Chapter Three: Sow the Wind Reap the Whirlwind
Song is Kataclysm: Whirlwind of Withered Blossoms (other songs get referenced but that's the main track)
Trigger warnings: references to rapes by Karras and Danarius. Nothing graphic.
Amid the burning camp, Lambert and Leliana struggled to keep to the darkness, flitting like ghosts. They were heading to where they had tied their horses, hoping Fenris would meet them. With each noiseless step, Leliana seemed to grow beyond herself, become spirit-like. Shadows rose to shroud her. There was a splash on their left, coming from the far riverbank. A fish skipped away – then the water rippled like precious stones as six iron-shod boots disturbed the mirror-like surface. The stomping of the knights turned the water into hysterical brilliance.
Leliana flexed her bow arm, eyes staring into the middle distance. She reminded Lambert of a woman-eagle from Ferelden's Alamarri legends, passing its life half-out of time. If the Templar heard anything, it was the faint hiss as the arrow found its mark. Her lips parted as though to drink the blood. Her hair flickered like flame. Lambert thought of ruby rain, of veins of red lyrium, of love like blood. But the move was costly – the other two Templars were now too close.
Lambert and Leliana stopped simultaneously to draw weapons. When the two parted to make way for Knight Captain Karras, Lambert snarled like a wolf, started forward into brighter light.
The first two Templars literally screamed Leliana's name. Some who heard them shouted or pointed. Others stared, dumbstruck.
Karras recovered first. "She's a traitor just like the false Divine, Justinia. She saved this mage – whom I last saw on his knees in the Gallows, whimpering my name..."
Strangling with rage, Lambert raised Encore.
A crossbow bolt whistled towards them. The sound was still in the air when Karras shouted, "No! Take them alive! They murdered the Lord Seeker – the Knight Divine – our Knight Commander. I want them alive. Take them!"
Lambert went pale, a picture of dread. He turned Bard's Honour to his throat. Leliana shouted to make herself heard. "We won't be captured. I made sure." In her left hand, she held two orbs that looked like dull metallic slingstones. "Grenades, Rillian called them. Use magic to light the wick. Don't fail. I'll see you in the Golden City."
Fenris first saw Lambert destroying the Red Lyrium vials. He was incandescent – surrounded by a bodiless electric storm of dazzling spectral lines. His radiant energy ignited the vials, created a short arc of hard bluish white that purged the area. He appeared sharp as an arrow and full of light.
Lambert was singing what he had described to Fenris as a 'descant,' Fenris recognized this piece of music as Lambert's 'Descant Against Unlife.' He stopped, awed by the man he had married.
But when the power passed through him Lambert was mortal once more – tired, drawn, cast down from a realm of deadly, perilous beauty into a grey, rainswept world. Leliana, beside him, stood facing the circling Templars.
Fenris had killed Gerard Caron and van Reeves. They were opponents, but honest ones, having been used by Samson. After the last, he had had to say the words – absolving himself as much as the man about to be born into the Golden City. He had never killed a man in cold blood before. His victims were either men he hated – slavers or slave-owning Magisters - or they were anonymous targets whom he had had to kill, as painlessly and quickly as possible. He had taken pleasure in the former – not out of sadism but out of a sense of righteous vengeance – the latter had been merely a distant regret.
Unlike Zevran - who liked to play with his food – Fenris had never before killed a man after speaking to him, after understanding him. It had bothered him. He was, so Zevran had remarked jokingly, during their four-day mission in Red Bride's Grave, an 'innocent killer.' Zevran had had fun relating a story of how he had seduced and made love with a woman before murdering her as his client demanded. At Fenris' shocked question, "You...slept with her?" Zevran had laughed and said, "Well, yes - but before I killed her! Do you think I'm some sort of monster? It's not as if she didn't enjoy her last hours..."
Fenris had felt naïve and foolish – but also secretly glad. He knew Zevran had been Lambert's first – but doubted his gentle husband could have fallen in love with a man who told such stories.
Thoughts and questions were forgotten in his need to defend his husband – to defend them both. Fenris materialized in front of them, bolter drawn. He was a machine: sighting, firing, killing. He blasted holes in grouped Templars. When a number bunched at the base of the burning trebuchet, he threw a jar of Antivan fire at them. When others came within range, he worked Lethandralis with deadly precision. His left hand spun the blade in a silver, hissing circle. The rune-laced sword reaped a fearsome harvest. Where he stuck, bones broke, swords shattered. helms caved in. His right fist dematerialized – only to solidify inside his opponents' chests. Then he disappeared like a shadow, never there to hit.
Fenris, Leliana and Lambert untied their horses – Fenris' black stallion, Leliana's white mare and Lambert's pale-grey palfrey - and raced for the fortress, shouting for the illuminating torch to be extinguished. Flames exposed the three runners cruelly. Confused yells answered. But Emille de Launcet had reported to Anders faithfully. Anders' rescue party was ready for them.
Anders and Dorian thundered out the Gate. They were on the stunned Templars before the unit had time to recover. Eager hands slung the three across saddles. The group was returning to the Gate before most of the Templars realized they'd been cheated of their captives.
Wynne and Leliana embraced like sisters, weeping.
Lambert – the animal-lover – saw to the three horses before he did anything else.
Anders said, "Great entrance. The three of you have given us a small chance."
The man next to him – urbane, cultured, Tevinter – said, "Would we know what to do with a large chance?"
Fenris recognized Dorian Pavus, scion of Halward Pavus. Dorian had no name for being cruel but was known to frequent the brothel at Minrathous where Elven slaves were forced by their masters to work as prostitutes to inform on clients. He was protégé to Gereon Alexius. Alexius had always opposed Danarius – Fenris did not think he would be interested in making him a slave - but the mage children would be in great danger.
Then he saw Fiona, whom he had had the displeasure of meeting when she had betrayed the members of Rillian's Folly to Janeka. The meeting had seen Rillian forced to give Janeka the droplet of Corypheus' blood.
Anders met his eyes – guessed his thoughts. "Don't worry," he assured Fenris, "you really don't have the temperament to be a slave."
Fenris rolled his eyes. If that was Anders' attempt to reassure him it left something to be desired!
"Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"I'm just wondering how Danarius didn't kill you?"
"How did the Templars not kill you – after seven escape attempts?"
"I'm charming."
Working with Anders, Dorian and Fiona was not going to be pleasant.
Fenris reflected ending up an Act of Faith on the other side of the Gate would have been even less pleasant.
Anders stood with Dorian on the wall facing east. A melancholy vista stretched before them. The enemy campfires were a haunting contrast to the burgeoning myriad greens of summer. At the edge of the distant forest, Templar horsemen flitted in and out of the trees.
"You were guarded by these Templars," Dorian said, "It's hard to imagine you living with them. Fate leads us into strange corners. How well will these Templars fight on foot, against walls and good defence?"
"Like demons. They believe if they die on an Exalted March they go straight to the Golden City. They don't like pain any more than the next person, but they don't fear death."
Anders considered Dorian's point. Despite their attempts to level the ground, this was primarily forests and canyons. Horse mounted mobility counted for nothing and would frequently be a hindrance. This suited the mages fine. Only the Ferelden mages who had fought in the Fifth Blight had ever ridden, and that had been for transportation. They had defended the walls of Ostagar standing upright, supporting the army with long-range fire.
Anders had made some advances. He was very grateful one of the Hossberg mages came from a family of carpenters! He knew all about repairing trebuchets and had the magical skills to speed up the process. Anders had been working all night in his makeshift laboratory, refining the knowledge gained by him, Nathaniel Howe and Gerav. The three had improved the process begun by the Glavonak brothers and ended up with a mixture far stronger than the blasting powder that had saved Ostagar during the Fifth Blight.
Anders had known it would take more than that to win the war here – the only person with the night skills required to slip into the enemy camp and blow it sky high was Fenris, and Anders disliked the idea of owing more to the Wraith than he did already.
Dorian had his own powers – spells Anders had never heard of beyond fearful whispers from boy to boy in the apprentice dorms. Not Blood Magic – something even more dangerous. Anders - healer – stood for life. His enemy was death. Dorian was a necromancer, which meant his spells were as alien to life as taint. Unliving and undying. It made Anders uncomfortable – and, yet, he was desperate. He hated and hoarded the power like a miser hoarding gold.
Dorian's Simulacrum sat down close to its master. If you could call it sitting down. The body did not reach its position by the normal movements of a man; it was more as if some external force manoeuvred it into the right position then let it drop. It was impossible to point to any particular motion that was non-human. Anders had the sense of watching an imitation of living motions which had been very well-studied and was technically correct, but somehow lacked life. And he was chilled with the inarticulate, childhood horror of the managed corpse, the marionette, the automaton.
The creature looked unalive rather than dead, sitting there with head bowed and mouth open and the hands, with their long metallic nails, pressed flat together on the ground. Awaiting Dorians instructions. And Anders - who healed men that they might be more themselves, more alive - was disgusted. He thought of Lambert, and what Lambert would say of Danarius' and Alrik's cruelties.
That they were, to all intents and purposes, inside-out: on the surface, great designs and the glamour of evil; underneath, nothing but a dark puerility, an aimless empty spite. How had Lambert put it? 'The banality of evil'. But Dorian was not evil, Anders knew in his heart. His father – Magister Halward Pavus - had been evil, and Dorian had been raised to see both slavery and necromancy as normal, but he was a good man. Far better than Anders himself had been to Fenris. He still felt shame over his deal with Danarius, for doing an unforgivable thing in the name of mage rights. No wonder Lambert had left him. Neither he nor Dorian were good men, but perhaps they could bring out the best in each other?
As if sensing his thoughts Dorian said, "So now you know my secret. What do you have to offer in return? Details."
"Just imagine the worst. That should cover it."
"More evasion. Do you think about us doing it with a woman?"
"That's the worst you can come up with?"
"Of course not. I'm starting small. Do you?"
"Naturally."
"Who?"
"Admiral Isabella of the Felicisima Armada."
Anders - who had always desired both men and women - knew he could never understand just what Dorian's father had tried to do to his son. Not without comparing it with the Rite of Tranquillity, which took away everything a mage was while leaving him physically the same.
Dorian was silent, measuring his tolerance.
"It's okay. I want you as you are."
"I'd never do anything to hurt you, Dorian."
Even though I would have sold a friend into slavery to fund the mage resistance…even though, were it not for Justice - not me - I would still be an abomination.
"Even though you believe in mage rights by any means necessary? The big picture, not the individuals?"
"One believes in wrong things."
"I know. I've done wrong things too."
Not wrong enough…
"I want to know you, Anders. I want to know everything about you. Otherwise, what's the point?"
Anders looked up as Rhys and Fiona approached from opposite directions. When both were beside him, he asked, "Are the mages alright?"
Rhys answered, "The river guard's doing as well as could be expected. They're worn out."
Anders frowned, worried at the prospect of the Red Templars overwhelming the mage defenders of the river and poisoning the water. It would be over then. The Tevinter design had an inner well and a rainwater harvesting system built atop the towers, with the sloping roofs channelling the rain down via gutters and drainpipes into a stone cistern. Yet it was a hot, dry midsummer. If the attackers did manage to poison the water with Red Lyrium death would come within days.
He said, "They're to be relieved and the watch doubled."
Rhys nodded and left to spread that word.
Anders tried to lighten the mood. "At least we've got relief coming. The volunteers from Weisshaupt won't be far behind us."
His effort went ignored.
Fiona said, "I know you do not trust the First Warden – or Weisshaupt's deal with Tevinter – but Wardens have always lived by the maxim 'any means necessary'."
"Does that mean they'll help the mages or the Chantry?"
"They will help us – but there will be a price. You will just have to decide whether it's one you are willing to pay."
Anders said nothing. Experience had taught him people gave away more when you let them come to the truth in their own way.
Fiona took the bait. "I know you and Rhys are worried there is no viable escape route. That it is win or die. But there are tunnels beneath Andoral's Reach. They lead to the Deep Roads and these lead to Weisshaupt. I know the way."
"This, then, is the 'price' you were speaking of," Anders said heavily. Fiona didn't answer. She didn't have to.
Does Weisshaupt want mage Wardens this badly? Is this why Fiona made no effort to save the mage children?
Anders had always thought becoming a Grey Warden mage would be better than dying an old man – a Templar prisoner until all chance for freedom had gone beyond recall or desire. But that had been when the only person he had had to think about was himself. Now he was leader of these mages – some children and some Tranquil – he could not see it in the same way.
Even the adults: what about the one in ten who won't survive the Joining? And that's assuming Weisshaupt is being led by people like the Hero of Ferelden. Dorian says not and I believe him. What are the Magisters Sidereal going to do with these Warden mages? What might Livius Erimond do to Fenris? What might Gereon Alexius do with the mage children? What has he made of Feynriel?
But did he have the right to make the decision for his people? Sooner dead than changed?
The moon was cold and distant. Like the pale eye of a corpse.
Anders studied the defences. The towers and the gatehouse barbican provided perfect enfilade along the gatehouse walls. The inner walls stood proud of the outer walls, which would allow the mages to rain fire upon Templars who breached the latter. For any Templars unfortunate enough to become trapped in the inner bailey, this was effectively a kill zone.
The only element of civilization was a self-sown offspring of a Beurre Hardy pear tree from Orlais. Anders felt a touch of sadness when he realized that – because it was not self-fertile – it would bloom spectacularly then die out.
He shook off the dark thoughts the way a dog shakes off water – refusing to surrender to sly argument and weakness. He turned to Fiona and said, "We won't need escape tunnels. We'll win. I must. At least we'll have fresh fruit to liven up our diet!"
Fiona did not smile. "At any cost?"
"At any cost that's worthy."
Wynne joined them. She was fresh from preparing the healing house.
"This takes me back to the Siege of Ostagar," she reminisced, "Do you remember we had to use wine to put out fires because water was too valuable? That was before Rylock learned what mages can do."
Was it Anders' imagination or was there a glint in her eye when she said the last?
"I bet the Knight Commander never thought of using lyrium," he said with a dark chuckle.
Dorian said, "Even if this does turn into a drawn-out siege, we can outlast the Templars. Van Reeve's military campaign was designed to be a seasonal affair – they don't want this to last beyond summer. There'd be planting and harvesting difficulties - especially with the War of the Lions raging throughout Orlais."
Anders appreciated that, unlike the mages who had spent their lives locked in Circles, Dorian had a noble's grasp of politics. He struggled to recall what he knew of events in Orlais. He didn't want to appear a country bumpkin beside his lover. A salacious story came to him.
"Empress Celene was always progressive about both magic and learning. Until Grand Duke Gaspard put on a scandalous play about her and her 'Arcane Advisor' Morrigan." He smirked. "Now - I'm all for forbidden love – but Celene's response was to all but declare her support for van Reeves. Just to scotch the rumours."
Wynne frowned. "Young man – whatever you may think of Empress Celene, we had best hope she wins this war. Emperor Gaspard would be bad news for both Fereldans and mages."
Maker's balls – even when Wynne is right she manages to get on my tits!
He wisely changed the subject.
"Lambert tells me Red Templars – like darkspawn – can see in the dark. They'll time their attack to start when the dark's heaviest, so they can close on us without being seen. When the fighting begins we'll need the moonlight to coordinate our response."
The four of them were standing in the chill shadow of the fortress wall. It was a mute, massive backdrop.
The rough, steep ground outside the fortress provided a natural barrier to the free movement of the attackers. Anders had not been idle. Fire-hardened stakes reminded him of stags' horns. Sharpened sections of branches broke up lines of approach. 'Lily traps' (pits concealed by foliage deep with sharpened stakes) would wreck the legs of both Templars and horses. Anders smiled grimly, thinking they did not really resemble the flower they were named for.
Anders reflected that if they won quickly enough they wouldn't have to worry about sapping. If a siege went on for long enough, the attackers could hack out the supporting masonry, dig holes in the earth beneath, then set fire to the wooden struts. The wall would come down, creating a breach that could be directly assaulted.
But how often had an army of Templars actually had to do this? During Annulments the enemy was already within the walls. They were guards turning on their prisoners. Anders smirked. Nothing would have prepared these tin-plated bastards for a proper siege.
The solid rock plateau of Andoral's Reach ruled out undermining anyway.
A problem Anders had not prepared for was the distrust amongst various Fraternities. When the news got out some Loyalists had joined the besieging army this had led to an outbreak of rage and distrust against their own Loyalists. Anders was furious. Yes, the Loyalists fighting with them had voted Remain - as had some Aequitarians, like Wynne - but they were allies now, about to die together.
Anders had no patience for the troublemakers who claimed these Loyalists might try to save themselves by making deals with the besieging force. He couldn't deny it would be possible - all mages could communicate in the Fade, which meant the traitor Loyalists might approach them in their dreams - but for one thing he trusted his people and for another that could work both ways. Suppose their own Loyalists managed to convince those on the other side? He hadn't actually asked them to do it – for a mage to deliberately search for other mages in the Fade was a risk, as demons could always impersonate them – but he found himself hoping.
Since Andoral's Reach was on the far edges of Orlais, the attackers had not been able to bring siege towers with them. These would have to be constructed in situ. Both sides had a few catapults and the Templars had relied on the Red Lyrium trebuchet and the ladders. The regular Templars had assumed ladders would be enough. Samson had assumed Red Lyrium would do the job. Anders knew they would have to hit fast and hard, to capitalize on the fact their enemy had not prepared for a long siege.
Catapults duelled into the night. Those brought by the Templar army and those repaired by the mages, given power by Force spells. The heavy bolts did no appreciable damage to the stone of the fortress but the goal was primarily to harass. They ripped through the darkness, their humming, whistling passages playing melody to the unceasing rhythm of Templar chanting.
Anders, checking on his army, came to Fenris.
"Have you slept?"
"Some. The fortress has a lot of wall to watch. Anyhow, there'll be plenty of time for sleeping in the Golden City."
"Sleep. I order it. I can't have you too weary to fight tomorrow."
Fenris found Lambert in the healing house, covered with the unspeakable detritus of tending wounded. Evelina took over from him and he smiled gratefully. She did not look – entirely - like the young woman she had been before her possession (he supposed you could never completely go back) but she was herself, and her eyes were very kind. She was a talented healer, as good as Lambert and – one day – she would be as good as Anders.
Fenris surprised himself by relaxing beside Lambert in the small private room allocated to them. The Tevinter fortress was far larger than the bedraggled mage force could occupy - there were many spare rooms, in varying states of disrepair.
But when he kissed his husband Lambert surprised him by turning away and saying, bleakly,
"Fen - there's something you need to know about me first."
For just a moment, Fenris wondered if the real reason was that Lambert now thought himself too good to make love with an Elven ex-slave, after going through Seeker training. He dismissed that thought immediately, ashamed. Lambert really was this foolishly unselfish, this protective. What had happened to make Lambert fear he might hurt him?
"Let me guess: you think Seeker training involves a deal with a spirit – that you might be compromised in some way?"
Lambert gaped – astounded at his brilliance. Fenris wasn't sure whether to feel pleased or insulted.
"No," he said finally, "Seekers do make contact with spirits – after we are Tranquil enough to see them as they are - and the touch of a spirit renders us immune to taint, Blood Magic and possession. But the spirits don't find a home in us. It isn't like Anders being host to Justice – it's like...like inoculation. Like when Rillian injected Knight Commander Rylock with her blood in order to cure her of Blight sickness. Or when I inject you with Fenris' Friend to treat the brands. Like yours and hers, my soul is entirely my own. It isn't that."
"Then why do you fear you might hurt me in some way?"
"The Red Lyrium," Lambert said heavily. "I... I thought Leliana and I would be immune, because we're both immune to taint – but combining lyrium and taint is like combining oil and fire. There's no guarantee we're immune to this more virulent form. And - if the taint seeks lyrium before anything else – you'd be the first victim. I won't sleep with you. Not till I'm certain I'm not a carrier."
Fenris rolled his eyes in a now-familiar mixture of exasperation and fondness. His admiring affection glowed like banked coals.
"You told me once the Litany of Adralla and Captivating Song work on demons and darkspawn as well as abominations. You've seen Seeker Leliana hold the horde in the palm of her hand during the Fifth Blight. You told me it was how Rillian managed to trap the Archdemon. And I have seen you: in the Deep Roads, remember? So: using those powers on yourself ought to tell you for sure."
Lambert blinked, amazed by his husband's lateral thinking. Then smiled in delight. The expression was one of startling beauty. Fenris' memory had conjured it for him often during Lambert's long, silent absence – only now did the reality hit him like sunlight. He realized his memory had only been a faded picture, like the moon's reflected light.
"You're brilliant, Fen. You know that?"
Fenris grinned. "I'm not just a handsome face, you know."
Lambert's normal, impish expression flashed back. His features swirled through a panoply of emotions as brightly radiant as the iridescence of oil on water.
He obeyed Fenris, cast, and was unutterably relieved to find himself no different. A moment later he was in his husband's arms. He kissed Fenris; half-crying, half-laughing, then pulled away – looked deep inside him.
"The Templars can kill us tomorrow. Tonight is ours. I love you. My Fen."
For just a moment, the word 'my' jolted. I will not be owned. Lambert ran his spell-casting fingers through Fenris' hair. Then he relaxed to lean against his husband's warmth.
Lambert stood a broadsword's width shorter and rested his head on Fenris' shoulder. A pulse in his neck throbbed against Fenris' tattooed fingers, mimicked the sudden racing of his heart. Fenris kissed him gently, teased his skin between his teeth, then said, "We belong to each other. My Hawke."
Anders and Rhys – as both were Spirit Healers of a similar age and viewpoint they found themselves bouncing ideas off each other – discussed whether to trust Fiona or Dorian the evening before the battle.
Rhys was cynical. "Those men with mysterious eyes and raven hair – I know your type."
Anders laughed. "I seriously doubt this 'Elder One' knows or cares about my 'type'. He didn't send Dorian. And – in these uncertain times – it doesn't pay to have a 'type'. Like Lambert, Dorian is a good man, but he's more ruthless than Lambert ever dreamed of being. He'd have to be, as the only son of a Magister. I need that. I don't want to hurt anyone ever again."
"I don't agree with Fiona's plan either. We aren't fighting this hard for mage freedom just so we can end up slaves in Tevinter."
Thoughtfully, Anders said, "Fenris and I discussed this once. I betrayed him, you know. But he told me seeing Lambert die in the Gallows would have been worse than slavery. Just as he once sold himself to free his mother and sister. But he had the right to make that choice – I didn't have the right to make it for him. We don't have the right to make it for the mage children."
"Do we have the right to condemn them to death?"
"No. Which is why we're going to win."
"If you've got an idea, use it."
Seeker Leliana was moving through the ranks, consecrating the lyrium and giving it to each mage. Many scoffed at the idea that a few words could magically transform the substance that regenerated mana into the Holy Waters of the Fade. Anders claimed it was a bit of Chantry propaganda that conveniently allowed Templars to believe they were using holy powers rather than stolen magic.
Lambert didn't care. What he did care about was watching Fenris' face as the pain hit him. Only the incredible brightness of his widened eyes revealed what effort his control cost. Yet Fenris worshipped the Maker as the only being who had ever taught him he had a soul and worth. He was choosing to go through this pain to give himself the power to defend mages and Lambert loved him.
Memory...
The week following their father's death, Lambert and Carver visited Lothering Chantry after midnight. They splashed red paint all over the statue of Andraste. Then overturned the statue and smashed a score of votive candles. Carver might have done considerably more damage if Lambert hadn't suddenly been overcome by a feeling of futility.
He who places his brother in the ground is everywhere.
Lambert could not express his outrage with sufficient power to penetrate the steel Veil between this world and the next. He could not teach remorse to the Maker. His father had been a mage, and the Maker hated mages. Hated Lambert.
He said, "I don't want you to get in trouble, Carv," and burst into tears.
Unmanned by his brother's grief, uncomfortable as only a male can be, Carver quickly hustled him out.
Lambert had always assumed they had never been caught - only years later did he realize Leliana had covered up for them. Just as she and Wynne had hidden his magic from Knight Commander Rylock.
He met Fenris' eyes. Thought about the mage children they were going to die defending.
If the world is cruel we are going to fix it. And if the Maker wants us to fix it then He's not cruel at all.
The morning sun lay over Andoral's Reach like a fried egg cooking in a pan, gradually thickening to a deeper yellow.
The Templars advanced. Their archers, covered by infantry shields, provided supporting fire for the escalade. Both sides had jars of 'Antivan fire' hurled under pressure of air-bellows. Both sides had mages who could put out the flames with ice spells.
Anders had improved on the defences at Ostagar. His elementalists transported water from the Amaranthine Ocean - which the Ferelden refugees had seen - to here. The smell of salt water in a desert fortress was most peculiar but - as Thomas Amell and Knight Captain Hadith had found out during the Fifth Blight - was a far better conductor. It was sprayed by pumps manned by Tranquil.
The Templars cared nothing for that. Once they realized they were simply being wet down - something the rain had already accomplished - they continued their attack. Anders' double-pronged spear-staffs, spitting bright blue fire from their runes of electricity, formed a line. A loud, brittle crack accompanied reptile tongues of darting blue fire. Acrid smoke boiled from the gaping black earth. The crackling, blasting power made steel-armoured Templars jerk and drop. Those touched by both prongs died. There were no exceptions. The surety of the thing was eerie.
Nonetheless, they couldn't stop the Templars streaming through the gap, stepping over fallen comrades, screaming of life eternal. Leliana sought the roof. When the first enemy flag bearer went up, she shot the messenger. Without tactical instructions, the approaching Templars milled in confusion.
Anders called to Fenris, "You and the bolter can take the south side. You can replace many, and that lets me reinforce here."
When the leader lowered his sword to start the attack, the impact of his shout sent a visible shudder through the mages. Anders aimed his staff and fired. He blasted holes in the first wave of Templars. They continued to advance. Men staggered and fell, were pushed aside and trampled by those coming from behind.
Warhorns brayed. Shrill, nerve-searing whistles shrieked commands. Above all the cacophony trying to impose order on chaos, there rose the cries of agony of the wounded. He watched the banner of Andraste's stake stream to the ground inside the wall. The dying bearer held it aloft. Anders kicked it free. Then he fired down that way, his magic missile snapping the legs off a ladder, splintering it into a tangled mass of broken men and timbers.
Another ladder angled up. A Red Templar, literally frothing at the mouth, scrambled up the rungs, forcing it forward until it slammed in place against the wall. Anders raised his staff – and Leliana shoved him out of the way, flame-red hair flying.
"Seekers only – he'll spit taint."
She was right. She dodged and got in close, and The Rose's Thorn slit his belly. The Templar struck out with hands that were living weapons. It was like Fenris but different. Whereas Fenris' arms could become insubstantial – blue as the Fade - then rematerialize inside his opponents' chests – this man's arms were crystalline spears. They glowed blood red.
Leliana cried out. His pincer had opened a massive raw wound just above her eye. Anders supported her as she slumped. Her hand: so white, so delicate. Slim, fluid curves, distorted by erratic tremors. Her eyes burned with a febrile light. But she smiled grimly.
"He missed the eye – and I can't be tainted."
A gentle wash of Anders' healing power closed the injury.
Her foe was already dying. An arrow at point-blank range finished him off.
Off to his right, Anders heard Fenris' contribution. He was destruction incarnate. Archers like Leliana and mages firing staves turned the clear ground in front of the walls into a shambles. Templars carrying ladders and lines with grappling hooks screamed battle cries, sang of the glory of life eternal. They died in heaps. But in spite of everything, the Templars were getting into the fortress. When one fell, another climbed the ladders to take their place. The battle degenerated into isolated groups fighting with each other. Survivors stumbled off to join another group. And start the butchery again.
Fists clenched, Anders burned with the mindless waste of it. Lambert, beside him, said, "I'll see how I can help in the healing house."
It was where Anders wanted to be. Anders, spirit healer, stood for life. His enemy was death. Who was this steel-souled man who ignored the cries of the wounded in the name of directing his battle? He tore through the battlements, a living flame – organizing, directing, fighting. Once, he gathered frightened mages into a unit, sent them into battle. Another time, he and his staff were part of the fight. In that length of time, he surrounded himself with carnage. Justice would have been pleased – the Templars getting what they deserved - but Anders, alone, could only feel sickness laced with shame.
The chaos reminded Anders of the urban street battles so often fought in Kirkwall between the Carta and the Coterie. Minor players like Athenril stayed out of the way – though she had not been above using Fenris as her personal assassin. Varric... Anders smiled grimly, amazed so many took Varric's self-description of 'rogue, storyteller and - occasionally - unwelcome tagalong' at face value. Varric was a player – all the more dangerous because he was charming as well as ruthless. He had been forced to leave Kirkwall after 'Spotlight' came out – rumour had it he was now ruling the underworld of Qarinus. Now Elthina and Meredith were dead he would probably be back.
Anders' only contribution to the gang wars had been healing both sides without fear or favour. He had put out food for cats while starving himself; had never charged a patient. Lambert had helped him – whenever he wasn't working for Madam Lusine. Anders had disliked his former lover's profession but had never told him. In Kirkwall, apostates and escaped slaves either fucked for money or killed for money. Lambert had chosen the former and Fenris the latter. What right did Anders have to judge?
Atop the highest tower, he looked across the intervening clear area. He saw Templars attacking in the standard three columns. The outer two kept a steel rain of arrows falling on the mage defenders. The centre one, on reaching the fortress, dismounted to attack it. Already, ladders were at the wall. In the far distance, he saw previously hidden catapults churning out of the forest. The first leg-length catapult arrows snarled into the fortress. The Templars had lost their Red Lyrium trebuchet, but they had other weapons. At the thought, Anders knew it was time to bring out his latest invention. And pray that it worked.
Lightning laddered down the sky. The boom of thunder descended rung to rung.
The escalade was still continuing. Although the Templars were exposed to magic missiles fired from above and the ladders being dislodged they performed skilfully, quickly, and with suppressive fire from supporting troops on the ground. If the siege had continued siege towers would have been built but the Templars - aware they had to finish this by summer - had not done so. They were expecting mages to fight desperately, individually, as they did during Annulments. Anders was happy to prove them wrong.
There were three options for the attackers. Go through, go under, go over. They were going for the first - Templars were never particularly subtle. Knight Captain Karras was planning to breach the main doors – the gatehouse - with artillery and sappers, ignoring the tremendous loss of life that would ensue.
Anders had stationed mages atop the guardroom towers and at vantage points along the curtain walls. They would use magic to fire down. Staves didn't even cost that much mana but were lightning weapons that would never run out.
A Templar arrow plucked at Anders' feathered sleeve at the left bicep, broke into splinters against the stone wall. The arrowhead glinted disappointment as it spiralled away to the ground. His arm itched, and Anders reached to finger the slit material. He was fascinated by the neatness of the tear in the cloth. Likewise, where flesh was peeled back, he marvelled at the soaplike whiteness of his own fat. Exposed muscle twitched while blood flowed steadily, pulsing with each heartbeat. His sleeve dripped messily onto the battlewalk.
This Templar was young. His smooth pink face and choirboy eyes gave him an innocent demeanour that was belied by a disturbingly eager smile that came and went like the flickering of a serpent's tongue. Fenris slew him from behind with a beheading stroke.
Anders forced himself to move, muttered a healing spell. Before he could finish Fenris had the wounded shoulder in a grip that made him gasp. Anders looked into features warped into a caricature of the man he knew. Spattered with blood. Green eyes ablaze with inhuman passion. Teeth bared. A butcher's image, a thing given over to murder. Fenris' gravelly voice grated past blade-thin lips.
"We're being overrun. The gaatlok. Fight. It's all you can do for them."
Anders' gaatlok missiles were dark metal objects about three feet in diameter. He had chosen metal – strong enough to let the pressure rise, but not so strong they would not break open once they hit their target. And they were spherical, so the pressure could find no weakness in corners. The wicks were slipped very tightly into tiny holes at the caps. He picked one up and a curious thought came to him...
...I am going to use this to lift her Veil and meet her face to face...
Where had that thought come from? Since Justice, Anders had become used to thoughts that were not his own making a nest in his brain; having his mind entirely his own once more was strange – but this thought was...different. He shook it away.
Dorian studied the wicks. His long, elegant fingers danced through the beginnings of 'Delayed Blast Fireball'. Anders remembered those same fingers finding points that radiated spikes of pleasure, glowing with a sliding, fiery sheen...
Unlike Dworkin the Mad's lyrium bombs, these would not detonate merely by being dropped – they required someone to light the wick. Anders winced. They would have to time this to perfection, otherwise the enemy would be able to lob them right back into the fortress.
Dorian smirked wickedly. "Timing is everything," he agreed with a private smile.
Fenris glared at the Tevinter. Pointedly stood between Dorian and the bombs. His right hand shimmered briefly – a not-so-subtle reminder that he had killed Magisters before and would again.
"Delayed Blast Fireball," he scoffed. "Always fancy magic – always drama. We'll light the wicks with matches rather than spells – far easier to time it so they're in enemy territory when they explode. You might be a fan of accidental explosions but I am not."
Ander hated to side with Fenris over his mage lover; knew at least part of Fenris' objection was the desire to have a non-magical weapon he and his fellow slaves could use against Magisters, without relying on mage allies (even his own husband). But – he had to admit - it would be far easier to time the explosion via the length of the wicks than by Delayed Blast Fireball over each orb.
He nodded and Fenris grinned.
"Make it rain."
The wicks were lit and the spheres launched by trebuchet. They waited in a breathing hush. Red – orange - yellow flicker beat, sparking up their hearts.
The Templars were bringing battering ram and boring engines – which ground through wood and stone with a drill-like bit – and various types of claw devices to rip away the frame of the portcullis. But they would never get the chance to use them.
The vibrations of the explosives reached the Templars a second after the flash. They swayed, paralyzed for a moment, staring at each other with goggling, senseless fish eyes. The roar was very low in tone, like a human moan. At first they thought it was an earthquake. It took them a moment to realize it was an explosion caused by the mages.
"Gaatlok! Those Maker-damned apostates are using gaatlok!"
The surviving Templars were milling in panic. Until now, the only people who had possessed blackpowder were the Qunari. Although those who had served in Kirkwall had fought the Arishok the majority saw the Qunari as a distant, inscrutable ally who hated Tevinter as much as they did and could teach them a thing or two about how to deal with recalcitrant mages.
Whenever mages complained about Tranquillity it was easy to say, "At least you still have your tongues, your fingers and aren't being given qamek. Who needs to sleep anyway? Emotions are overrated. You pampered mages don't know when you're well-off."
The knowledge the Qunari used gaatlok in ship's cannons was exotic and exciting – they had never been on the receiving end. Now the knowledge these Void-damned mages had it was terrifying. Fear sat on them all.
The Templars had come prepared to face Blood Magic, demons and abominations. In faith, they attacked. They had seen their Red Lyrium trebuchet - proclaimed an inevitable destroyer – reduced to ashes. Still, they attacked. Seeing this was something else. Despair – worse – damnation was in the air.
"If we had not turned from Divine Justinia the Maker would have protected us," one whispered, "This is our punishment." Another threw down his sword of mercy and fled.
Karras shot the fleeing Templar in the back.
"Stand your ground!" he roared. "All this proves is the mages are liars damned to the Void! Anders. That filth. He's the one who destroyed the Chantry. Murdered the Grand Cleric. Viscount Nathaniel Howe is a liar! It doesn't matter if their filthy weapon is detonated in barrels fired by trebuchets. They'll die like dogs and we will fight on. In the name of Grand Cleric Elthina. In the name of Knight Commander Meredith – who was right all along! No Templar will be taking prisoners this day. Nor live to be one."
His followers howled in rage. Karras led the attack. Anders had time to marvel at the ferocity. The Templars moved to strike, not avoid, the technology they had no hope of understanding.
The fire was roaring. Billowing black smoke. Plumes climbed into a dull, drizzling sky. Drooping branches of nearby firs rose and fell erratically in the heat. Tongues of flame wavered among the enemy camp and flattened to a trailing, mournful pall drifting sluggishly west.
The Tranquil manning the pumps rushed to the point of greatest danger, charging headlong over debris on their way to the breach.
Anders was limited to firing his staff while the first element of battle-mad Templars clambered up the ladders. Screaming the Maker's name – hoping He would remember them in the next life – they appeared in the fortress like creatures boiling up from the Abyss. The drop to the ground inside was the height of a man – as the bodies of Templars and mages piled there it lessened.
As soon as the Templars appeared on the battlewalk they passed up shields and bows. The archers raked the mages with plunging fire. Arrows buzzed like hornets. Leliana's bow sang.
Irving appeared, standing at the flank of a line of mages with spear-staffs. Unlike the others in leather armour he was still wearing his First Enchanter's robes. Anders might have thought this the foolish sentiment of an old man – except he knew the robes were heavily enchanted. Clearly terrified, Irving held the position with the fierce determination of a man past his limits.
Daggers slashing, Encore firing, Lambert stood side by side with Fenris. They fought at the penetration. Enraged Templars neglected their crossbows, charged individually with bare steel, screaming. Karras suddenly appeared, rushed Fenris. The other Templars stepped aside, hearing their champion's roaring war cry. Lambert raised Encore.
At the spark of lightning, the helmet exploded off Karras' head. It spun lazily, like an obscene toy. Karas sprawled on his back. His sword, the point stabbed into the earth, swayed back and forth as gently as a reed.
The other Templars fired their crossbows. One shattered on the crenel a handspan from Lambert's head. Shards and splinters stung his cheek and he jerked back instinctively, put his hand to the cut. Fenris was already there, taking the man's heart. Anders joined them. The blue and gold sparks of his staff revealed a young Templar's face twisted with exertion. The expression had no time to alter as Anders' magefire flung the man off the wall, sent him tumbling into empty air. He fell into the maelstrom below, shrieking, "Maman!"
Another templar was on Fenris, sword raised. Fenris dropped straight down, rolling into him. The Templar tripped and Fenris fired the bolter as he rose. He dodged instinctively and another Templar's sword hissed in fury at its miss, slicing the air where the Wraith had been. A shot dropped that man, a second finished another.
In such a swirling dark melee the bolter was as dangerous to friend as foe. Fenris realized that, slung it across his back and drew Lethandralis. Always before, Anders had viewed Fenris' martial prowess with nascent jealousy laced with unease. For the first time, he admired it – and wondered what it had been like to be trained as a living weapon before he could walk. Trained in worse ways – by the man Anders would have sold him back to.
Dorian and his Simulacrum were suddenly there. The Simulacrum was upon the Templars, howling like a gale, its metallic fingers arched claws. Its strength was superhuman, diabolical. Later Anders remembered seeing the thing look not like a man but like a golem, which he knew had to be delirium. What obeyed Dorian was not a creature of corrupted will. It was corruption itself, to which Dorian's will was attached only as an instrument. It was living death, impossible as the expectation value of an anti-Hermitian operator, and Anders found himself thinking of taint.
But the Simulacrum could not last. One of the Templars had the presence of mind to cast Dispel. The automaton crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut and the spell hit all three mages like a punch in the guts. Fenris stepped in front of them and fought for them all. Anders had wondered whether Lambert could – or would – use his newfound Seeker powers to set the lyrium in the Templars' blood on fire; bend them to his will. He did not. Either his powers didn't include this, or he was ethically opposed, or he was afraid of hurting Fenris.
Dorian stepped forward. He drew a long, slim knife. Then cut his forearm – and all at once Anders knew another of his secrets.
My father always told me Blood Magic was the last resort of a weak mind. Until he decided he wanted a son who could sire heirs. Then he told me it was the last resort of a good man. That is why I will never return. But – in this instance – he may be right.
Dorian used his blood to cast Death Cloud – which Anders had never seen except in books. The books Anders had read had called the school of magic 'Entropy' and described this spell as 'creating a cloud of entropic energy' but Dorian had scoffed. "Don't Southern mages know anything? 'A cloud of entropic energy' is a fancy word for heat – why not just call it 'Fireball'? What this really is, is 'transmutation.' It is not heat – it is change. In Tevinter we do not know exactly how it works either – we do know the presence of saltwater helps."
The Templars staggered away, agonized. Their cries were horrible.
And it was over. A few magical bolts at shadowy, fleeing Templars and headlong cavalry.
Fenris was looking at Dorian in a way that made Anders want to punch the Elf. Instinctively, Anders got between his new lover and this killer who murdered Magisters. Muscles bunched in his jaw when, with a sardonic smile, Dorian refused to be shielded. Fenris looked from Dorian to Lambert with a curious expression. Anders could not read the thoughts on the dark-skinned, handsome face; in the alien green eyes. But he guessed Fenris was weighing his own hatred of Tevinter mages against the fact Dorian had been fighting the men trying to kill his husband. Bunched muscles fell slack and lost definition, leaving an almost baffled cast.
Anders relaxed and looked from Fenris to Lambert.
"Are you two alright?"
Distant, his green eyes incredibly bright, Fenris said, "Not a mark. Lucky. Another job done. That's all."
Anders' gaze went, without thinking, to the bolter. Anders had given him the formula for gaatlok. The other refinements were Varric's - and Fenris' own lyrium brands.
Thoughtfully, Fenris said, "The Qunari fire these from ships, using cannons. Why not share the secret with Admiral Isabella?"
"You must know if I give Isabella the knowledge I'll ask for something in return – something like how to use gaatlok aboard a mage-run ship? Why would you suggest something that could give Tevinter an advantage over Qunander?"
Fenris shrugged. "I hold no loyalty to the people who enslaved the Fog Warriors – who would cut my husband's tongue out. I don't care if you want to help your pet Magister defeat the Qunari. All you'll achieve will be to distract them long enough for me to finish my work." Fenris's crocodile eyes glinted. "Slavery is going to end in Tevinter."
"Would you believe me if I told you I wish you well?"
Fenris snorted. "No. But I'll believe this." He hefted the bolter.
Silence cloaked the victorious defenders. Anders heard in that quiet the relief and loss and fearful hope that comes to every survivor. He leaned his head on the stone that had lasted through centuries. It seemed to mock anything as transitory as a man's grief.
He dried his tears and rallied his people.
The wounded Templars exposed to Dorian's Death Cloud were coughing hard. Burns appeared on their bodies. Lambert shuddered. He had seen this spell before – cast by darkspawn emissaries. Had treated the victims. Hair loss was the next stage. Death came to most. It came very hard. He knelt beside them and tried to cast Heal – to take their pain and at least give them a fighting chance. But the Dispel had taken all his mana.
"Get away from me or I'll kill you, mage!" Impossibly weak, hurt, crushed, the dying man was still proud. Lambert guessed he assumed he had either come to steal or gloat. The only thing he could do for him was back away and at least give him the dignity of dying while thinking of family or praying to the Maker – not staring into the eyes of a victorious mage.
Karras was already gone. Lambert thought about taking The Edge of Song and Glory as a trophy but decided he wasn't trained in the use of such a weapon and it was too heavy for him to wield anyway. Involuntarily, he looked at Lethandralis. Fenris took satisfaction in using his rapist's sword to kill other predators. Had even taken the name as a way of reclaiming his past. But Lambert decided he'd rather not be thinking of Karras every time he fought Templars. Why think about the man at all?
"Karras was a thug who abused his power but he wasn't a sadist. Not like Alrik or Danarius. But I had to kill him. I couldn't have lived in the same universe - breathed the same air – as my rapist and still called myself a man. I mean, there's plenty of clients I'd rather not remember but my own embarrassment isn't reason to harm them. Rape, though, that's different." Lambert laughed self-consciously. "I know, I know. It's nothing but pride. A year of Seeker training and I'm still as bad as all the rest."
Lambert looked at the other dead and dying Templars. "But these were sons – daughters. Hell, my brother even mentioned joining the Order once – after father made him clean his room!"
Fenris met his eyes. "It was the right fight. For the right reasons. The Maker can explain that to them."
Lambert glanced at the remains of the Simulacrum. He wondered if it had once been a person – a demon who had been an Elf, like Wryme – if the ruins of personality had survived as weapons at the disposal of an arrogant Magister. He wondered what that would feel like. Unlike the Simulacrum, Dorian was very handsome. Lambert remembered a tale his father had once told him about a nobleman whose evil deeds showed only in his portrait. Was this who he had allied with?
He stopped, choked by a realization too monstrous to put into words. "Fen - did we get all the Magisters?"
"Yes."
"Then Dorian..."
Fenris laughed. "Danarius wouldn't have lent me to the Elven Star in Minrathous. His dignity, his prestige. What did he care for the secrets of a rebellious scion? I can't say I trust Dorian but it's nothing personal."
Lambert remembered the mage children. Would the children who grew up really care whether they had been saved by arrows, magefire, necromancy, entropy or blackpowder? Was one any less dead than the other? Dorian had fought for these children and had never hurt Fenris. Who was Lambert to judge?
Encore's luminous light faded; semi-darkness descended. There was only dust. Disbelief escalating to nausea at the full realization of the carnage, Lambert sagged against his husband. Fenris supported him with the strength of an oak that has grown up in the teeth of a storm.
Grimy blood-spattered, face drawn into planes and angles that spoke of years lived in hours – eyes fixed like a hawk on the middle-distance - Anders addressed his mages:
"Templars are fleeing. Through the Eastern Gate. Give them no rest, no chance to reorganize. No mercy. Lambert: cast your Descant Against Unlife against any Red Templars or infected. Kill them all."
"Heard," said Fenris – meaning the instruction had been received and understood. He seemed to have no problem accepting Anders as Commander.
Huddled a few feet away, Lambert shuddered. His throat worked convulsively. "And what about the Red Mages? If they – did that to Loyalists – the mages are victims. We're healers, Anders - we should be helping them!"
Anders said, "They chose their side. Choices have consequences. Like regular lyrium, Red Lyrium will work far more quickly on mages than Templars. By now, they'll be tormented bodies, nothing more. Factories from which Samson will have mined the substance. The only mercy you'll be able to give them is a quick death."
Lambert understood. He, more than anyone else, understood the threat of Red Lyrium. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Emile de Launcet brought his fist to his ear in their new salute and turned to spread the word. When he passed Lambert he whispered, "Embrace the suck" - a piece of military advice Lambert found singularly tasteless under the circumstances!
But he obeyed. When Fenris made to go with him he made a sharp gesture. He wasn't letting his husband anywhere near the contagious stuff.
The firelight in the enemy camp had faded into listless, pallid glimmers; spectral creatures seeking solace in the dark. It wasn't hard to find the area commandeered by Samson's Red Templars. For one, the tarps covered everything like a shroud. The area was cordoned off like a plague village. For another, the Red Lyrium sang.
The song behind the door old whispers want opened...
It had been easier to face his interrogators than to lift the tarps – so he lifted them at once.
A few feet from Anders, Irving and Wynne – as exhausted as if she had blasted forward several decades – shook their heads.
Wynne said, "Did you hear that? 'Kill them all'? What have we unleashed?"
Irving said, "I always knew young Anders was a troublemaker but he was a brilliant healer. He and your son are the best we've seen in generations. So much potential. I hoped he'd grow into a wise man in time. That's why I always persuaded Greagoir to be lenient after his escape attempts. He hates me for the year in prison – he doesn't know how hard I fought for it to be that rather than Tranquillity. Greagoir had lost patience. I let my fondness for him and for Thomas Amell cloud my judgement. Seeing Thomas come back from Tranquillity – it was like a sign. And when Fiona made her speech in Cumberland – I listened. I wanted – just once – to prove Greagoir wrong about mages. But you were right all along. I know you're only here because of your son. How do we deal with this cause? I thought I wanted to do something meaningful before I die. This...this non-stop butchery isn't what I wanted. I don't know..."
Wynne put an arm around him, consoling. "You did more than your share, Irving – just as you did against the darkspawn. No-one was braver. But your wisdom – the wish to seek peace – is the real future for all of us. The Conclave is our key. If we can attend from a position of strength – Anders has won here, and if Rylock can win at Haven – the remaining Seekers will have to listen to us. Lucius Corin is more moderate than van Reeves. Both Seeker Leliana and I believe in Divine Justinia - in her ability to bring both mages and Templars under the Chantry's banner once more."
Irving felt better. Let firebrands like Rhys and Anders mock him for being elderly and irrelevant. The Resolutionists were no more than useful game pieces - brought out for the purpose of showing what mages might do – then put safely back in their boxes once cooler heads prevailed. Passionate idealism wasn't leadership. Anders – men like Anders, he corrected himself – could never learn that. Wisdom. True command required the ability to compromise.
What Lambert found below the tarps he would remember for the rest of his life. He asked their names – then realized they could no longer tell him. He cast Fade Step just long enough to see them as they really were – soul-to-soul, the way he had seen Grace – and they told him. He repeated each name to make sure they knew he would not forget. He asked if they had families they wanted him to tell and they laughed bitterly. Of course they did not have families – like Chantry children, the Circles had taken them young. They were Loyalists because the Chantry was the only family they had ever known.
"We would have been loyal to the Divine but the Lord Seeker told us she wanted to set us free. What would we have done?"
"You're free now – and you will soon find out what freedom feels like. I'll see you all in the Golden City."
Lambert cast Ultraviolet Light in the c range then afterwards sat down under an oak tree alone in the field. It was so old it seemed impossible it should still be standing – yet so beautiful it made him think of the tree that held the worlds. The tree whose sap was lyrium. This tree had seen centuries pass. It has seen the Fourth Blight fill the land with decay yet suffered no corruption. It had watched Andraste's army conquer the Tevinter fortress, yet it was still here.
Like love, beauty remains.
It was at the foot of that tree that he buried the ashes.
Looking back, there were flames within the dark fortress. Pyres. Committing the fallen.
Leliana began to sing the hauntingly beautiful elven lament for the dead. Lambert no longer feared death – having seen its more malignant alternative.
The rain had stopped, as if driven away by the flames. The sun came up in a fiery haze and burned the heavens behind it like a big fuzzy ball. The sky was cherry red and aureate yellow. There were no birds.
Lambert stared west towards the Tirashan forest. The weather was wonderful, the sun was shining, everything in bloom, coming back to life. But nearby was a crow that could not take flight - it was too weak. Then Lambert tasted bile. It was his first intimation he had done something necessary but terrible - something that would have consequences. He remembered the vultures that had flown over the Drakon River during the Fifth Blight - and how the more thoughtful had speculated whether taint could be spread by these airborne, doomed creatures. Now he had that feeling once again. He could not explain; they would not understand.
Lenticular clouds appeared like a lens, and Lambert thought of the light microscope Rillian used to detect dirt creatures. He thought of the Maker, watching from above, and had already learned He would do nothing to fix this mess. The eastern wind formed a mountain wave that oscillated towards the forest. Its iridescent edges threatened virga rain.
A black mushroom of graphite dust and ash (like the mushroom they said had risen above Kirkwall Chantry but smaller and darker) rose above the ruined camp. It slowly began to descend in heavy, shaggy black bands resembling rain from a monstrous cloud against the background of a dim grey sky.
The air began to take on a metallic smell.
A hawk swooped down and ate the dying crow. Now it had the taint. It didn't know. Lambert was not sure how long the incubation period would be. The hawk flew towards the forest.
The vector-borne transmission had begun.
AN: Credit to Beta Gyre (AO3 and ff dot net) for the design of Anders' blackpowder projectiles being spherical for maximum pressure and for some really interesting thoughts on how Thedosian magic might combine with rl physics. In my original version of this chapter Anders failed to capitalize on blackpowder beyond blowing up the Kirkwall Chantry and giving Fenris the weapon shown in Tobio Fish's awesome artwork – mages died as a result and he was ashamed. It's thanks to Beta that the scene got rewritten! She has explored this in her own series, Spells, which I wholeheartedly recommend. Anyone who is interested either in mage rights or in seeing Thedas evolve from a quasi-medieval setting should read it!
Beta Gyre is also responsible for the eminently plausible idea that the entropy spell 'Death Cloud' is forcing radioactive decay. Yes, radioactive decay doesn't have to mean radiation, but the presence of salt water (magically transported from Amaranthine ocean because Thomas and Harith found out saltwater conducts lightning spells in Death and the Maiden) could have meant one of two things: chlorine gas or uranium. Either way I don't think the mages (even those from Tevinter) would understand what they were doing – Thedosian science hasn't advanced to that level – so I'm not thinking of nukes, but radiation sickness combined with taint would be pretty nasty. Canon tells us lyrium is living, so I'm going with lyrium as bacterial and taint as viral.
I think Beta and I are in agreement that the Fade is neither a dream-world nor a 'realer than real' state that some of the devs seem to be pushing. It seems to be akin to the quantum universe in that it is 'real' and yet no spirit can have free will because the ability to make choices is a function of moving through time. Solas describes that in Fade-space more than one possibility can exist simultaneously – and we see this in the library in Trespasser – and I think this is why spirits are jealous of mortals. In a world like that, nothing they do or decide can have any meaning.
Also, the bit where Fenris and Anders discuss using gaatlok aboard a mage-run ship isn't designed to lead to the same place as that awesome scene with the Vengeance! It's just a) something Anders would think of and b) since it's not much of a spoiler to say I'd like to see Fenris bring Tevinter down it occurred to me by the end of my AU Trespasser the Qunari are going to be very overpowered. I think the Inquisition and allies had better start building up their own navies...