The moon had veiled itself and only a sallow starlight filtered down to the valley below. Most of Ostagar's occupants had already departed, following the winding road that led down to the valley floor. The ruins seemed quiet without the bustle of men and Mabari; a pall of melancholy hung over the mossy, tumbledown walls. Somewhere, hidden within the dense-packed pines on the far side of the slopes, Mac Tir stood at the head of three thousand nervous men.
Flora found it strange passing through the desolate Warden encampment; Duncan had long since led their brethren to the descent. Now only their detritus remained: a cloak hastily shrugged off and hung on a tent pole, a helm dented beyond repair abandoned on the dirt. Beside an abruptly-quenched, still smouldering campfire, a dozen bottles of ritewine were planted defiantly in the mud.
She waited outside their tent as Alistair finished changing into his distinctive striped mail and griffin-carved breastplate; hearing him mutter a curse as he knocked something over. Without servants present to fuel the braziers, most of Ostagar was drowned in darkness. Flora put her mouth to the gap in the canvas:
"Could you bring my staff out please?"
There was a reluctant pause. Finally:
"Where's the blasted thing?"
Alistair's voice echoed within the recently vacated space.
"Under my bedroll, I think."
A few moments later he emerged, ducking to avoid the roof of the tent; clutching Flora's staff as though it were flaming at one end and dripping poison from the other. Flora took it with a grimace, putting her nose to the wood.
"Oh!" she breathed in dismay. "It smells like- like mould."
"It's covered in mildew," replied Alistair, relieved to have discharged responsibility of the magical object. "That's what happens when you keep it under the bedroll and never take it out. Why don't you use your staff, anyway?"
"I use it sometimes," replied Flora vaguely, unceremoniously wiping her staff on the bottom of her tunic. The parchment scroll that Duncan had given her rustled against her breast and she thought again on his words to her: keep it safe.
"Hm. Come on, I need to fetch my sword. Don't suppose I'll be using it, but you never know."
They passed a gaggle of priestesses on their way to the smithy, clustered together like a flock of snow-white pigeons. Lanterns and censors were clutched in their gloved hands; they had just returned from ministering to the troops on the valley floor. Several of the younger priestesses smiled at Alistair, tall and handsome in his gleaming armour; offering him blessings and oil from their sacred vials. They ignored Flora.
"Here," said Alistair once they had passed through the crowd, dabbing some pungent oil from his forehead onto Flora's. "Now the Maker will protect you too."
"My spirits protect me," replied Flora, struggling to keep her staff on her shoulder. The leather carrying strap was too long; she kept tangling the wooden length between her knees. "Ow."
Shorten the buckle, advised her general-spirit, irritably. What's the point in getting bruised knees?
The Tower of Ishal loomed to the east sprawling fortress, leaning at a slight angle like a drunken sentry. It was an awe-inspiring piece of architecture: two hundred feet of solid granite, flanked by vast support buttresses and ringed with glass-filled arches. It had weathered the Ages well; only one of the buttresses had crumbled away - causing the slight tilt - while a handful of shattered windows stared like blind eyes. A gentle stone ramp, rippled from centuries of footfall, rose to a set of iron-studded wooden doors at its base.
The battlements that curved, chain-like, away from the Tower provided a view of the valley floor below. Alistair leaned against the weathered stone and peered down into the darkness, straining to see the flaring pinpricks of torchlight that would declare the battle begun. It was like gazing into a well: the moon had turned away, taking its wreath of stars with it.
"As soon as we see the fires below, we enter the Tower," he said for what seemed like the hundredth time, adjusting his pauldron. "Flora! You aren't even looking. Are you eating again?"
Flora shrugged: leaning against the ramparts with a small piece of cheese in one hand and wax paper in the other.
"We didn't have dinner," she reminded him, defensive. "The king called us to his tent. I can't climb to the top of that without a snack."
She tilted an accusatory chin towards the lofty roof of the Tower.
Alistair looked about to protest, then relented with a half-smile and a shrug.
"I was annoyed to miss dinner too," he confessed, reaching out to slide the wax paper from between her fingers. "Wednesday is sausage night. I don't know what's in the sausages exactly - best not to ask - but they taste good."
His fingers worked at the wax paper, folding it with a familiar ease. A Mabari emerged, with four stiff little legs and a stub of a tail. He handed it to Flora, who gazed down at it in awe.
"Better than the food they used to serve up in the monastery," he said, the words running slightly quicker from nerves. "They'd only have meat once a week. I mean, you'd think they were feeding nugs rather than a host of boys. Ah, but why am I thinking about sausages when… when…"
The sentence trailed like a strap dangling from an ill-fitting saddle. It did not need to be finished: the words hung unspoken in the air.
When, a mile away, our brethren are about to meet their destiny; one way or another. With Duncan and King Cailan at their head.
Alistair shot Flora a reproachful look, blaming her for setting his mind on such a casual tangent.
The moon emerged, clad in dark cloud like a widow. Hoarfrost had begun to creep across the dark stone; the threat of snow hung in the air. Still, no blaze of light swelled in the deepest part of the valley, although Flora could have sworn that she heard the faintest scrape-scrape of metal. Believing it to be her imagination, she leaned back against the rampart and began to roll her discarded staff back and forth over the flagstones with the toe of her boot.
Alistair, his eyes fixed on the valley floor, inhaled a sudden, sharp breath of chilly air. He had spotted an array of flickering light below; fire flung in volley towards the enemy. This signalled the opening of hostilities: the battle had begun.
"Flora," he said, then repeated it more sharply. "Flora. Come on, we have to go."
Flora scrabbled up her staff from the ground, slinging it awkwardly by its leather strap around her shoulder. Alistair had retrieved his sword and shield from where they were propped against the ramparts, resolution igniting across his handsome face. For all that he had protested about his exclusion from the main battle, he was determined to perform his assigned duty well.
The young officer led the way towards the iron-studded doors at the base of the tower. Since Ostagar's vast flanking walls had never been breached, only the slow dereliction of time had taken its toll on the wood. As Alistair leaned forward to shove his shoulder against the door - his hands occupied with sheathing his blade - it swung suddenly outwards. If not for his well-honed reflexes, the wooden panel would have hit him in the face. Flora, whom he had accidentally elbowed during his hasty retreat, let out a squeak.
"Maker's Breath!" Alistair complained, regaining his composure. "Watch where you're going! You almost sent me- "
His complaint withered in his throat, the hilt of his blade almost slid from his fingers. The sight before him seemed oddly unreal, as though he were in the Fade and this was some nightmarish vision conjured up by a sly demon.
A man stood in Ishal's entrance, stiff as a day-old corpse, his face contorted into something barely human. He wore the livery of a groom, but to whom he belonged was impossible to identify since the garments were saturated with crimson. He raised a trembling arm in small jerks towards them, as though hailing an approaching rider. It was then they saw that his belly had been opened and his guts were hanging loose, raw and steaming. A second later and he fell face-first onto the ramp, making a sound like a sack of fallen meat. Behind him was a Hurlock, clad in armour scraps and wielding a sword that was little more than a long, rusted iron claw. Scraps of flesh hung from the blade's ragged teeth. Framed by the doorway, it stood frozen for a second - almost surprised to see the two Wardens there - and then it lunged.
Alistair regained his senses swifter than Flora, yanking free his sword with a singing chord of metal. Thrusting the blade skywards, he blocked the downwards scythe of the Darkspawn's rusted claw, grunting as the blades sounded a discordant clash. The Hurlock recoiled and a mouth filled with too many teeth opened in an animal snarl. It hurled itself forwards once again, using the high ground it held to propel the second lunge. This time, the claw-blade crashed against a gossamer thin, gleaming barrier; the ragged end sliding downwards as the creature stumbled.
Seizing the momentary advantage, Alistair thrust himself forward. With the hilt of his sword grasped in both hands, he shoved the point brutally into the Hurlock's ribcage. It made a sickening scrape as metal met bone, shearing sideways into the rotten clumps of flesh that served as organs. The Hurlock's snarl was abruptly truncated as it slumped onto the sloping stone; Alistair tugged his sword free with a curse. Blackened blood began to run in rivulets down the ramp, while the golden shield melted into the shadow.
"Maker's Breath," the young man said after a moment, awestruck. "Maker. That was unexpected."
Flora elbowed her way past him, stepping gingerly over the Hurlock's corpse before dropping to her knees beside the man. She did not harbour much hope - half of his guts had been hanging outside his belly - and when she put a hand to his neck, there was no throb of life. Frightened, she turned her face up to Alistair, who looked in equal parts stunned and scared. Duncan's junior officer was no coward, but he liked predictability, plans and preparedness. The Hurlock emerging from Ishal's mouth had been a most unpleasant surprise.
"There aren't meant to be any Darkspawn up here," Alistair said distantly, his voice far quieter than usual. "They're meant to be on the valley floor. How did it get in ? The fortress is solid rock."
"Dunno," whispered Flora, her fingers compulsively stroking the leather strap securing her staff. "Something's gone wrong."
Alistair shot her a brief, anxious look, keeping his sword raised before him. He edged towards the tower entrance, where one door was jammed ajar. Only a mass of shadow was visible beyond the jutting. iron-studded wood.
"Keep back," he instructed Flora tersely, summoning his meagre seniority. "There could be more of them."
There was a bitter curdle of fear forming in Flora's belly. As Alistair approached the door, his face stiff and hollowed with tension, she felt as though she was going to be sick. Although she had been scared at her Harrowing, during their expedition into the Wilds and at her Joining, that fear was a response to events which had been chosen for her. The emergence of the Darkspawn from the base of the tower was something that nobody had planned; like suddenly biting into a worm.
When the boy said: 'keep back', hissed her general-spirit. You weren't planning on actually obeying, were you?
There are monsters in the tower!
Be that as it may, replied the spirit, irritably. He will need two hands to carve a sword through 'monster' flesh and bone. You must be his shield.
But I'm scared!
Scared?
Yes!
'We set out anyway.'
This, although it was spoken in her father's salt-hoarse voice, came from her other spirit; the ancient, dreaming one. The words rose like mist in her mind, floating to the top of her skull.
Quoting my own dad back at me, Flora thought sulkily, following Alistair up the ramp. If I end up gutted like a fish, it is NOT my fault.
If you end up gutted like a fish - her general again - it is because you mishandled our considerable gifts.
Alistair, his gloved palm splayed against the wood in preparation to shove it open, looked down at Flora in surprise. She could see the fear writ in the finely hewn lines of his face, and felt oddly comforted that she was not the only one who felt frightened.
"I said that you should stay back," he hissed, almost dropping his sword. "You've only been a Warden for a month. You're fresh out of a Circle. This is too dangerous for you!"
"It's too dangerous for anyone ," intoned Flora gloomily, casting another look at the eviscerated corpse behind them. "Let's just get on with it."
After a brief hesitation Alistair gave a taut nod, readying his blade before him while hoping that it would stop shaking at some point. Filling his lungs with cold, hoary air, he ventured across the threshold; immediately disappearing within a mass of shadow. Flora, unsuccessfully trying to channel the stoic resolve of her father, followed in his wake.
The inside of Ishal was vast and hollow; the interior space stretching upwards hundreds of feet into a gloomy, vaulted ceiling. Stone figures, their features blurred from age, posed in alcoves lining the walls; the flagstones had survived mostly intact. It had the cold, desolate air of a charnel house. Flora's first thought was that the tower felt strangely submerged; as though it had sprouted from some part of the sea bed. The wail of the wind was muffled but it was somehow even colder than outside; the moonlight filtered in weak strands through overhead arches.
"It's dark as pitch," Alistair said, his voice drifting back towards her through the shadow. "There could be half a Darkspawn army here and we wouldn't know it."
Flora slid the staff to the front of her body, rubbing her palm in a circle around one end. The wood began to gleam, faint at first; then brighter, like a fire stoked vigorously with a poker. Moments later, a golden, heatless flame illuminated them in a pool of shifting light, stray beams piercing the darkness as she moved the staff back over her shoulder. Alistair gave a small grunt of appreciation, not quite willing to acknowledge out loud the usefulness of her magic.
The lower floor of the tower had been used as a storage area; the hollowed concentric chambers filled with crates and empty stands. Ordinary objects cast strange shadows against the wall. The air was unnaturally still, as though Ishal itself was holding its breath. A foul odour drifted from somewhere beyond their sight: sweet and putrid at once.
"That's the smell of Darkspawn," Alistair said in hushed tones, the walls conveying his own words back to him. "How can there be Darkspawn up here? Maker's Breath."
Flora shrugged her shoulders, then realised that he was not looking at her, and mumbled a small dunno in response. The fine hairs on the backs of her arms were standing on end, and she could taste fear in the back of her throat.
"So, I suppose we need to find the stairs now," Alistair continued, forcing his mind back to their mission. "We have to get to the top of this place and light the beacon."
Flora angled her head back, peering into the gloom-shrouded air overhead. The vaulted ceiling was lost in the shadows, but she could count at least four circular balconies below it.
"It's a very tall tower," she whispered, the light lurching as she adjusted her staff from one shoulder to the other. "There'll be a lot of steps."
"You're from a Circle," Alistair replied, setting off determinedly across the chamber with his footsteps echoing about him. "You should be used to steps."
AN: oOooh it's all about to kick off!
