43. A Dalish Welcome
"You know. I think she's lying to us. She's not following trail markers. She's just leading us deeper and deeper into the forest, and then she's going to leave us there to die."
"Kazar, we're not lost."
"No, she's not lost. We, on the other hand, have spent the last two days wandering past what I swear are the same three clusters of trees. We are completely, utterly, absolutely lost, and she knows it. It's all part of her plan to get rid of us."
"I… really can't tell if you're joking."
Meila had long since stopped trying to silence the pair's banter. Still, she could only sigh and lament the loss of all the game they scared off with their noise. She supposed that the Dalish scouts currently lurking among the trees might at least get some entertainment from it. Perhaps that was why they had yet to make themselves known?
She'd sensed the scouts watching the Wardens at camp that morning, and the scouts had been shadowing the party ever since. Still, it was bad form to address them before they were satisfied as to the harmlessness of their group, so Meila continued leading the flat-ears through the Brecilian Forest, following the subtle stacked stones that were meant to lead friendly travelers to a neutral area near the camp.
She supposed she might have lurked overlong, herself, just to listen to the pair's back-and-forth.
"Maybe the whole Dalish thing is a trick, meant to lure us into the woods where no one can hear us scream. Maybe they actually kill other elves. Who would know?"
Finian laughed. "I'd think someone would have noticed a trail of elven corpses, even in the middle of the forest."
"Not if they've got a way to get rid of them. Two words. Demonic. Trees."
"Well, now you're just starting to sound paranoid."
"I'm dead serious. We had a class on this at the Tower. In places where there have been lots of deaths, the Veil wears thin, and demons sneak through. Thing is, they don't always possess people, or even animals. Ergo… demonic trees."
"We call them sylvans, da'lethallin" Meila offered from up front.
"AHA! See? She's totally planning to feed us to one!"
"I think I'll choose this time to point out," Finian laughed, "that, demonic or not, trees are made of wood, which I understand burns even better than darkspawn flesh. If it comes down to it, you'll just have some particularly evil kindling."
Kazar mumbled something, and even Meila had to bite back a smile.
Admittedly, she hadn't held either flat-ear in high regard as they'd set out on the journey. Finian was friendly enough, but soft and used to the ways of the human cities. Still, he was curious and receptive, and seemed genuinely eager for the chance to meet a Dalish clan. Kazar, on the other hand, stubbornly refused to acknowledge the primal yearning that Meila knew plagued him. She could only hope that he didn't choose to take out his frustrations on the innocent elvhen, if only because it would make asking for their aid all the more difficult.
Dalish did not easily give aid to outsiders. That, Meila knew from personal experience on the other side of the exchange.
"Halt, strangers. Come no further."
The flat-ears jerked in surprise at the voice, but Meila only bit back a relieved sigh. At last, the Dalish were showing themselves. She had admittedly begun to worry that they would not do so at all.
"Dar'atisha," Meila bade them, stepping forward to greet the trio of warriors that emerged from the path ahead of them. "I am Meila Mahariel of the Sabrae Clan. I bring Grey Wardens in need of assistance from the Dalish who dwell here."
"You are not of our clan, Meila Mahariel," said the leader, a tall, striking blond woman with a voice as unyielding as the earth. Her bow was steady she leveled it at them. "If you would seek out the Dalish, go to your own clan for aid."
"I cannot." Meila knew that she could not show hesitance to a woman like this. "They have moved north, and are beyond the point where I could get to them in time."
"And yet you did not go with them." The accusation and suspicion were as sharp as any knife.
"I am a Grey Warden. My place is here, to combat the Blight."
Still, the scouts hesitated, and Meila began to get the sinking feeling that something was wrong. This was more than simple caution—they were raising their defenses like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.
The hunter to the left of the woman turned to the leader. "Grey Wardens are exceptional at combating evil forces. Perhaps they can help."
"It is not their business," the leader hissed back.
"Is everything all right?" This was Finian's voice, open and caring in the face of defensive hostility. "It's true; we've got a number of skills between us that might give a fresh perspective on whatever your problem might be. And as we desperately need the legendary warriors of the Dales to combat the upcoming Blight, we will do whatever is necessary to secure your safety and health in order to make that possible."
The flat-ear's words seemed to be working. At the least, the scouts lowered their bows. "We have felt the Blight encroaching on the land," the leader said, eying Finian. The flat-ear just grinned, adopting a nonthreatening, yet still confident stance that spoke of hidden strength. Meila wondered whether such a posture was a natural one, or fabrication on the thief's part.
At least his leg had fully healed. It wouldn't have been very convincing to assure the Dalish of their capabilities while sporting a limp.
"Very well, Grey Wardens," the leader said. "I am Mithra, and I will guide you to our camp. Mind yourselves." With that, she turned and began leading them back along the path, cutting through the underbrush with confidence and grace.
As the Wardens fell into step behind her, Meila heard Kazar whisper, "Is is just me, or is Meila totally checking out Mithra?"
"You, my friend," Finian chuckled, "need to learn the meaning of the word 'tact.'"
Meila felt her face go warm, but ignored the flat-ears, instead leading them silently along the path Mithra cut back toward her clan.
When they finally broke through the trees and came upon the camp, it felt like coming home to Meila. Sure, the people were different, and the layout of the tents not one her clan would have used. Yet the scent of the halla… the comforting bulk of the aravels… the sound of the wind whistling through the chimes set over the Keeper's tent… it all made Meila's blood sing with pride and joy.
It seemed, however, that it did not necessarily have the same effect on the flat-ears.
"So this is it?" Kazar's voice asked as soon as they emerged from the trees. "Wow. Tents. How very mystical and ancient."
Finian, on the other hand, stared around with wide eyes. He seemed to be dumbstruck—a state Meila had doubts would last for long.
The men and women of the camp looked up at them as Mithra led them through it, obviously curious about the strangers. Meila nodded to each in greeting, hoping her obvious origin as one of their own might soothe any anxiety as to their intentions.
She also noticed, however, that the overall feeling of the camp was rather subdued, lacking the laughter and playing children her own usually had. She wondered if this was merely a difference between clans, or a signal of something far more sinister.
Then, she no longer had to wonder, as they rounded a copse of trees and came upon the Keeper's tent. Strewn behind it were a dozen pallets, each containing a sickly figure. Meila guessed by the size of the camp that this was a good portion of their population—no wonder they had been so careful about strangers, with their warriors depleted.
"Is this the darkspawn taint?" Meila guessed, her mind going back to her own survival of such. Tamlen hadn't been so lucky.
"No," Mithra said shortly. "It is not darkspawn. Here is the Keeper; he will explain."
Sure enough, a tall, serene man unfolded from among the pallets and approached. His shoulders hung with weariness as he addressed them, but his voice was kind. "Andaran atish'an," the Keeper said. "I am Zathrian. Tell me, strangers: what is your business here?"
"We're Grey Wardens," Finian said, stepping forward. "I'm Finian Tabris, and this is Meila Mahariel and Kazar Surana. We've come to seek aid against the Blight."
"Ah, I see." The Keeper cast an eye over his shoulder at the pallets behind him. "I am sorry, but I cannot offer any assistance at the moment. As you can see, we do not have the warriors to spare for such an endeavor."
Kazar scoffed. "We have treaties that say you're traditionally beholden to us. I thought you Dalish were all about tradition."
"We are about more than that, da'len."
"Again with the dead tongue names?"
"I would certainly offer aid if I could, but we barely have the warriors to defend ourselves." He indicated the pallets. "I can not risk more. I am sorry."
"Is there anything we can do to help?" Meila asked.
"I would not ask any such thing of outsiders. But perhaps…" He paused thoughtfully. "If you want your warriors, then our problem must first be addressed. If you see fit to help us in this matter, then we will certainly be able to accommodate the Wardens in whatever way they see fit."
Finian grinned. "Just point us at what monster needs killing."
"Hmm. While there certainly is a monster to kill, it will not be so easy as that." The Keeper's eyes roamed over the three of them. "It is no ordinary affliction that plagues my clan. It is one spawned of demonic forces, a darkness that is both vicious and insidious."
"See?" Kazar snorted. "What did I tell you? Demonic trees."
"No, da'len, but close. Very close." He knelt and rooted through a pile of herbal supplies, only to come up with a fang, far too large to belong to any wolf. "You see, my clan is besieged by werewolves."
All three Wardens paled. "You can't be serious," Kazar said weakly.
"So then, all these people…" Meila said, looking behind the Keeper at the ill.
"Have been infected, yes. I… have had to lay many more down, and these will likely be just as unfortunate. However, I have to try to heal them."
"There's no cure?" Finian asked.
"None that I have come upon in my many years." Zathrian sighed. "The only way to save these men—and thus earn your warriors—would be to kill Witherfang, the monster that leads the rest. None of my men have been able to do so, but perhaps you Wardens will prove luckier than they."
Meila exchanged a glance with Finian. The thief's face was taut, but held a note of determination on it that she had rarely seen him carry.
"Very well, hahren," Meila said. "We will hunt down this Witherfang for you."
"And so we're delving back into the forest," Kazar groaned, "full of demonic trees and now werewolves, which, I might add, can turn us into one of their own if they so much as give us a playful nip. All to kill some mega-werewolf, risking health and sanity to get a bunch of archers so we can slay a demon-tainted dragon-god." Kazar paused, then smirked, a ball of fire sparking to life in his hands. "You know what? That sounds like my kind of fun. Point the way, Keeper."
Meila and Finian both smiled as well.