Part Thirty-Six: The best laid plans
The journey to the Valley of Sacred Ashes is something of a blur. They push themselves as hard as they dare that first day, until they start to become dangerously spread out. Solas is the first to fall behind, and then Vivienne. Cassandra and Blackwall, meanwhile, get so far ahead that Dorian loses track of them in the swirling snow. The Inquisitor keeps tighter ranks after that, riding up and down the line with Harding, rounding up any strays.
Dorian spends his evenings in conference will Solas and Morrigan, sharing the fruits of their respective research projects in an effort to anticipate what they might face. Cole contributes what he can, snippets of thoughts and emotions snatched from Corypheus's head. Vivienne hovers over them, making the occasional comment, but she hasn't put in the real work, not like the rest of them, and she rarely has anything fresh to add.
The others go through their own preparations. The warriors sharpen their blades and oil the joints of their armour. Sera and Varric tinker with their toys, filling vials and setting springs. The Inquisitor, meanwhile, paces like a caged animal, lost in his own thoughts. He's so focused on the task ahead that he's scarcely present at all. Dorian wants so badly to go to him, to say all the things he should have said before they left, but he knows it would be a mistake. The man pacing in the snow right now isn't his lover. He's no one's friend, or brother, or even commander. He's the Herald of Andraste, and in a few hours, he's going to have to save the world.
And Dorian? He fully expects to die. He could almost be at peace with that if he could hold his lover one last time. Fix the horrible mess he's made. But that's not going to happen. At least the elf's clan is safe. Maker willing, he can go home when this is all over. Return to the forest with Maggie and be free. The thought brings a smile to Dorian's face.
The last night is the longest. No one sleeps. No one speaks. The moon seems to hang suspended in the sky, like a clock pendulum arrested mid-swing. And then morning comes, and the clock unwinds completely. Noon follows hard upon the dawn – then afternoon, and evening, the hours unfurling so quickly it's terrifying, as if one of Alexius's spells has gone horribly awry. Dorian can feel the final moments of his life slipping through his fingers like sand, and the only consolation is that by the time Haven appears on the horizon, he's so jittery that he feels as if he has power to spare.
The Inquisitor reins in at the edge of the village, turning to face the rest of them. "Does everyone remember their part?"
"We remember, Inquisitor," Blackwall answers gravely. "We won't fail you."
"I know you won't. None of us will fail. The gods are with us, my friends, mine and yours. May they guide our hearts and our blades." So saying, he swings down from his horse, loosens his knives in their sheaths, and starts toward what's left of the gate.
He takes only a single step before an explosion rocks the valley. The ground bucks beneath them, and a split second later a wave of energy hurtles out from the temple, striking the elf full in the chest and knocking him back several feet. Dorian's horse screams and rears up; he's thrown, landing flat on his back. Thank the Maker for deep snow, he thinks, which is certainly a first. Even with its cushion, the fall knocked the wind out of him, and he lies there a moment, stunned.
Bull hauls him to his feet just as a demon erupts out of the shadows; the Qunari twists, shielding Dorian with his body as claws the size of harrow blades rake his flesh. Bull grunts, dropping Dorian back in the snow and reaching behind him to grab the terror hanging off his shoulder. He flings it to the ground beside Dorian, which would not have been Dorian's first choice, but at least he has the good manners to dispatch it before it can do any more damage. Then another demon appears, and another – and suddenly they're everywhere, a shrieking black tide of teeth and claws and withered flesh, and Blackwall is shouting orders and the companions are fanning out and Bull is shoving Dorian toward the gate, where a flash of silver hair has just disappeared around a corner. The Inquisitor is making for the temple. Cassandra will be with him. Dorian hesitates, throwing a conflicted glance at his companions, but another shove from Bull reminds him of his orders, and they leave the chaos behind, plunging into the shadows of the ruined village.
Dorian trails the Qunari through a maze of rubble, their path guided by the distorted shrieking of demons as it echoes off the stone. He tries not to think about where they are, what it looked like before the archdemon reduced it to rubble. That thing is here somewhere, waiting for them. And so is Corypheus. That explosion was spirit energy, more powerful than anything Dorian has seen before. The enchanted trinkets the four of them are wearing will be all but useless against power like that.
Which is why you're Barrier Boy today. Not the most glamorous of roles in a battle, but Dorian's usual arsenal of spells will be next to no help. Not against a darkspawn magister. Conserve your energy, the Inquisitor ordered him. Wait for your moment.
He's clear on that part of his instructions, at least. How he'll know "his moment" when he sees it is another matter entirely.
They're almost at the temple. A sickly red glow lights the treetops, and Dorian can already feel the red lyrium, its tendrils probing, squeezing his skull, as if testing his brain for ripeness. He fights down a wave of nausea as they take the final stairs two at a time…
And there he is. Corypheus. Dorian's knees go a little weak, but all in all, he finds himself surprisingly calm. One can only contemplate one's own doom for so long, he supposes, before even that becomes a bore.
"I love what he's done with the place," Dorian mutters, eying the bristling shards of red lyrium, the floating boulders spinning gently on their axes.
Bull's only reply is a low growl.
Up ahead, the Inquisitor stands defiantly before the darkspawn magister, as fragile and beautiful as a snowflake before a raging fire. Corypheus bows to him with a sneer. "I knew you would come."
Dorian snorts. What? You've lured us into your cunning trap? Clever you. Honestly, he expected better from a thousand year-old mage.
The elf points a dagger at his head. "It ends here, Corypheus."
"And so it does."
The magister's clawed hands flare with red light, and the ground lurches beneath them, so hard that Dorian nearly loses his footing. It feels like a lift going up – which is exactly what it is. Dorian watches in mute horror as the temple is torn from the earth below, and them along with it, insects clinging desperately to a weed that's been pulled up by the roots.
This was not among the scenarios he discussed with Solas.
When the lift stops, they're half a mile above ground and surrounded by the remnants of Haven, broken towers and shattered walls bathed in the bloody glow of red lyrium. It's like being back in the Fade, and for a moment Dorian actually wonders if that's what's happened. But no – the elf's hand isn't glowing. The anchor is silent, at least for now.
Corypheus, alas, is not silent. Like every other power-hungry madman they've come across, he's fond of making speeches, and he gives one now, eviscerating his enemy with devastating words like interloper and gnat. How can this man possibly be Tevinter? Dorian's gardener has a sharper tongue. Just for a moment, he catches himself thinking that perhaps this creature isn't so formidable after all.
Only a fool tempts fate with a thought like that.
A chilling growl sounds from the shadows. Claws hook over the broken stones above Corypheus, and the archdemon hauls itself into view, perching on the ruined wall like a god-sized carrion crow. It smells like carrion too, reeking of death and decay, the heat of its fetid breath rolling over them as it snarls.
The companions exchange glances.
Anytime now, Morrigan.
Dorian reaches for the Veil, trying to sense the witch's casting. He can feel tugging in the distance – Solas and Vivienne battling the demons below. He can feel the power rolling off Corypheus in waves. But that's all.
The realization sinks like a stone to the pit of Dorian's stomach.
Something is very wrong.