The echoing tail of the Qunari's assault faded, absorbed by the castle bedrock. Only a few fragments of the shattered door now remained in place; broken shards lay strewn across the tiles. The corridor beyond was outlined by the wooden frame: it extended in a straight line, wide and well-lit with torches. Barred doors were spaced at regular intervals, and the only sign of disturbance was a small, overturned table at the far end. Relieved that her services as a living light-source were no longer required, Flora lowered her aching arm.
"This is the dungeon," Alistair said under his breath, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of his sword. "I used to bring ale to the gaolers here for a copper. Each of those doors leads to a cell. The far end - well, round the corner is a stair that leads out into the courtyard."
The Qunari let out a low noise of acknowledgement: despite the brute force he had just displayed, he generally preferred to take an informed approach. After all, he had been leading troops for the duration of Flora's short life; and a reckless commander was soon relieved of his post, either through demotion or death.
Flora stepped to the side, peering past the broad expanse of Qunari back. She was not overly impressed with her first view of a castle interior. Her father had once travelled to Highever - the town of many towers. He had described a market hall with windows made from glass somehow stained in rainbow hues; the doors hewn from wood so dark and glossy that it could have been tar. This was the benchmark for extravagance in Flora's mind and so far, Redcliffe Castle did not meet the standard.
"This is where the arl lives?" she asked dubiously, looking at the grubby flagstones and the unpainted walls. "It ain't what I was expecting."
Despite the circumstances Alistair hid a smile, glancing back at his sister-warden as her lip curled.
"The arl lives in the upper part of the castle," he explained, aware of the narrow breadth of her experience. "Though I wouldn't put it past Isolde to lock him up down here for minor infractions."
"Hm!"
Flora, curious to see more of the castle interior, extracted herself through the broken teeth of the door and stepped into the dungeon. The passage was damp and each inhalation tasted of mildew; the tail of her footsteps echoed between the narrow walls. There was a steady drip-drip from one corner, a puddle crept across the flagstones.
Caution .
The light at the far end of the corridor shifted. A shadow slid round the corner, elongated and strange in shape. A moment later a hunched figure followed; propelled by a stilted, irregular gait. A broom swept in a scything motion, thin skeins of dust rising.
At their distance, it could plausibly have been some old retainer, stricken with gout and consigned to a limp. The Qunari shifted into readiness; Alistair put a hand to his sword and withdrew it several singing inches.
"Flora," he said in a low voice, his eyes fixed on the shambling figure. "Get behind me."
Flora did not need to be asked twice: there was no purpose in shielding from the front. She reversed several steps, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Although the hunched man seemed harmless enough, the more visceral parts of her - the flesh beneath the skin, the spongy parts of the bone - were prickling with alarm; sensing that something was not quite normal.
As Flora edged back she ran into Alistair's outstretched hand, and he hauled her behind him without ceremony. The next moment his sword rang as it was fully unsheathed: the figure had stepped into a puddle of torchlight. In an instant the ghastly features were illuminated: the desiccated skin, the ribcage beneath the tattered livery, the swollen tongue visible through a gap in the cheek. An eyeless head turned towards the sigh of metal; the broom fell to the flagstones. The rest of the body swung after the head, and it began a loping charge towards them. Alistair took a step forward, sword raised. Flora, alarmed that the castle did indeed seem to be full of 'dead things' lifted a hand to summon her shield. Behind her, she heard an exclamation from the Rainesfere soldiers - they had caught up just in time to witness the assault.
Before either one could turn preparation into action; the Qunari interceded. The ax propelled itself through the air, a spinning of blurred steel, and embedded itself in the centre of the creature's head. The dead man took three more steps before crumpling into a heap like a pile of swept leaves.
"Huh," observed Alistair, wondering if he should point out that the Qunari had now separated himself from his weapon. "You might want - "
The young warrior did not have the chance to finish his sentence before they were ambushed on both sides. With broken manacles still trailing from ruined limbs, the dead prisoners erupted from their cells; crashing through the doors with a strength they had never possessed while alive. A thin whistle of escaping air slid from their tattered throats as they contorted their mouths in voiceless rage. One Rainesfere soldier blocked a blow with his shield, then retreated back to the safety of the passage.
Alistair seemed to be the focus of their attack: three launched themselves at him, hands outstretched. He thrust his shield into the face of one with such force that it splintered; simultaneously dragging his sword across the midriff of another. When the spilling guts did not slow its assault he tugged the blade upward in a ragged diagonal, opening the carcass like a butcher. The sword stuck fast in the bone, he abandoned it and lifted his shield instead. With Flora's barrier clinging to him like a diaphanous gauze, he was free to use his own as a secondary weapon. The tiles underfoot grew wet with sticky clots of blackish red; blood that had sat in coagulated clumps within lifeless veins.
Sten was not impeded by the absence of his ax: he tore a splintering section from the nearest broken door and repurposed it. One dead prisoner, with skin the faint purplish hue of an old bruise, was lifted several feet in the air by the force of the Qunari's impaling thrust. The twice-dead body was shaken free and the spear became a club: another corpse crumpled beneath an impersonal bludgeoning. Amplified by the hollow stone, the melee became a cacophony.
Alistair, breathing hard and hot-blooded, twisted to meet the last of his assailants. Dropping his own shield - he was still covered by Flora's gleaming mesh - he used the ample height and mass of his body to crush the creature against the wall. There came an eggshell crunch as a skull caved in: pulverised between steel and stone.
Flora, one hand outstretched toward her brother-warden, took a thoughtless step backwards. Her boot made contact with a puddle of something slick and dark; she felt her foot slide as though on ice and then she was flat on her back, the air knocked out of her. Instantly the shield around Alistair broke apart, the golden filaments melting into the damp air. Since all three of his assailants were now incapacitated, he did not think twice about its vanishing. He glanced over his shoulder, then swore and lunged to retrieve his sword.
Before he could wrench it from the first corpse's spine, Flora had gulped down a mouthful of air: shallow and panicky, but sufficient. The corpse that had charged into her was tossed to the ceiling like a cloth doll, spun away by the billowing expansion of her shield. As it fell, it met Alistair's sword; bloodied point thrust upwards. The young warrior did not flinch as the deadweight of the corpse slid down the blade to the hilt. Measuredly he lowered his sword to let the body slither free, then strode to his sister-warden's side.
Flora, sitting on the bloodied flagstones, hung her head. It had barely been a full day since her spirits had instructed her to pay heed to her surroundings, and now she had slipped over unceremoniously on a wet tile in the middle of combat. Her general had not even bothered to berate her verbally, letting a sour tide of disapproval sweep over her instead.
"Are you alright?"
Alistair - unable to crouch in the full complement of his armour - was leaning towards her, his eyes scouring her for injury. She was dishevelled but unscathed: the makeshift sackcloth tunic had prevented clawed fingers from finding purchase in her skin.
"Mm," Flora replied gloomily, not wanting to get up. "I knew I weren't meant to be in battles."
He looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"I ain't good at it," she said with northern bluntness, feeling her stomach sink as though it were anchored.
I was meant to be in… in the infirmary, not in the field. I'm a mender, not a soldier.
This roused her general: Don't sulk.
But I'm not ready for this. All this - this fighting.
Alistair hesitated: unsure what to say. He had been about to say that their commander had recognised her potential in combat, but this would not ring true. Instead he had kept her under his eye - quite literally, since the terrace that housed the infirmary rested just below the Warden camp. Alistair wondered briefly if he should remind her that Duncan's prudence was not born from his belief that she was inept, but for more private reasons.
"Flora," he said, then found that he did not want to remind her of their dead commander's predilection.
Some distance away, the Qunari could not believe his ears.
"Let us go," he snapped, retrieving his thrown ax from a skull split like a cracked egg. "Discuss your incompetence later."
"Flora?"
It was fortunate that Flora was still sitting on the flagstones, or else the wavering voice would have stolen her balance. It crept from the corner cell, sliding beneath the sole prison door that remained intact. Astonished, she swivelled and stared towards the barred wood; her mouth opening in a round O of surprise. The voice was brittle, like a moth-eaten cloth, but she recognised the bare bones of an accent she knew. She had heard her name spoken in such a way for years, usually with the suffix: "- wake up, class is over."
In recent times, the voice had taken on more sinister associations. Alistair, who had taken several moments to place it, inhaled a sharp, shocked breath. He had been about to house his sword in its sheath: now, he kept it drawn. His gaze had lost the softness it held when looking down at his sister-warden: his eyes were narrowed and keen as a hawk.
"... Flora? Is that you?"
Flora rose to her feet slowly, a half-dozen questions buzzing around her skull like trapped bees.
"Jowan?" she replied, and the name felt oddly foreign on her lips. "Is that you?"
There was a long pause, and they could hear the sound of a ragged inhalation. The last time that Jowan, Flora and Alistair had come face-to-face was within the Circle Tower. The young man had revealed himself as a student of blood magic, knife in hand and the white parts of his eyes stained in oily crimson. The amateur maleficar had opened a vein and flaunted the raw potency of blood magic before them; mortally wounding a Tranquil before escaping Kinloch Hold.
Alistair's face was hard as marble, the sword now raised in his hand. The point was angled towards the cell door, unwavering as an accusing finger. The Qunari kept his distance, though his eyes were keen. From the sound of it, one of the Rainesfere men had fled back down the passage; the other two stood motionless.
Speak with the maleficar. Before your friend strikes him down. See what you can learn.
Flora dutifully scrambled to her feet, wiping her grubby hands on the torn sacking. She advanced past Alistair, avoiding the extended blade; then stood on her toes at the cell door. It was noticeably more fortified, bound with iron and housing a small barred opening. The grate was a foot above Flora's head even when she balanced on the balls of her feet. Alistair, after a moment's hesitation, leaned his sword against the wall. He set his hands on her waist and lifted her easily into the air, muttering a low be careful against her back.
Flora, thus elevated, was able to peer into the shadowed recess beyond the bars. The cell was more cramped than the rest; it contained only a bucket, a stained pallet mattress, and a man standing in the grubby straw. He turned his face up to the small square of light and she drew in a sharp breath. Although she had recognised the voice, it was still startling to see the person it belonged to: a man that she had assumed she would never see again.
Yet the torchlight from the corridor illuminated features that seemed to have aged a quarter-century. The round, doughy moon face had caved in to the bone; the cheeks sunken as if someone had chiselled out the meat. The eyes were ringed with exhaustion, and a sickly pallor clung to the skin. It was as if he had been eroded over the years by some chronic wasting condition, except that Flora had last seen him two months prior in the flush of youthful health.
"Jowan," she observed, astonished. "You look awful."
The gaunt creature below let out a sound that might have been a laugh, but there was no humour in it.
"What a surprise," interjected Alistair, dryly. "Blood magic not good for the health, eh? Who would have thought."
Flora wrapped her fingers around the bars, trusting that her burly brother-warden could keep her lifted for as long as was necessary. Her nails shone as if burnished, casting warmth onto the ghastly face below her. It took her several moment to assemble the pieces of her realisation together - she was not the swiftest thinker.
The dead smell like blood.
There's blood magic in the castle.
Jowan is here, and he's a blood mage.
"YOU," she said after a moment, drawing in a shocked inhalation. "This is your fault?!"
Flora could not equate the lazy, affable young man she had once known at the Circle with a villain who had inflicted suffering and death on an entire town. Alistair, however, seemed more than ready to mete out justice. Setting Flora down and to the side he thrust his face close to the bars; unlike her, he needed no elevation.
"I should break down this door and kill you where you stand," he said, low and dangerous. "You son of a- "
He was halted by Flora's hand on his elbow; the slight pressure of her fingers against the skin. It was as though she had turned him bodily to her, her hands on his elbows and her eyes entreating: the irises pale as rainwater. The last part of Alistair's threat shrivelled in his throat: she might as well have put her fingers over his mouth.
No longer having the height required to look through the bars, Flora instead put her mouth to the keyhole.
"All that you know," she said, feeling the tense vibrato of her brother-warden's anger. "Tell us."
There was a pause and Flora could hear the prisoner heave a heavy sigh; one that rose from the dirty soles of his feet. She could taste him on her tongue, beyond the odour of an unwashed body, there was an acrid, gory tang that rolled from his flesh in waves. Flora knew the scent of blood well, rich, full-bodied and metal; she had always associated such a taste with life and vitality. The stench that rolled from Jowan was a foul inverse of the scent she knew: a cloying, corrupted variant.
"It's a long story."
"Then give us the short version," retorted Alistair, his fingers skating over the hilt of his blade.
Flora put her eye to the keyhole but could see little. She heard the man exhale another long, tremulous sigh.
"I accept responsibility for Arl Eamon's illness. But the raising of the dead - that's not me!" His voice rose several pitches in protest.
Alistair and Flora looked at one another in the same moment, sporting expressions of identical astonishment. They had both expected to hear a confession from the maleficar about the walking corpses and the nightly assaults; the sick arl had been a secondary and unrelated concern.
"You're - you're the cause of the arl's illness?" Alistair demanded, pupils shrunk in disbelief. "But - but why? Wait, no- " he shook himself in an attempt to stay focused. "Later. What's causing the attacks, if it's not you?"
There was another long pause. Flora could hear the Qunari coming to a halt nearby: for such a vast creature, he could be remarkably stealthy in his movements. The two Rainesfere men that remained shuffled nervously, their expressions taut and fearful.
"The arlessa took me in as a tutor for her son," Jowan said, so soft that Flora had to return her ear to the keyhole. "She discovered that he had some magic, and wanted him to learn how to… how to conceal it."
"Connor Guerrin is a mage?!" Alistair said loudly, his mind racing faster than his mouth. "Maker's Breath. There's no magic in Eamon's family, it must have come from the arlessa's line. So - wait."
His voice changed to accompany the odd twist to his mouth.
"You're not saying that - that Connor caused all this."
The young warrior's sweeping arm encompassed the half-dozen corpses strewn across the corridor, and beyond, to the assailed town below, the daily pyres of the slain. Jowan had no way of seeing his gesture, but guessed close enough.
"I - yes."
"But he's just a little boy. A child. Flora- "
The Rainesfere soldiers exchanged a bewildered glance, Alistair turned to his sister-warden, who was biting her thumbnail and frowning.
"Flora, can a mage child be powerful enough to cause… to cause all this cause?"
Flora, unhelpfully, gave a shrug. "Dunno," she then added for good measure. "Maybe."
If he was…
"If he was- "
"Possessed."
The grim confirmation filtered through the door. Alistair stepped back as though he had taken a blow, blinking rapidly.
"Shit. Shit."
Flora bit down hard on her thumb and felt a sharp sting. Blood welled beneath the nail; a bright bead of crimson. She put it in her mouth, feeling a faint prickling as it began to heal. Due to the strange alchemy of her body, the petty injuries of childhood - splintered fingers and scraped knees - had never lasted more than a few heartbeats. She had never known what it was like to live with pain; to feel an ache deep in the bone.
Is the arl's son possessed?
Yes.
By a demon?
Clearly.
Flora no longer questioned why her spirits chose to keep some information hidden; allowing her to discover it for herself. She sometimes wondered how much they knew - if the future was as illuminated for them as the past - but if she thought about it too much, her head throbbed with confusion.
Alistair let the bare inches of his sword slide back into the sheath. He turned to lean against the door, staring unseeing at the opposite wall. As one who had been trained for a decade by the Templars, he knew all too well the consequences of possession. He drew in a deep breath, but the inhalation did nothing to calm his racing heart.
"He's just a child, Flora. What are we going to do?"
Flora removed her mended thumb from her mouth, brow furrowed. The topic of possession rose frequently in the Circle: everyone seemed to know someone, who knew someone else who had fallen prey to the demons. In reality most mages passed their Harrowing; though the occasional few did not return, or came back as placid, featureless Tranquil.
Do you know the demon responsible? Flora ventured tentatively. Alistair looked sideways at her, aware that she was now conversing with her spirits.
Yes.
Could you… kill it?
With ease.
She felt a small flutter of hope deep in her belly, but then again she knew her general too well to take their word at face value.
But…?
It would kill the vessel too.
Flora abandoned the questioning. She looked to her brother-warden, who had pushed free of the wall and was attempting to compose himself, gloved hands balled. The Qunari waited motionless nearby, a hulking silhouette with ax readied; the two Rainesfere soldiers had taken on an unhealthy hue.
Before either could speak a deafening crash came from somewhere overhead, shaking the castle to its basalt bones. Dust fell in clumps from the ceiling; spiderwebs tore free from their rafters. Moments later the muffled sound of collapsing earth echoed from the tunnel entrance. They would now be leaving via the front door, or not at all.
Flora took an anchoring breath, feeling the weight of her boots press down on the bloodied flagstones. The northerner in her recoiled at indecision: flailing in uncertainty was a waste of daylight hours.
"Let's go and see what's happening," she said, when no one else seemed as though they would be speaking. "And then we can make a plan."
AN: So we're in Redcliffe Castle, finally! And here's Jowan! Flora and co haven't learnt the full situation yet, but all that's to come. She's not feeling great about her composure in a fight, but she'll get a chance to prove herself wrong soon! And Alistair knows full well that the 'only' cure for possession is death - or is it?!
Anyway, it's a literal madhouse here - we're leaving in exactly three weeks to move back to Wales! Now that I'm packing up my life I realise that all I own are books and clothes. Haha! I packed up my Loeb library today - wonder what the removals people will think about my boxes labelled Greek Loebs and Roman Loebs? They'll think: what a weirdo XD
