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Ciri spotted gray hair and tattoos as she rode into the forward camp in Dirthavaren. "Mihris," she said warmly, swinging down from Zephyr's back. "I hope it isn't too much trouble being back here."
Mihris looked beyond the borders of the camp, to the distant ramparts where the dead walked. Her voice was soft and pained. "I never thought I'd see it like this."
"These shems spoil everything they touch," Mahanon said with a scowl. He nodded to Ciri with surprising politeness and took Zephyr's reins. "Inquisitor."
"Scout Mahanon."
"You saved my clan." He hesitated, then nodded again, his face firm. "Whatever you are, you have Clan Lavellan's respect."
"I'll do my best to be worthy of it."
Olgierd, Solas, Sera, and Dorian dismounted as well, and a few more scouts came to take their horses' reins. Ciri waited until Mahanon came back from the picket line and beckoned him and Mihris over.
"What can you tell me about what we'll be dealing with here?" she asked. "The advisors told me some of it, and Maxwell Trevelyan prepared an assessment of the area for me to read, but you've been here a while."
"That's the –" Mahanon made a face and swallowed whatever he'd been about to say. "The noble with the elf in his family tree, right? Trevelyans. They were the first to reach out to trade with Wycome after the dust settled and our keeper was left in charge. They're alright for…humans. I suppose."
Sera scoffed but didn't interject.
Ciri shook her head at her and turned back to the two Dalish elves. "What can you tell us about the Dalish clan in the area?"
"Clan Rasyluvun," Mihris said. "They come through here every spring. The last time I saw them it didn't go well for me, but it's better now that I belong to a clan again. Mahanon and I have been taking care of things for them. Building up goodwill toward your Inquisition."
"We cleared demons from Var Bellanaris, brought Halan'ghilan back to the camp, helped restock their supplies," Mahanon listed. He grimaced. "Emalien said her brother Valorin went missing a few days ago. She thinks he's trying to prove he deserves to be Keeper Hawen's First over Taven. We haven't found him yet."
"We'll keep an eye out," Ciri said. "Mihris, I thought you were going to join Clan Lavellan in the Free Marches. What changed?"
Mihris shrugged. "First there was all the trouble in Wycome. Then, after, I couldn't leave Mahanon behind. Our clan is in your debt. We'll repay that." She looked away for a second, then back at Ciri, her pale green eyes intent. "And – and I wish to be there, should you see vengeance done."
"I'll do my best," Ciri promised her. "There's still been no word in the advisor meetings about Imshael or Michel de Chevin, but I haven't forgotten."
"Your word is good enough for me."
Solas leaned over Ciri's shoulder to address Mihris and Mahanon. His new robes from Dagna looked good on him, a fine mail shirt over a long-sleeved gray tunic and beneath a long, sleeveless green vest. He wore proper armor now, as well, exquisitely decorated gauntlets and greaves made of a silvery metal, and his new staff shone faintly red beneath the clear blue sky. "Do you have any idea what is behind the dead rising?"
Mihris looked at him as if he were slow. "A mage. Spirits would possess only a fraction of the corpses if magic weren't involved."
"And it has to be someone who wants to cause the most chaos and destruction to both sides of the war," Ciri surmised. "Maxwell's assessment mentioned deserters from Celene and Gaspard's armies. They call themselves Freemen of the Dales, anti-monarchists who wish to claim Dirthavaren for themselves."
Approval glinted in Mahanon's eyes at her use of the Elven name, but he still shook his head at her words. "What does it matter if shems steal the land from shems? They already stole it from us."
"It matters because Sister Leliana believes they've been infiltrated by the Venatori," Dorian told him. "If this is one of Corypheus' plots, we need to put an end to it."
Sera sighed loudly. "We kill the robe raisin' the dead, right?" she said with exaggerated patience. "Then one of the big hats is nice and thankful and invites the Inquisitor to the peace talks with all the other fancy-pants nobles. Maybe they listen, maybe they don't. But Ciri's good at talkin', yeah? So maybe she stops all the fightin'. And all the little people caught in the middle get to go home without wonderin' if they'll starve, or if their house will burn down, or somethin'."
"Go home," Mahanon echoed. "To the Dirth." He pointed north. "Verchiel is four days in that direction. Lydes is seven. What happens if the flat-ears –"
Mihris cleared her throat quietly.
"–the city elves don't want to 'go home' to the alienages?" he asked Sera. "Are they your 'little people,' too?"
Sera wrinkled her nose. "Why's it have to be about ears?" she complained. "Nobles are shite to everyone under their boot. You're not special. We're not special. Stop makin' it about elfy stuff. Wars ruin things for everyone."
"Whoever raised you did you a disservice, da'len," Mihris said gently. "But that's not your fault."
Sera turned away in a huff. "Ugh! Let's go fix things, just plain Ciri. The sooner it's done, the sooner we can get out of here."
Ciri watched her stomp off a short distance, then looked back at Mahanon and Mihris. "Are there other campsites?"
Mahanon nodded and disappeared into a tent briefly. He came back with a large roll of parchment and indicated for her to follow him and Mihris to the table in the corner of the campsite. Olgierd, Dorian, and Solas followed in their wake.
He unrolled it to reveal a map of the area with heavy black marks all across it. "Here is where Clan Rasyluvun is camped," he said, tapping a spot by the river. "And here and here are the ramparts where the dead are rising. The grand duke's army is holed up here in Fort Revasan, led by Marshal Proulx, and the empress' army is stuck across the river on the other side of a broken bridge. Mihris says there's a grove behind the fallen rocks here, with Elvhen ruins and a dragon and wyverns beyond it. This is one of the ramparts that hasn't had undead trouble – Scout Belette spotted soldiers behind the parapets, but they weren't wearing either army's colors."
"Freemen," Ciri concluded.
"Likely," Mahanon agreed. "Here and here are the camps we've established so far. We've spotted Freemen roaming in these areas. Watch out for wolves here and here. And there are rifts here, here, here, here, and here."
Ciri studied the map for several seconds, making note of everything he'd pointed out. "Was there anything else?"
"We found several oculara, those skulls on poles we were told to keep an eye out for," Mihris said, "and we gathered the shards they illuminated. The bag is here in the camp."
"Thank you." Ciri straightened. "We'll deal with the undead first, then come meet Keeper Hawen. Please send word back to Skyhold about the broken bridge and the cave-in."
Mahanon put his fist over his heart and gave the barest imitation of a bow. "We'll see it done."
"Thank you, Inquisitor," Mihris said with an elegant nod.
Ciri led the others out of camp, down the road lined by broken statues of Andrastian heroes with bowls of fire in their hands. Sera's face was still screwed up in anger as they walked along, and Olgierd nudged her gently with his elbow.
"Which bothered you more?" he asked. "The insult to your parents, or that a girl younger than you called you child?"
Sera blew a raspberry. "Stupid Mirry's gray already. Maybe she thinks she's an old lady. And I don't have parents. I'm an orphan, right? Lady Emmald raised me. I don't care if some Dalish girl insults her."
Solas watched her quietly, a faint look of discontent in his eyes. Ciri remembered all his fruitless attempts to find common ground with her on the way to the Storm Coast. It seemed he didn't care to repeat the experience.
"Anyway!" Sera said loudly. "Wot's it matter that this place got taken hundreds of years ago? That was then. We have to live with the problems we have now."
Any potential response was cut off by a shout from up ahead. Solas and Dorian instantly threw barriers over their group as soldiers appeared from around the corners of a damaged archway. The archer with them raised his bow, but Sera had already nocked, drawn, and loosed in one smooth motion, and her arrow soared away to strike him clean in the eye.
The soldiers rushed them with a cry, weapons raised. Dorian swung his staff out, and lightning lanced down from the clear sky, hitting the one in heavy plate with the tower shield with a bright flash. Solas jabbed his new staff forward. One of his powerful green spells sped out and crashed into another soldier with brutal force.
That left two for her and Olgierd. She slid around the soldier's swing, feinting to the right and darting in to slash at his side. Frost-coated blood welled up where Gynvael struck, and she danced back as he lunged at her desperately. She snaked her blade around his and twisted, sending it flying, then struck him across the side of the neck with a backhand strike.
She turned to see Olgierd's opponent crumple at his feet, scorched and bloody. That was the end of them.
Dorian set fire to the bodies and turned to Sera hesitantly, an unusual note of self-effacement in his voice. "I'm one of the last people who should be telling you about elven troubles and how the past matters –"
"So don't," Sera interrupted.
He winced but persevered. "But Max – Maxwell Trevelyan – told me a great deal about his area of study. Did you know there were no alienages before the Exalted March on the Dales? Many of today's problems can be traced back to decisions made centuries ago."
Sera glared at him as they started walking again. "I see a problem, I fix it. Some noble steps on a little person, maybe that noble gets what's coming to him. I can't fix –" She waved her hands at the land around them, at the highway marker telling of the victory over the elves. "– an Exalted March, or alienages! Stop complicating things! And you should get your house in order before you start saying what's what here. Your people have slaves."
He winced again. "Yes. Yes, we do."
"Well, that's that, then." Sera turned away only to fix a challenging eye on Olgierd, who smiled at her slightly. "Wot?"
"You care," he told her. "That's plenty good enough."
Her eyes widened, and she grinned at him. "Yeah, and you're not bad for a mage. And a noble. And whatever else you were."
Her long, thin finger snaked out to poke at one of the visible scars on his chest, and he caught it gently before it could connect.
"A story for another time," he deflected, releasing her hand.
"Piss," Sera pouted.
Up ahead, the wooden walls of the abandoned ramparts rose before them. Ciri could hear the faint sound of rattling within, like dry wood or bones clacking together. A fresh corpse in Gaspard's colors lay on the bridge that spanned the stake-filled trench surrounding the ramparts, and a rotting skeleton in Celene's colors, its armor dented and scratched, stood over it with a sword clutched in its bony hand.
Dorian raised his staff, and the twilight-colored net from the caverns below Crestwood fell across the undead soldier. He yanked his staff back. The skeleton dropped to the bridge with a clatter, leaving a ghostly wraith trapped in the net.
"Let's have a look at you," Dorian murmured as he reeled the net in closer.
The wraith bobbed in place, oddly quiescent, while Dorian peered at it, seeing things that Ciri couldn't begin to guess at. Finally, he released it, and the wraith disappeared without a sound.
"They're tied to something within the ramparts. Another demon is my guess," Dorian said. "And there's another spell holding everything together beyond that, but I couldn't figure out the location."
"It's a good start," Ciri said. "Let's go undo one part of this."
They crossed the bridge, passing the dead soldier and the rotting skeleton, and made their way into the ramparts. The rattling grew louder, and she gripped Gynvael as corpses in both army's colors rose around them.
Fire flew from Olgierd's hand, and a trio of approaching skeletons went up in a tower of flames. Solas gestured with his staff. Another pair burned to a crisp. Ciri lunged at the nearest one as a barrier settled over her, her sword outstretched.
The skeleton parried clumsily, and Ciri thrust her blade through its rusted cuirass and yanked back. It dropped silently, the eerie light fading from the hollow holes where its eyes used to be.
"If it moves, burn it," Ciri said. "Come on."
Solas and Olgierd took the lead as they pushed deeper into the ramparts, fire streaming from their staff and hands. Skin and bone crumpled to ash as spirits attempted to fight through the flames eating through the decaying tendons and rusting armor holding them together. Ciri took careful, even breaths, trying not to let the overwhelming scent of rot and death turn her stomach.
Something screeched hoarsely ahead of them just beyond a short flight of stairs. Ciri stiffened. It sounded like a despair demon, only…only something was slightly off.
Solas cast a barrier again, and he gave Ciri a look of warning. "Be on your guard. I fear the demon that awaits us is more dangerous than our usual foes."
How bad could it possibly be? They'd faced a handful of pride demons and prevailed, and those were certainly not 'usual.' And the Nightmare had tormented them, but in the end, it fell all too easily. Still, she nodded to him in understanding.
They proceeded up the stairs cautiously and rounded the corner. The hoarse screech cut across the rattling sound of the undead rising, and something swooped ahead, something tall and bony, with ragged black robes. And just beyond it lay a pit piled high with bodies, surrounded by a glowing barrier of icy blue-white magic.
"Kaffas!" Dorian swore as he summoned lightning to strike the hovering undead. "Stay out of its range and prepare to dodge!"
The possessed skeleton raised its arms, and blinding blue light collected at the tips of its withered fingers. With a wave of its bony hands, the light flew toward them. Ciri dove out of the way as Olgierd teleported from her side and Solas and Dorian Fade-stepped to safety. Sera somersaulted clear of the spell's path but cursed as a skeleton rose in front of her.
"Shite!"
The blue light clipped Ciri's ankle, and she cried out in surprise, then pain, as it melted through the barrier. Olgierd shouted and threw a ball of fire at the thing, breaking the spell, and she got to her feet and took a limping step. She felt strangely weak, like the skeleton had attacked some intrinsic part of her, not just her body.
It disappeared and reappeared, popping up again and again to cast agonizingly powerful blue spells and strange, spiraling green spells. She managed to strike it with Gynvael twice, but it barely flinched at the icy blade. All around her, Olgierd, Solas, and Dorian summoned fire to combat it. Sera clambered up a post to shoot every dead thing that moved. Their spells hit the barrier occasionally as the skeleton teleported away from the flames, and after one hit too many it flickered and died.
Finally, it fell to the ground at Solas' feet, and the remaining undead soldiers collapsed with it. Breathing heavily, he went to Ciri's side and placed a hand on her forehead, concern written across his face.
"Spirit damage is an unpleasant experience," he said. "You did well facing it. There wasn't much else you could have done with your magic and Fade-step restricted."
Warmth flowed from the palm of his hand into her head and down to her toes, and her lingering weakness vanished. She smiled at him and reached up to give his wrist a quick, grateful squeeze as he pulled his hand away. "What was it?"
Dorian answered her. "An arcane horror. A mage possessed by a pride demon. Exceedingly rare, and given that this one seems to be the anchor for the spell I was sensing, I suspect it was deliberately done."
Ciri looked beyond the bundle of rags and bones to the pit piled high with the dead. "Then the Freemen – and the Venatori – have much to answer for. Let's burn the bodies and move on."
They still had a great deal of work to do.
The rift snapped shut above their heads, and Ciri shook out her tingling hand. She shot Olgierd a look of concern, but he'd already turned away, his face composed. There'd been no help from within the rift today, nor in the one they'd dealt with yesterday. Adventure – Vlodimir – was still absent.
Sera watched him for a moment, then said, a rare note of sincerity in her voice, "Sorry about your demon friend. Spirit. Whatever."
"My thanks." Olgierd smiled faintly at her. "He'd have liked you."
She made a face at that, and he chuckled. "Bad enough I've got that minstrel in the tavern singin' that stupid ditty about me. Don't need a demon tryin' to cozy up to me, too."
Despite herself, Ciri laughed at the thought. "What do you think he'd have called her?" she asked Olgierd. "'My alluring archer?'"
"Eugh." Sera began to stride away, calling back over her shoulder, "Come on, lazy arses! Fort Reva-whatsit's this way."
"Revasan," Solas corrected her, too quietly for her to hear.
Ciri shook her head as she fell into step between him and Olgierd while Dorian hastened to catch up with Sera. "A fort named with the elven word for freedom, in a land stolen from the elves, sitting occupied by Orlesian humans. And many of them are bound to be chevaliers."
Owain had told her plenty about the chevaliers of Orlais before her first trip to Val Royeaux. He'd spoken of their cruelty and barbarism toward commoners of every race, but toward elves in particular, and how they played at civility with a code of conduct they weren't above breaking when it suited them. He'd mentioned their infamous graduation ritual, how on the night an aspirant became a chevalier they took their new sword into the alienage to 'test' its blade against men and women forbidden to own so much as a dagger.
And Grand Duke Gaspard led their order.
"The irony is sharp enough to cut," Olgierd agreed.
Solas gazed around at the devastated landscape. In the distance, a solitary blue cottage stood broken, only two scorched walls remaining. Its red-tiled roof crumpled in to rest where people had once lived. "So much death and destruction," he said quietly. "When the great and powerful order their armies to war, always it is the poor and the innocent who suffer the most harm."
"We'll put an end to it," Ciri said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder for a moment.
He nodded to her with a small, appreciative smile. "I'm certain the common people of the Exalted Plains will appreciate the war coming to a close, and stability returning to the region."
"'Exalted Plains?'" Ciri echoed. "Not 'Dirthavaren'? I'd have thought you would side with the elves on this matter."
He tilted his head in acknowledgment of the question. "I sympathize with their loss and understand the pain they must feel. But I have little patience for the Dalish. They cling to scattered remnants of their past and hold themselves as 'keepers of the lost lore.'" He let out a rather indelicate snort. "I met a Dalish clan in my wanderings. I thought to share my knowledge with them. They were…less than receptive."
"One clan," Ciri rebutted gently. "Out of dozens. And Solas, not to be rude, but you can be…"
His lavender-gray eyes crinkled up into another smile. "You've already called me an ass once, lethallin. Do not hesitate to do so again."
"Condescending," Ciri said instead. "And there's something honorable, admirable, even, in the way the Dalish have preserved what remains of Elvhen culture. So much was lost to history. They took what remained and created a new culture. There's beauty in that."
Solas hummed thoughtfully, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
"What of the city elves?" she asked him. "Do you feel the same way about them?"
"Their plight should be enough to move even the hardest of hearts," he said, "but too many of them have given up on ever having better. They're resigned to squalor and privation. They cannot imagine a life where they stand tall and look humans in the eye. They're shadows of a once-mighty people. Echoes of the last gasp of a dead empire."
"Yes, you're occasionally an ass as well," Ciri said with mild annoyance.
"It is a harsh judgment," he allowed. "But I don't consider them my kin. They're not…" He trailed off in frustration.
He had recent Elvhen blood, Ciri recalled. He hadn't explained just how, though she expected it was much the same as how Leliana and Josephine had woven her own tale, of an ancient elf awakening in the modern world and finding love with one of the elves of that Age. It was a shame he didn't see the other side of his family as worthy of kinship.
"Then who are your people, if not city elves or the Dalish?" Olgierd asked.
"I would count Ciri among them." Solas said it fondly, though he seemed to hold an air of sadness at the thought. "Despite her human form, her blood and magic are deeply Elvhen."
Ciri didn't react other than to smile back at him. But the part of her that didn't feel a sting of regret at deceiving him wondered at that sadness.
Sera called out as they approached a weathered archway bracketed by rocky cliffs overgrown with vegetation. "Fightin' up ahead!"
Ciri unsheathed Gynvael and hurried to catch up. The sounds of steel clashing against steel, and men grunting and shouting, carried toward her down the path. As they rounded the bend, she could see a handful of men in Gaspard's colors facing off against soldiers in similar colors, Celene's colors, and no colors at all. Freemen.
Sera loosed an arrow into the fray, and a soldier in Celene's colors choked and dropped. Combat faltered for a breath as heads turned to see where it came from.
"The Inquisitor!" a man wearing Gaspard's colors cried.
"Kill her!" shouted a woman in no colors. "She's worth a fortune!"
Dorian cast a barrier over their group as Solas gestured almost lazily with his staff. Lightning raced down from the sky, skirting the trees to strike three of the attacking Freemen. Ciri dashed forward, Olgierd at her side.
She found herself shoulder to shoulder with one of Gaspard's soldiers, pushing back a Freeman armed with a mace and buckler. She lashed out with Gynvael, and the Freeman staggered in pain but struck back. His blow swiped through empty space as she dodged nimbly away. The soldier slammed the Freeman with their shield, knocking him to the ground. Ciri darted back in to finish him off.
The fighting died down around her, and she looked around at the surviving soldiers. Some were wincing and gently prodding at their wounds. One stood over a corpse and spat, then kicked it for good measure.
"Olgierd," she said simply.
The soldier jumped back with a curse as flames engulfed the corpses, and she turned away to find their leader.
The soldier she'd fought alongside came up to her and nodded in approval. Their eyes were pale blue beneath their full-face mask and helmet, and their shapeless brigandine was smudged with dirt and blood. The yellow feather in their helmet was ragged.
"You arrived just in time, Inquisitor," the soldier said with a light, clear voice. "My squad and I were just leaving Fort Revasan when the salauds ambushed us. Traitorous deserters – thought they could get the better of the grand duke's chevaliers!"
"They almost did," Ciri said.
The soldier made a small sound of disagreement and pointed up the hill toward the fort. "Our commander, Marshal Proulx, will want to speak with you. He sent a man out to reclaim the western ramparts a few days ago but hasn't had word back."
That would probably be the corpse they'd seen, Ciri realized. "You realize we're here strictly to investigate and deal with the undead issue," she told the soldier. "We're not taking sides in your conflict."
"You will eventually." The soldier sounded confident. "Grand Duke Gaspard is the rightful ruler of the empire, and the sooner the Inquisition acknowledges his claim, the better it will go for you."
Ciri gave them a bland, polite smile. "I'll take it under advisement."
She left the soldiers behind as the flames died down. Olgierd strode along beside her, and he lowered his voice to keep his words from carrying.
"Did my ears deceive me, or did that chevalier attempt to threaten you?"
"They did, and clumsily," Ciri said quietly. "Choose the warmonger who thinks elves are a step removed from animals, and all will be well, or choose the empress who killed thousands of elves to preserve her reputation, and the Inquisition will suffer."
"You intend to act on what we learned in the future?" he asked. "To stop the assassination of the empress?"
She sighed. "That's the plan."
A breath of laughter escaped him. "Your enthusiasm is palpable."
"Politics, Olgierd," she groaned. "The Wardens were one thing, but this? We have people watching her to prevent a dagger in her back and poison in her tea already. Josephine and Leliana suspect Corypheus' agent will strike at the peace talks because it will cause the most chaos, but that just means an entire night of pretending to ignore petty insults from racist nobles while I prepare to save a woman I dislike intensely."
"True," he agreed. His arm dropped around her shoulders for a brief squeeze. "I don't envy you the burden."
"Ha. Thanks ever so much."
"Consider it this way, dear. If Josephine and Sister Leliana are wrong, then you're getting a night of music and dancing in a fancy new gown out of this adventure. If they're right, then all of Orlais will be in your debt by the end of the masquerade."
"Since when are you such an optimist?" she asked him.
"I've spent too much time around good people of late," he said, his eyes bright with amusement, "and it's ruining my ability to be dour."
Ciri grinned up at him. "Good."
She resolved to try to think of it his way. She was looking forward to the new gown, even if it did mean she'd have to deal with a palace full of Orlesian nobility for a night, and it might even be fun dancing with Owain. Though she doubted Orlesian dances were anything like the carefree turns around the campfire she'd taken after closing the Breach.
The soldiers standing guard outside the fortress doors stood to attention at their approach. One of them reached out to bang on the door – three hard, quick knocks. The door swung open from the inside, and Ciri led the way into Fort Revasan.
A stout man in a gilded suit of armor with a rather fanciful full-face mask and helmet caught her eye from across the courtyard. He was another with the distinctive yellow chevalier feather in his helmet. None of the other soldiers seemed quite so important, but another, slower look around the fort's courtyard revealed three more yellow feathers.
Ciri hid her frown and walked over. The chevalier stood from his seat near the wall where he'd been reading through missives and greeted her with the barest jerk of his head.
"Inquisitor." He paused. "I can see why the rumors took hold. Your coloring is quite similar to Celene's, and it's known she takes after her late father, Prince Reynaud."
"Inquisitor Morhen," Ciri said dryly. "I just saved a squad of your soldiers from an ambush. But please, do go on about my supposed bastardy."
The man waved a dismissive hand. "You're no bastard, Inquisitor. An elf-blooded Valmont? Pah. You'd be too much trouble for them to let live." He paused again. "And thank you, of course, for you and your...companions'...most generous assistance. Marshal Bastien Proulx, at your service."
His voice held polite contempt as his gaze went past her shoulders, and Sera made a short, rude noise in response. Solas stayed silent.
"Marshal," Ciri replied with strained politeness.
Ciri's eyes dropped to the sword at his waist. It appeared to be of high quality and well cared for, and the leather grip looked a few decades old. She wondered how many elves had died the night he earned his yellow feather.
"We heard you sent a man to reclaim the western ramparts," she said. "I'm afraid to tell you he failed. We came upon a fresh corpse in the grand duke's colors when we cleared it of undead a few days ago."
"Ah, merde." Proulx made a fist at his side. "Rosselin was a good man. He'll be missed."
"My condolences. We also cleared the undead from the largest of the ramparts. It's safe to return there as well. Our next stop is the eastern ramparts, the ones the Freemen have claimed. Do you have any intelligence on what's happening behind the walls there?"
"Cowards," Proulx growled. "Honorless curs, craven deserters! Soft children with no stomach for war. They came for a skirmish or two, thought they'd be home by supper. Ha! So they ran. And now what? They think they can steal land that rightfully belongs to our emperor? We'll sort them out."
"Marshal," Ciri interrupted. "Who leads them? What will we face?"
"A war mage called Gordian, a deserter from Celene's forces," he said. His helmeted head tilted toward her. "Did that cur cause this? The undead, the demons?"
Dorian stepped in to answer. "To an extent. Any land that's seen so much battle will attract demons, and spirits are drawn to corpses when the Veil is weakened as it is here. But for them to rise in such numbers requires outside interference. We've ended a few of the spells he's cast, but the only way to truly put a stop to it would be for the fighting to cease entirely."
Proulx snorted. "All engagements are on hold until there's an outcome from the peace talks. We'll see if your words are true."
"Who else would be with this Gordian?" Olgierd asked.
"A dozen misbegotten cowards who think the walls will protect them from our wrath," Proulx said, his gauntleted hand tightening into a fist again. "There are more, of course, but Gordian sends them out to harry us and cause trouble. You shouldn't have much of a fight, so long as you can make it past the archers on the battlements."
Ciri nodded. "That won't be a problem."
"Then I wish you luck, Inquisitor. And if you see those painted savages across the river, perhaps you could encourage them to move on." He scoffed and held up his hands at her glare. "Politely, of course."
Ciri held her glare for another second, then turned to leave. "Thank you, Marshal Proulx. This has been an enlightening conversation."
"We heard of your merciful streak, even out here," Proulx called after her. "'The Maker's Hand extends the Maker's mercy.' Do not waste it on the undeserving, Inquisitor, even if you do share their unfortunate blood. If you don't harden your heart to the rabbits, we'll have another Halamshiral riot on our hands."
She stalked back through Fort Revasan's doors, her back stiff with anger. No one spoke as they left the remnants of Gaspard's army behind, but when they were far enough away, Dorian cleared his throat quietly.
"No one would blame you if you left them to their fate. I certainly wouldn't."
"I'd blame myself," Ciri said with a sigh. "No. We'll finish this. Not for them, but for Clan Rasyluvun. They deserve better than to have Dirthavaren overrun by walking dead and demons."
And surely there had to be decent people in Gaspard and Celene's armies. They couldn't all be like the chevaliers.
The eastern ramparts weren't far. Ciri spotted movement at the top of the barricades as they approached, and she gestured subtly. A barrier dropped across her in the same instant that a cry of alarm rang out from up above. An arrow flew toward her, and she spun out of the way, Gynvael extended to cut through the shaft.
Lightning crackled and shot down to strike the deserters on the parapets. As they moaned and yelled, Sera loosed arrow after arrow, aiming for every stray head or hand that poked up from behind the wall. The gates slammed open, and a Freeman in ornate plate armor bearing a tower shield steadily crossed the bridge over the spike-filled ditch, only to halt and cry out in pain as another bolt of lightning slammed into him.
Ciri and Olgierd attacked in tandem, their blades seeking out the few vulnerable places left uncovered by the suit of armor. Olgierd's saber hilt cracked down on the Freeman's wrist. The tower shield dropped with a muted clang against the wooden boards. Ciri struck his side, and the armor gave beneath Gynvael, frost lining the edges of the rents and blood welling up from the gash.
Olgierd swung at the Freeman's neck, right where the gorget met the breastplate. The man choked, then fell, one hand clutching his throat and the other convulsively clutching his sword. He struggled for a long, painful moment, then fell still.
"Is that the last of them?" Ciri asked, rubbing her throat in sympathy.
"Last of these tits," Sera confirmed. "More in there, though."
"Then let's finish this."
She led the way through the gates and into the eastern ramparts. Solas and Olgierd set fire to the bodies as they passed. The interior appeared barren and overgrown with weeds. Despite the Freemen controlling it, they'd left it to run down without any military hierarchy imposing order.
Solas cast another barrier as they approached a smaller gate. Ciri pushed it open and ducked to the side as a knife whistled past her ear.
"Get the Inquisitor!" one of the Freemen screeched. "A fortune to whoever brings the Red Div – urk!"
Sera's arrow snuffed his life out mid-sentence. His compatriots howled and threw themselves forward, blades bared. Ciri engaged a swordswoman, feinting and striking, dodging blows and returning them twofold. All around her, fire and lightning roared and crackled. Solas' green spell smashed a dagger-wielding Freeman into the dirt. Her opponent fell at last, covered in a dozen rime-edged wounds.
She held up a hand and tilted her head to listen as the fighting died around her. Her ears picked up the sounds of shuffling feet and low muttering just beyond the wooden walls. Without a word, they slipped through the narrow opening and wound their way toward the soft voices. Once again, a barrier dropped over her as she approached the gap. She adjusted her grip on Gynvael and stepped out.
A blue-white spell sped toward her, and she somersaulted out of the way only to rise to her feet and dance back as icy glyphs scattered across the ground. A mage all in white, from his white boots to his puffy white hat, stood safely behind another pit stacked with bodies, waving a staff and exhorting his fellows.
More Freemen came out from behind a dismal-looking tree, all armed and out for blood.
Solas swept his staff out with an elegant gesture. The glyphs dissipated, and Ciri darted toward a warrior, free to move again. He was faster than the woman before and just managed to parry her strike. She broke away and feinted left as fire bloomed to the right of her. Then the strange, almost-adrenaline feeling from the Deep Roads filled her again, and the world around her slowed to a crawl.
Ciri cut the Freeman down and moved on to the next enemy, Sera's arrows striking alongside her sword. The third fell to Olgierd. She turned to see Solas and Dorian battering the mage in white, Solas with his green spells and Dorian with haunting purple ones. He toppled over, too, and Ciri swayed for a moment as Dorian's time spell fell away.
"Is that the end of it?" she asked Dorian.
He nodded firmly. "The mage – Gordian, was it? – was the source of the spell creating all the arcane horrors and the undead. Whatever corpses rise now, it will be because of the armies fighting, not because of outside interference."
"Good. Search him, please," she said with a nod to the white-clad mage. "And maybe take a look through that tower for any information about the Venatori. As for the rest…" She gazed about at the fallen Freemen, and at the pit of corpses in the center of the area. "Burn them with the others."
She helped haul the dead to the pit and took a seat on a crate by the wall as the flames began to consume the bodies. Her eyes slid shut, and she leaned back against the rough boards, doing her best not to breathe too deeply. A hand on her shoulder made her look up.
"Nothing about the Venatori," Dorian reported. "Gordian wasn't that careless. But there were missives in the tower to and from a few others in the Emerald Groves. Duhaime, Maliphant, and a Sister Costeau."
Ciri sighed. "We'll send it all back to Skyhold for Leliana to look into."
She got to her feet and looked around. Everyone appeared as tired as she felt. It had been a long few days.
"Back to camp," she said. "Let's hope Clan Rasyluvun is easier to deal with tomorrow than the demons and Orlesians were."
