistair for a few precious seconds; she takes the last few feet of the corridor at a dead run and finds herself in the middle of the darkspawn as soon as she turns the corner.
She cages an alpha immediately – was that the bright spot she sensed? For once, it looks like they've surprised the darkspawn instead of the other way around. They're scattered across the whole cavern, hurlocks and genlocks unfolding with inhuman, jerking movements, standing and turning to stare at the intruders. There are three archers not five feet from Marian, laying volleys of arrows into Alistair's raised shield; she spins cold from her bare hand and freezes them all. Now that he can drop his shield Alistair lays into the ones surrounding him with a will, holding them for Cú's teeth in the rear.
Shale rips an actual boulder out of the ground and throws it at the archers. They shatter satisfactorily.
The alpha is already dying as she turns to survey the field, and when it's done they mop up the rest in ones and twos.
"She shouldn't have gone," Branka says, picking up the lingering trail of conversation like nothing had happened. "She was pledged to me. She swore she'd do whatever it took to find the Anvil."
"She said you betrayed her, Branka," Marian snaps, glaring at Branka.
Branka takes a half step forward, like she can't help it. "There was no other choice," she says. For the first time, there's an appealing note in her voice, the tone of someone actually trying to convince their audience. "Most of them were dying of the taint already, but some... some of the women were... transforming." Her voice drops. "I knew what they would become. There would be an endless supply, fresh darkspawn to test the traps. They could still serve me, let me find the Anvil. It was the only way..."
And then she's gone into her mind again.
Sacrifices, she'd said. Branka had done this deliberately. With forethought. With full knowledge of what would happen. Branka is not tainted in her body, but in her mind, in her soul. And they have to secure her willing cooperation. There is no other option.
Under the dirt and soot, Oghren's face is pale.
Marian is flushed with heat, with impotent anger, but at the same time a cold, hard knot grows slowly in her stomach, creeping into her chest, icing over her heart. She cannot afford to feel this. She cannot afford the killing rage, or the hoarfrost that chills her spirit, not if she wants to keep her hands from Branka's throat.
She cannot kill Branka. She cannot.
But oh, how she wants to. Some things are – must be – unforgivable.
There's another pack of darkspawn before them, with one of the magic-users far in the back just as Marian is behind their own lines supporting her friends; she sends Shale over to hold the emissary's attention and they sweep the rest of the darkspawn before them on their way to join it. With five they kill it quickly, and do the same to the ogre that's at the vanguard of the next pack. They're too bunched up, though they don't know it; Marian kills half of them with area spells before the others are even finished with the ogre, and then they mop up the rest and move on.
They've been fighting down here for so long. It surprises her a little, but they've integrated into a tight, effective team. Even Oghren.
Branka calls something after them, but it's too far, and it's too late, and Marian refuses to hear it.
At the end of this tunnel is an actual doorframe, empty of any door; a haze of green gas hovers in the room beyond. It's hard to see anything inside the room itself.
Cú sniffs the air a few inches from the doorway and hacks tremendously, gagging, and then retreats to stand by Marian. He's whining under his breath.
"I'm with him," Alistair says uneasily. "That looks hazardous to our health."
There are torches in there; she can just see the soft glow from here. So the gas isn't flammable, or explosive. It might be poison, or chokedamp, which she'd read about once but only in passing, or a hundred other things. "Oghren?" she asks. "Do you know what this is?"
"It's not chokedamp, if that's what's in your head," Oghren says. He spits out part of his moustache, and Marian carefully turns her thoughts from what that might taste like. She wants no part of that. "What you normally get in a mine, it's invisible, see? That's why it's dangerous. This is something else."
She approaches the doorway slowly, and when she nears it Marian reaches out a hesitant hand; but it doesn't feel like anything. She glances over her shoulder at Alistair, watching her; he shrugs.
Someone's got to try it. Not Shale, who while sapient is not organic; Oghren is a dwarf, and dwarves have a slight immunity to certain things down in the depths of the earth, or so she understands; Cú cannot tell them what's wrong.
Marian takes two long strides, which puts her into the room proper, and immediately she realizes why Cú was hacking – the gas burns, searing her mouth, her throat, her lungs, until they feel like they're on fire. It already hurts just to breathe.
"It's like acid!" Marian shouts back to the others, coughing wet and guttural. Cú is already following her, obviously unhappy about it but drawn to her side. She winces. Alistair is there too, giving her a dirty look.
There are three doors in three different directions, all closed – Which way is the way out? Perhaps that's the trap, to pick the right door under pressure, but they all look identical to her. Maker, her throat hurts.
She moves forward into the center of the room, coughing into her elbow, hoping that something will call out to her with closer examination.
There are statues there, arranged around the center, staring at an empty point in the floor. As she draws closer, through the fog of gas she begins to make out more detail –
They're not statues. They're golems. Larger than Shale by about six inches, they absolutely tower over her, terrifyingly large, menacing and silent.
And then one of the statues moves, turning its head toward her in slow, grating movements to stare at her as the rest of its body wakes from its long hibernation. Its arm breaks free next, and it reaches for her as she backs away.
"Golems!" Marian shouts, but that makes her cough again until she nearly gags – this fucking gas is going to kill them if they have to fight, she realizes with dawning horror. She cages the golem to buy them a little time; at least only one woke, she thinks, looking around to see three other still, silent golems.
Oghren takes a detour on his way over, though, and she turns her head as he goes by; something's caught his attention. She watches him, one eye on him and one eye on the golem, silently counting the seconds until her spell crumbles, and all the while the burning in her chest deepens. She heals Cú, who has been in the gas as long as she has with less choice in the matter.
Oghren goes over to a queer mechanism set into the floor; it's only a lever, so she has to assume that there's more to it, buried under the floor. It takes Oghren real effort to engage the lever but once he does, he calls out to them. "I think these turn off that sodding gas!"
Looking around the room, Marian can see three more levers. She tries to call out, to direct the others, but her throat is so much raw meat now, and in any case they already know what to do. Oghren and Cú take on the golem when it wakes. Marian heals herself on the way over to the last lever; it's not enough, but it helps.
Oghren hadn't been exaggerating how hard moving the lever is. Something feels like it's rusted, deep inside the mechanism, and she has to set her back to the handle and push with the greater strength in her thighs before the lever will engage. There's a deep thunk inside the wall, something closing with decision, and almost instantly the air in the room starts to clear.
Oh, thank the Maker. She can endure, now that there's an end in sight.
Marian hangs back for the rest of the fight, as the golems come to life one by one and attack with mindless, implacable power, caging each freshly awakened golem in pain, healing as she can.
The last of the central golems falls, and she automatically looks to the next golems standing in alcoves in the walls – but they don't move. Even after they wait for what feels like endless minutes, they stand, bearing silent witness.
Perhaps they're – inert? Dead?
Marian creeps closer to one, and when that prompts no response she lays a hand on its massive sculpted gauntlet, but – nothing. She looks over her shoulder and cocks an eyebrow at Shale; it looks at her, and then deliberately looks away, at the now-open empty door.
All right, then.
She makes sure everyone's all right before they move out, down the next hallway; it's littered with corpses, dwarves and golems alike, which she does her best to ignore. The next room is longer than the last, a long stretch of plates and golems hidden in alcoves in the walls.
She'd give anything for Leliana right now, or even Zevran; she's never seen a more obvious trap.
Marian tries a stonefist on the first and most likely trap trigger, and when that does nothing she sighs. Alistair was right before, she thinks, trying to convince herself. I am the only healer...
She hates asking anyone to do what she's not willing to do herself.
"Would someone mind – "
Oghren cuts her off, shoving past her. "You talk too sodding much," he says as he passes her, trudging down the hallway, his axe propped on his shoulder. He doesn't even hesitate before walking over the plate.
Holes snap open in the walls on either side, and a massive, round blade spins out from right to left, passing directly through where Oghren had been a moment before; with reflexes shocking from a dwarf in heavy plate, he's already thrown himself forward, out of the path of the blade.
Almost.
The blade shears right through the toecap of his boot, cutting through metal and flesh like they're nothing. He cries out, an instinctive reaction to pain that devolves into a bestial roar, huge and loud and raw with bloodlust. He turns on them. For a long, taut moment, Marian is genuinely afraid. Oghren doesn't know them. He only knows his pain. There are so many stories of berserkers killing even their nearest and dearest, and they're even hardly that important to Oghren –
The two golems between Oghren and the rest of the party groan into motion and life, and Oghren is on them before they even start to move. Marian allows herself one shaky breath before she goes to help.
Afterward, Oghren won't let her examine his foot. He insists that he's fine. Marian, who can see the bloody stumps of his toes from where she stands, does not agree, but neither can she tie him down and rip the boot from his foot the way she wants to.
It's not like she can reattach his toes, anyway.
She sets Shale and Alistair to setting off the remaining traps as she lays healing spell after healing spell on Oghren's foot, all while he grumbles about weak surfacers. But at least he can stand when she's done; Marian will count that as a job well done.
They pass through, and out, and down another corridor, only to find an actual door this time. Marian glances at her companions, a silent check to see if they're ready, and when no one speaks up, she opens the door.
This is a large cavern, hollowed from bare rock; in the middle is a huge dwarven statue, descending from a stalactite that bows down from the tall ceiling. Four anvils stand at what Marian imagines are cardinal points. The statue's round base is intricately carved, stone faces with angry brows and open, screaming mouths, all angular, harsh lines and corners where she doesn't expect them. And... Their eyes glow, like the smallest clouds of fireflies clustered there instead of eyes.
Could it be watching them? Could it be some kind of golem, only stationary? There's magic here, of course, but – there's lyrium all over this cavern, veins left naked on the ground and an elaborate, organic tracery all over the ceiling. She shivers. Raw lyrium is death to a mage's touch, to her touch; if she even stumbles wrong in this room...
Marian resolves to keep her footing very carefully indeed.
It's hard to tell what might be the statue and what's lyrium. The Veil is a little thin here, worn and weary, but if Branka sent her people in as far as this, then that might be fuelled by their deaths, their pain. She can't catch the thread of what kind of magic might be in the statue. That there is something she has no doubt. It must be something that a dwarf could craft, since dwarves do not have the capability to work magic. To her, that says lyrium. The dwarves work lyrium in runes, in carvings and frameworks, and this creation is pure stone. It must be somewhere, but where?
"I don't like this," Marian says quietly. She can't make herself speak over a whisper; deep in her heart, she fears what might be listening.
Shale snorts. "Caridin's traps have only been dangerous to fleshy creatures." It moves forward, toward the statue, and Marian lunges to pull it back but she can't get a grip on its arm – why must it be so large –
But it's too late. The statue's eyes flash, lighting up the area around it. It spins one quarter turn to present an identical face, and each face spits out a ghostly dwarf, like the ones at Soldier's Peak.
The spirits don't attack, not at first, but they do not like their presence. They shout wordless threats, taunts, stamping and pounding the ground like brontos, but they don't come any nearer.
Alistair ventures closer, his shield raised, but the one nearest them won't be drawn. He prowls, pacing side to side, but still he remains, even when Marian blasts the ground next to him with fire. It's like he's protecting something. The statue? But no, for Shale has circled around the dwarf and is now threatening him from between him and the statue, and that doesn't seem to bother him overmuch.
The anvil?
"Take him," Marian orders, and for all of the dwarf's blustering, they send him back to the Fade very quickly, indeed.
When he dies, his strange, ghostly body falls against the anvil, and then it's gone, like it never was. But the anvil – It takes on a strange, faint, flickering glow then, and Marian pauses, confused and yet fascinated. The others are streaming toward another ghost, another face, but she turns, crouching close by the anvil – probably too close, in fact, but she needs to understand. Something strange is happening here.
When she reaches out with her mind, the anvil doesn't taste like anything, but there's a curious sense of potential about it, something empty that waits. It could still be a trap, but... she doesn't think so.
The statue created the ghost, who empowered the anvil. Does that power come to her? Or perhaps all four anvils are needed?
Marian looks over her shoulder, checking on her friends, but they're fine. They're killing the second ghost now – and she can see from here that his body falls against the anvil there, and then disappears, the same way the first one had. The statue waits, indifferent malice in the screaming faces.
Marian makes up her mind; they will get nowhere if she thinks and overthinks herself into a shallow grave. She darts forward and places her hand on the flat top of the anvil – it's cold, she can feel it even through her glove –
A bright pulse of energy flies past her. She throws herself backward, away from the anvil and the statue both, but it homes in on the statue like an arrow, striking it square in its screaming face. There's a burst of energy then, the face's firefly eyes exploding, and then they're replaced by – Oh, Maker. Its eyes are bleeding. Bleeding. It spits blood directly at her, not just in her direction but aimed, bypassing her shield and armor both, piercing the very heart of her.
Marian cries out, taken by surprise; it feels like a cold spike has lodged itself in her chest. She scrabbles at her armor, looking for the wound, but there's no hole, no physical damage, not even a trace of blood on her armor. There's just an ache in her cold, cold heart, one that spreads down to her fingers and toes and back.
After a moment, though, she finds she's well enough to stand. She retreats toward the others – the anvil there is no longer glowing, though. They're making for the third spirit when the statue groans into movement, pivoting on the center column a quarter-turn to present a new face to each side. And then it throws out a fresh wave of spirits...
"Wait," Marian says, dragging her friends away, back toward the door. They can't just throw themselves at this.
They confer, quickly; Shale volunteers to take the vanguard while the face is bleeding, for it thinks it can take the hit without feeling it the way the others would. They'll take turns touching the anvil – except for Marian, who as the healer must keep herself safe.
That stings almost as much as the statue's darts did.
The statue turns once more, presenting a fresh face. They know what to do now, or at least they hope they do; the spirit dies, empowering the anvil, which Alistair touches, throwing the energy back at the statue to damage it. Hopefully. Oh Maker, please let me be right. They're all in range of the face as the eyes flash red and it strikes at each of them impartially. Cú whimpers in a way that breaks her heart. He, the least able to complain of any of them, deserves none of this.
The statue turns.
There's a rhythm to this fight that Marian can't quite catch. She thinks they might have done better to turn the circle opposite of the way the statue rotates, instead of moving with it, as they are; it's too late now, of course, but she takes that to heart anyway. They do better at keeping out of range of the bloody darts, at least; as they follow the statue around the circle, endlessly 'round and 'round, she needs to heal less and can help more, taking down the spirits faster, skipping out of the quarter-circle before its face can attack.
The statue turns.
But then it comes hard again, for the statue starts summoning tougher enemies, as if it's responding to the things they've already managed to accomplish. As if it's defending itself. They struggle to take down the spirits, now, and the faces spit blood at all of them, over and over and over again; it's hard not to think of blood magic.
The statue turns.
The first face shudders and goes quiet. For the first time, only three spirits are summoned. She takes heart from this, the first sign that they might be winning. She's exhausted, her spells coming so slow, and Cú and Alistair especially are looking very bad indeed, but if they can just hold on long enough... Oghren slaps the anvil hard enough that his gauntlet rings through the cavern, and the face falls silent and still.
The statue turns.
Shale knocks the spirit down immediately, and this is an easy kill, thank the Maker. It leaves them without a second glance to go for the last spirit; Alistair rolls his eyes and touches the anvil before he follows it to the spirit. The last spirit. The last one.
The thought wakes her a little, and she follows, carefully staying out of the face's range, as she knows she must. It fights, and it falls, the same as the last, and Oghren touches the anvil, and the face settles to quiet, implacable stillness once more.
Marian holds her breath, staring at the statue, waiting for a new horror – but the time for a fresh wave of spirits comes and goes. The firefly eyes do not reappear. The anvils are inert, as they were before.
Can it truly be over?
They wait another minute, but nothing happens.
"Maker, I could sleep for a year," she says, closing her eyes.
"Come on," Alistair says, nudging her toward the only other opening here, what must be the way out. "It's time for a rest anyway."
Marian sits against the wall where she's told, crosses her legs and stares down at her hands, trying to find some composure, to center herself and let her magic come back to her. It's harder than it ought to be. It's difficult to care, even though she knows she should, that this isn't like her.
She's still cold inside, even though she's sweating from the outrageous heat.
She heals Cú first, wincing at the drying blood caked in his fur. She brushes at it, scraping off what she can while petting him, though the stuff that's still wet smears worse than ever. He shouldn't even be here. None of them should be, but especially him; he's only here for her, because they're bonded. "I don't deserve you," she whispers, her eyes stinging with tears. He noses her, whining low in his throat, and she laughs, a little damp. If nothing else, he is determined to be hers, and hers alone. "All right."
All right. Enough of that.
Oghren is next, and though he grumbles all the while, finally he lets her actually look at his foot. He's lost the last two toes, half of the third, and just the nail on the second, but she'd apparently healed the stumps with raw, brute force healing energy. It's interesting, actually; she probes the new, tender flesh that covers his wounds, wondering at the idea that magic can force this kind of growth. Oghren giggles – actually giggles – while making the most outrageously disgruntled face she can imagine.
Is he ticklish? Oh, no; she's never going to be able to look at him again without remembering at the back of her mind that this loud, crass, irascible berserker is ticklish.
Oghren glares at her and pulls his foot out of her hand, stomping away in affront. She's too tired to laugh, too tired to do anything except close her eyes and shake her head.
Shale leaves Alistair to watch and comes for its turn next; it doesn't seem inclined to bend down to her, but it's also not badly hurt, so a few healing spells does well enough. It leaves when she's done to relieve Alistair, who takes one look at her and kneels down so she can reach him.
"You've looked better," he says quietly, searching her face.
"So have you," she says, rueful. She sighs. She actually does need a break; she'd used everything she had in this last trap, and there's no way of knowing how many more there might be before the Anvil. "I could really use a long rest."
Alistair shrugs. "Then that's what we'll do. Branka's waited this long, she can wait a little longer."
They make it a real rest stop, passing out some dried food from the Legion and huddle together, in this corridor in the darkness.
