Victory at Ostagar

Thank you, Bioware, for the lovely eloquence of the Lady of the Forest.

Chapter 43: Where the Dead Walk

The sheer momentum of the werewolves' rush nearly knocked Bronwyn off her feet. Scout was already in front, teeth bared in rage, and he slammed one of the werewolves aside, wrestling with it, growling horribly. Tara shrieked spells and Zevran dodged and spun, evading the slashing claws and dripping fangs. Danith rolled out of the way and began loosing arrows with lightning speed. Like a rock, Astrid threw up her shield and stopped a werewolf in full attack. Bronwyn's sword caught one across the muzzle, and laid it open. The creature jerked away, howling. These were terrible creatures, but they were no more terrible than the darkspawn. Bronwyn gritted her teeth and lunged for a shaggy belly, as one of the werewolves reared up on its hind legs.

It as a brief, furious fight: an endless moment of savage action. Two werewolves lay dead, bleeding out into the dust. Abruptly, the fight was broken off, when Bronwyn was struck down by a mass of white fur. Scout snarled and snapped at the newcomer. Bronwyn scrambled to her sword and was up, panting.

The surviving werewolves had drawn back, and were ranged behind the biggest wolf Bronwyn had ever seen.

Witherfang.

It was no werewolf, nor was it like any wolf of Nature. There was no doubt, looking into those yellow, intelligent eyes, that this was a creature of magic. The white wolf backed away slowly, urging the wounded werewolves along.

Zevran had been raked along his arm, and Tara flicked a healing spell his way. They watched, frozen, as the werewolves retreated. Witherfang bounded ahead, and the tallest of the werewolves rallied the remaining creatures, shouting commands.

"We are invaded! Fall back to the ruins! Protect the Lady!"

"The Lady?" wondered Tara, healing a graze across Scout's back. "What Lady?"

"These creatures must have a ruler we have not yet seen," was Astrid's opinion.

"They are beasts," Danith said dismissively.

"No," Bronwyn said sharply. "They are thinking, speaking beings. Thus, they are not beasts, but people." She muttered, "Whatever their appearance, they are people..."

Their cries growing fainter, the werewolves vanished into the huge, crumbling ruin. Bronwyn blew out a breath. They would have to go in after them, whether they went to fight or to parley.

"Come on."

"So..." Tara muttered. "this is Werewolf City. Fancier than I expected."

"Not what any of us expected," Zevran agreed. "Is it a palace? A temple? It has no obvious fortifications."

"Thus," Astrid deduced, "it was conceived and built during a time of peace."

Bronwyn nodded. Whatever it was, it was very, very old. Older than Ostagar or the northern ruins. Older than the spire of Fort Drakon. Warily she approached the entrance. The doors were long gone, and vegetation twined greenly around the arched opening. Scout, too, was wary, but seemed to sense no immediate threat.

Ancient trees had become one with the structure. The party descended some crumbling stone steps, and then slid down enormous roots systems to access the entrance hall. Looking around, it was clear that the building was even larger than it appeared from the outside.

"A lot of it must be underground," Bronwyn muttered.

"Underground?" Tara asked. "I didn't know elves lived underground. Danith, have you heard of this?"

"Never," the Dalish elf admitted reluctantly. "These symbols and carving do appear to be elven designs, but underground passages? No. This is truly strange."

"We are not the first visitors, either," said Astrid, examining a pile of bones. "This must be an unlucky adventurer. Perhaps he was killed by the werewolves, or perhaps by something else."

They found more remains: human, elven—even dwarven, as they moved further into the chamber. Passages led off in several directions.

Scout barked and rushed forward. Two werewolves charged out of the shadows, snarling. Danith, up on the steps and a little behind the others, had a clear shot. She brought one werewolf down almost immediately. The other fell to spells and swords. Bronwyn eased cautiously into the passage from which they had emerged. A long staircase led down, down, down. With grim determination they moved down it. Danith stayed in the rear, watching to see if they were followed. At the base of the staircase they found a heavy metal door.

It was locked and barred from the inside.

"They're here, aren't they, Scout?" Bronwyn whispered.

Scout stared at the door, and growled softly.

"We could wait until they come out," Tara suggested. "They have to come out sometime, don't they?"

"Alas, carina," Zevran whispered back, "this may not be the only entrance."

"You're right," Bronwyn agreed. "Let us explore this ruin. Perhaps there is a...back door."

They trudged up the long staircase, back to the entry hall, and moved through the main passage into the ruin. Almost immediately, they discovered that the ruin was home to more than werewolves.

Bronwyn had not realized immediately what the long white cords were. She touched one, expecting to feel silken plant fiber, and was disgusted when it clung to her hand, finally snapping away with a dull, low vibration. A strange clicking filled the air. Scout nearly jumped, uttering an undignified squeal. When the bloated bodies scuttled out of the side passage, Bronwyn swore.

"Andraste's bloody knickers! Spiders!" she shouted. "Bloody big spiders! Tara! Freeze them!"

She had seen creatures like these before. These were not exactly like the spiders either in Lothering or in the Deep Roads: they were smaller, a little bigger than a mabari. Aside from that, they seemed equally intent on having Warden for dinner. Glittering black eyes fixed on prey. Tara's spells worked better than Danith's arrows. Bronwyn hacked at furry legs, disabling them, and then plunged her sword into the grotesque bodies. One by one the spiders fell, twitching, and turned belly-up.

"That was nasty," Tara said.

"They are disgusting," Danith agreed, crouching down by one, and digging out the poison gland with her dagger. "Their poison can be useful, however."

"Yes," Bronwyn agreed. "I still have some of the last we brewed from the Deep Roads spiders. It can be very effective."

Danith did a double-take, surprised that her companions had seen such creatures before. Even Astrid was unsurprised by them. Danith had thought they lived only in the depths of the forest. "In the Deep Roads?"

Astrid confirmed this. "Parts of Ortan Thaig are crawling with them. They're bigger there, too."

They cleared out the chambers along the passage one by one, carefully not to let themselves be trapped. Danith and Scout found few signs of the werewolves here: this was the realm of the spiders. Huge cocoons hung from the ceilings, horribly man-shaped. They were old enough that there was clearly nothing alive left in them. Bronwyn shuddered.

The halls and chambers were littered with broken weapons,disintegrating armor, and rotting sheets of parchment, but here and there they found treasure. Some chests contained old coins—mostly silvet—and now and then they came upon a weapon or piece of armor that was still sound. They pocketed the coins, and Zevran found a little pouch of jewels that disappeared under his breastplate. Cautiously, they moved on, checking each passage.

"Feel the air," Danith said at the mouth of one. "This passage leads to a large chamber with either windows or another entrance."

Yes, Bronwyn could feel the dank current swelling up from below. Scout lowered his head, growling.

"The werewolves?" she asked quietly.

"Perhaps."

Scout growled a little louder, and padded carefully down the stairs. The rest followed him. There was a turn, and they went down another half-dozen steps. Then Bronwyn caught the smell herself. It reminded her of...Flemeth.

"It's a dragon," she said instantly. "It's a dragon."

Tara hissed suddenly, drawing back. "I smell it, too!" she whispered. "It can't be as big as Flemeth, can it? Not and live inside?"

Bronwyn peered into the cavernous chamber before them. Shadows clung to the to lofty ceiling, and gathered further in. The room was nearly as large as the Landsmeet Chamber. Stray rays of light from cracks in the roof illuminated the place, but dimly. Bones littered the floor: bones of people and of animals. Bronwyn recognized bear bones, deer bones—that might be halla—and even ox bones.

"The werewolves have gone through here, though not recently," Danith said softly, reading the signs on the floor. "Perhaps they know when the dragon sleeps, or they cling to the walls."

Bronwyn gestured at the animal bones. "Or they leave an offering and run through while the dragon is busy eating."

"Perhaps. That might work."

"Do you suppose it likes spiders?" Tara asked nervously. "I don't think we have enough jerky for a dragon."

Bronwyn picked up the leg bone of an ox and tossed it, end-over-end, into the darkness. It fell to the stone floor with a clatter. An answering rumble made the floor tremble. A large shadow detached itself from the ceiling and flapped down to investigate.

It was certainly a dragon, but it was really not much bigger than a big horse. It nosed at the bone with a blunt snout, snorting. Tara clutched at her staff. Brownyn gestured at Zevran and pointed to the left. He nodded. Astrid she gestured to the right.

The dwarf shook her head. "I have a shield," she whispered on a thread of breath. "You go right." Bronwyn shrugged, and gave Scout a pat. He knew what to do. He would stay with his Bronwyn.

Smoothly and silently, Danith nocked an arrow. Bronwyn mouthed, "The eyes and throat." Danith nodded, drawing her bow.

They burst out on the dragon with silent fury. Three arrows struck before the warriors reached the dragon, one hitting under the left eye. The creature reared back, pained and outraged, spouting flame. Astrid caught that on her shielf, crouching behind it, while Zevran rushed in from the left and Bronwyn and Scout from the right. Tara cast a paralysis curse—which slowed it somewhat—and then cast a glyph on the floor to keep it immobilized. It missed. Green light glowed behind the dragon. Tara swore horribly, and tried again.

Wounded and squealing, the dragon lashed out with a claw. Zevran danced over it and rolled away. Astrid shouted, banging her sword on her shield. The ugly head swiveled in her direction, and the dragon inhaled ominously. Another gout of flame burst forth. Bronwyn bounded forward, her silverite sword gripped in two hands and she aimed at the outstretched neck with all her strength. The blade severed the spine and stuck in the neck half way through. The flame became a trickle, and the beast uttered a horrible, unnatural croaking scream. The neck flopped, and Bronwyn's grip on the sword pulled her down with it. Scout bayed furiously, fearing that she was hurt. Everyone else slammed the dragon with everything they had. The creature screamed again, a wet gutteral cry, and thrashed in its death throes. When it lay still, Bronwyn had to set her boot on the neck while she struggled to pull her blade free. At her first fumbling, impotent attempt, Zevran and Tara burst out laughing from relieved tension and excitement.

"Very funny," snarked Bronwyn. She tugged again, and then again, and at last she could wipe her sword and sheathe it.

Many people—many creatures—had died in this chamber over the ages. There were no whole bodies, for the dragon had clawed away the armor to feast on the flesh inside, but in the jumble of bones, one could recognize the symbols of many lands and noble houses, as well as the amulets and signs of gods other than the Maker and his Prophet Andraste. Astrid picked up a signet ring, and shook her head.

"You were a long way from home, House Dace. What brought you here? Atrast nal tunsha, my friend."

Zevran moved to the back of the chamber, and they discovered that a portion of the wall had collapsed, making a tunnel into yet another part of the building. In front of them was a great deal of broken stone, fallen from the celing over time. Some of it had made a little wall, and Zevran stopped, staring at what was hidden behind it.

"Come and see!" he called.

"That's...quite the treasure," Bronwyn said, impressed. She had read of dragon hoards, but seeing one for herself was something of an event. Four chests were overflowing with loot. Silver chains, carved malachite, armor, weapons, winking jewels, and everywhere the glint of gold.

"Well," Zevran declared. "I for one hope we survive today, because I would very much like to take this with us."

"We can't carry it all," smiled Bronwyn, hunkering down to fish out an amazing two handled cup of polished malachite. The handles and base were pure gold, beautifully chased. She dusted it off, admiring the pattern in the rich green stone. "A pity, though. This is gorgeous."

"This treasure," huffed Danith, "belongs to the elves."

Astrid, who was admiring a gold torque with wolves at the finials, narrowed her eyes and looked up. "And just how do you make that out?" she asked coolly.

"It used to be the dragon's," Tara argued, holding up a pair of elaborate gold earrings. Inside the big hoops, little jeweled leaves danced and trembled. "Now it's ours by right of conquest. That's the law of battle."

"Some of it is of elven workmanship, my halla," said Zevran suavely. "but much of it is not. And if elves lived here once, they have long since changed their place of residence."

Bronwyn said pleasantly, "And as I said, we cannot possibly take it all with us. You are perfectly welcome to tell Zathrian about this, Danith, However, we did indeed kill the dragon, so everyone gets to take one thing now, because we may or may not be able to return. One thing, agreed to by all—and a pair of earrings counts as one thing, Tara."

"Oh good!" cried the elf mage. "I want to wear them right now!"

"Does anyone object to Tara's possession of the earrings?" Bronwyn asked her companions. Danith scowled, but shook her head.

"And I want this," Astrid said, displaying the massive gold torque. "This is good workmanship."

"Made by my ancestors," Bronwyn told her. "That's old Alamarri. The wolf was an important totem among them. I have no objection."

"I want that," Danith declared, pointing to the cup in Bronwyn's hands.

"That's mean," objected Tara, "Bronwyn already picked that."

Bronwyn paused, incredibly annoyed, and then smiled graciously. "But I did not publicly call dibs on it. Take it, Danith, if it pleases you. I shall find something else." Politely, she waited for Zevran to make his choice.

He gave Danith a swift, disappointed glance, and made his choice quickly: a wickedly narrow and sharp stiletto, its gold and ivory hilt fashioned in the image of a naked woman. The lovely eyes were tiny sapphires. More sapphires studded the little headdress that was the only thing the woman wore. The blade was silverite, and untarnished.

"That's quite a masterpiece," Bronwyn said, impressed. "Tevinter make, and very ancient, I would guess."

"I cannot resist a beautiful woman," declared Zevran, slipping it into his boot.

"Now, you, Bronwyn," Tara said jealously. "And pick out something really nice!"

Fortunately, there were lots of nice things. Bronwyn plunged her hand into one chest and came up with a necklace of big cabochon rubies, smooth and crimson as drops of blood. Each of the rubies was set cunningly in gold.

"Magnificent, my dear Warden!" admired Zevran.

Bronwyn smirked at Danith, and fastened the necklace around her throat, dropping it under her armor.

Not wishing to spend another moment on this trifling matter, Bronwyn led them through the broken wall into a long passage, and found that they had moved from the realm of the living to that of the dead. Dragons and giant spiders were at least material, natural creatures.

But here, the dead walked. Shambling skeletons barred their path, mindlessly advancing until they were cut down. Some of them might be the shades of those adventurers who had died here, but more—

"I think this was a burial place," Tara said. "Look!"

"You're right," Astrid agreed. "It explains a great deal. It is like Bownammar, the dwarven City of the Dead. This great structure, if not a city of elven dead, is at least their palace."

The chamber they entered contained a large stone block. Not accustomed to the concept of burying whole bodies, it took Bronwyn a moment to process what she was looking at. "It's a coffin," she said, searching for the exact word. "A...sarcophagus."

"There are more," said Zevran, glancing into another chamber.

Tara found it morbid, but interesting. "I read that in Nevarra, they still bury their dead. The rich build huge tombs like houses, with parlors and libraries and ballrooms. It seems so bizarre. I think it's clear that in ancient times the elves buried their dead in these stone sarcophagi."

Astrid thought it very appropriate and rather like home, despite the intrusive tree roots and the random shafts of sunlight, here and there. "The ancient elves respected the power of Stone. Very interesting, indeed. I once read that some elves, when attacked by the ancient Tevinters, took refuge in one of the lost dwarven thaigs, and dwelled there until the advent of the darkspawn."

Danith scowled. The building seemed very alien, but of course their ancestors had not been forced to move from place to place, fleeing human oppression. They had established this great burial temple, and it would have had provided places to stay for visiting families and for the elves who maintained it. That was probably what the first part of the building they had explored was. It was all a fascinating lesson in elven history. The elves had lost so much; but here, right in the forest, was a piece of their past. The passage opened into a a large room with smaller passages leading off from each cardinal point.

"Why are the dead so restless?" Bronwyn wondered. "Could it be because the building is deteriorating?"

"I don't think so," Tara shook her head. "My guess is that...sorry to give you the bad news...I think a demon has taken up residence. The Veil..."

A ghostly elf child rushed past, sobbing.

"Mamae? Mamae?"

"...is torn here," Tara finished her thought.

Scout whimpered. Bronwyn felt like whimpering herself. One heard stories about such phantoms, but it seemed unbelievable. This was no demon, but a wandering spirit. Danith, deeply distressed, tried to talk to the child in stumbling Old Elvish. The spirit did not seem to hear her, and dashed away, vanishing at the doorway to one of the side passages. More walking dead rose in his wake.

"Braska!" snarled Zevran.

They hacked their way through the mindless monsters. They were hard to put down, but not hard to outsmart. It was dangerous and tiresome, and Bronwyn knew that if they had not had to find those bloody werewolves, she would not be here, intruding on an elven burial ground.

The corridors branched.

"Which way?" Tara muttered.

"It doesn't matter," Bronwyn said, "We'll probably have to clear it all out in the end." She led them up a short, broad flight of steps. With some effort on their part, double doors opened on a vast room—larger than the dragon's lair. It was on many levels. On the lowest, dense mist rose from the floor. It was filled with elaborate sarcophagi. Broad pillars supported the rich and inlaid ceiling, like a forest of stone. They all paused, admiring the sight.

"Splendid!" Astrid exclaimed, her opinion of the ancient elves rising with each sign of their artistry and fine craftsmanship.

"It is beautfiful," Tara agreed.

"The werewolves do not come here," Danith said positively, examining the dusty floor. Scout seemed to concur.

"Could we look around, Bronwyn?" Tara asked. "Just a little?"

"If you like," Bronwyn agreed. "We need a rest, anyway." She took a long drink from her canteen, and they moved slowly through the burial chamber, stopping to admire this piece of carving or that mosaic. It was a fantastic, dream-like place. There were inscriptions on the sarcophagi, in letters and script unknown to Bronwyn. Danith stood tracing one with a reverent fingertip, her brow furrowed.

"Do you know what it says?" Tara asked softly.

Danith shook her head, defeated. "We have lost...so much. I cannot even read the words of my ancestors..."

Up some mellowed stone stairs they found a round stone platform with an open stone coffin. In it was the skeleton of a woman. Her gems glittered: the remains of jewel-colored silks clung to her bones.

"She must have been a very important woman among the elves," Bronwyn judged. "A leader? A queen?"

"Why is her coffin open?" Astrid asked.

"Uthenera," Danith murmured. "Truly. She lay here in the waking sleep of the elves for countless years...perhaps ages. When her family visited, she would awaken to speak to them, and afterward slip back into the living dream. It is said that there were those who were refreshed by centuries of this, and awakened to once more tread the earth. She chose, it seems, never to rise." She leaned closer. A mist seemed to be gathering in the coffin... Zevran grabbed at her arm and yanked her back.

Well," Tara said, readying her staff, "she's rising now."

The angry, beautiful phantom did not seem to care if some of them were elves. She shouted curses and imprecations in echoing Elvish that Danith could not follow. Scout snapped at the the things she summoned. Swords could defeat those faceless masses of flesh, but only Tara's spells could slow or hinder the elven queen's phantom.

"This is more work of the demon!" cried Tara. "We must get out of here!" She cast a web of blue light at the phantom, imprisoning it long enough for the party to take to their heels. The floor trembled. They dashed through the broad double doors and slammed them shut.

"There," Tara assured them. "She cannot leave the burial chamber, but she ought not to be wandering at all. If we can find the demon and kill it, she and the other spirits of this place will be at peace again."

Bronwyn blew out a breath. Now they had to look for a demon, too? Of course, it was more likely, with their luck, that the demon would find them.

In the opposite direction down the long hall were many smaller chambers. Most of these held tombs. Nearly all were refuges of the walking dead. One contained a powerful, malignant manifestation, that Tara identified as a Revenant. Bronwyn's sword arm ached after they finished putting it down.

One small room appeared to be a library. Tattered volumes filled bookshelves, and many tomes lay scattered on the floor. A wooden rack held a curious crystal phial, crowned with a gem. Further back in the room was a stone slab that was too small for a sarcophagus. It had, instead, the look of an altar. Tara was interested in the crystal phial and picked it up, studying it thoughtfully.

"What is it, Tara?" asked Danith.

The mage shook her head, frowning, and touched the gem on the stopper, then walked over to the altar. She laid the phial on it, and abruptly collapsed.

Zevran rushed forward and caught her, lowering her to the ground. Almost instantly, she opened her eyes.

"Oh...hello!" Tara said, smiling up at them, a little dazed. "Did I faint?"

"You certainly did!" Bronwyn replied, kneeling by her in concern. "Are you all right?"

"I think so. I'll cast rejuvenation on myself. I hadn't realized I was getting so tired." A blue wash of light spilled over her. "That's better. I'm fine now."

They helped her up and dusted her off, and then went on. Tara smiled quietly to herself.

There was no need to frighten the others. Mundanes grew alarmed when they heard of mages conversing with spirits, always expecting the worst. What Tara had experienced was something astonishing: communication with the spirit of an ancient elf. The being had died long ago and been trapped in the phial for countless centuries. The first clue that something was unusual here was that the gem had been warm to the touch. And then, touching it, Tara's mind swam with visions and memories of a life not her own. She sensed keening loneliness and inarticulate longing. A presence was there: tenuous, desperate, half-mad, tormented by long imprisonment. In exchange for Tara helping him escape his prison to final death, he offered her a wealth of knowledge...very remarkable, specialized knowledge. The elf had been a mage, like Tara, but also a warrior, using his magic to enhance his skill at arms.

"Whoever follows the path of the Arcane Warrior," the spirit whispered, "will be the last of the Order."

"Not the last!" Tara promised. "Not the last! I shall share with my friends! Your knowledge will live again."

When she set the phial on the altar, there had been a burst of rapid images: some violent; some meditative. The sword on her back could be a sword indeed. The presence faded: grateful for the release, joyful at the prospect of oblivion...

Tara walked on. She could hardly wait to tell Jowan.

There was a new chamber, full of traps and more walking dead. Tediously, they slew the dead and even more tediously, they disabled the traps. On the floor of the chamber, Bronwyn found a small weathered journal, and thumbed through the pages that were still decipherable.

...And when his kingdom fell, so disappeared the stolen riches of an age. The beast, the Unbound, dormant until one of true spirit claims his throne. So must hunt the hero of his people, the principled who would search for ancient evil. This is how they can make a real difference...

A little further on, the handwriting became less antiquated.

...The riders follow after every town, ever since my lucky break deciphering the story. I see it now, how they take the locals closest to me, preventing rest or kinship. I thought this a road to glory, but I am dogged at every step by his talons. Gaxkang: curse his name and the day I heard it...

At the bottom of the page, a message was scribbled in a shakier hand.

Three pages, three ages. Same story, updated.
Same as the tavern song, but older!
Signature torn on purpose, but compare and get "Vilhm Madon".
All from him! How?

Inserted among the pages was a single piece of parchment, apparently part of a letter, with the signature torn off.

...You asked, so I'm telling you. Don't go. The stories talk of the riches, but never the names, never where they supposedly spent their wealth. I heard the same tales as a lad in Denerim, felt the same pull, but it's a lie, son. They may paint a trail, but once you're on it, does it lead to the beast or back to you?

There were maps: lots of them, and lots of them of places Bronwyn did not know. It seemed an interesting diversion, so she slipped it under her breastplate, and went on.

The final room they eventually came upon was the largest of all, and lit with magical lamps. An upper gallery was furnished with a long table which supported strange instruments: crystal phials, armillary spheres, oddly-shaped tools of silverite. Down a grand, broad staircase, the wide floor was scored in mystic circles. Brooding statues stood guard. In the center circle was a great globe of glass and gilded bronze.

"It's here," Tara said softly. "Something nasty."

The wraith, or spirit, or demon that opposed them was nasty indeed. It was the source of the walking dead, and raised many against them now: horrid, shambling creatures that were the most life-like they had yet seen. The wraith itself was vaguely man-shaped, but long and attenuated. It floated several feet above the floor and could vanish and appear in any of the circles it chose. A mere gesture could generate blasts of concussive magic. Finally, the party broke up and stood guard at each circle, ready with magic or a blade, and succeeded in weakened the monster enough that it could no longer escape. Thin, pale ichor dripped from its wounds, and its scream was a high, tearing sound, very painful to hear. When it at last perished, a hush fell over the ruin.

"I think that takes care of it," Tara said, burning the gruesome remains with magical fire. "I wish I had some salt, though: a lot of it. Does anybody have any silver?"

The ashes were scattered, and the circles were defaced with silver, made molten by Tara's magic. "It won't be coming back," she said, brushing her hands off with satisfaction.

"Then let's go," Bronwyn said, relieved. "We can go this way, or we can go that way."

Because there were only the two side corridors. The one they first explored proved to be yet another burial chamber, filled with sarcophagi.

"It's got to the the other, then," laughed Zevran. "Don't they say that you find things in the last place you look?"

They found only more sarcophagi, and another dead end. Bones littered the floor. One of the sarcophagi lids was broken, hinting at rich grave goods within. A square dark pool of water glittered in the middle of the room. A ritual bath? A cistern? Bronwyn scratched her head in irritation.

Tara was baffled. "Where are the werewolves? Did we miss them?

Danith was also baffled, but annoyed as well. "There's no other place to look. I am certain we did not miss a passage or a hidden door." She made a face. "It stinks of them in here."

Scout agreed. He sniffed at the floor, the reek of werewolves filling his nose. He followed it to where it stopped, and sat down, looking at Bronwyn expectantly.

"There is one more place to look," Bronwyn said grimly, walking to the pool. "Here."

The black water could not have looked more foul and uninviting. Nevertheless. Bronwyn removed her weapons and set about stripping off her armor. Zevran helped her with suspicious eagerness, and she granted him a wry grin. Once down to her smallclothes and her new ruby necklace, she lowered herself gingerly into the water, hating the smell and the chill of it. Very carefully, she began feeling her way around the sides.

It was not a deep pool, but it was deep enough for the water to cover her head when her feet reached the bottom. Blindly, she groped along the walls, moving carefully, lest she suddenly find a pit under her feet. It was unnerving, and she expected at any moment to feel hands—or claws—clutching at her legs.

Out of breath, she broke the surface, gasping. Water trickled from her ears and hair. With a hiss of annoyance, she pushed the wet hair away from her face.

"Did you find anything?" Tara called out. Scout nosed at the water, whimpering.

"Not yet." Down she ducked again, moving past a corner to another wall, her fingernails scraping over chipped tiles. If she could find nothing in the sides, she would have to feel her way over the entire bottom, which did not much appeal to her.

Another corner, another wall. She went up for more air, saw that her people were all right, and dove down again, her hands seeking.

There! The plunge into the void startled her, and she flinched back reflexively. Then she felt again. A large, circular opening. Probing deeper, she felt rounded sides.

"A tunnel!" she gasped out, splashing. "A tunnel that goes toward that wall." She pointed. "I'll follow it as far as I can. I can't believe that those werewolves are any great shakes at swimming underwater."

She took a deep breath and plunged down again, lost to sight. Only the rough ripples in the water hinted that someone was in the dark water.

"I can't swim at all," Tara confessed in a small voice.

"Neither can I," Astrid said grimly. "We'll improvise, somehow."

Bronwyn forced herself to keep her eyes open, as she knifed through the tunnel. She could only go so far, for she must have enough breath to get back. A faint glimmer of light teased her. Her imagination? Taking the risk, though her lungs warned her against it, she swam on.

She scraped her hand on the edge of the tunnel and rose toward dim light, wondering if there would be a werewolf with a torch above the water. She broke the surface, gasping, and twisted around for a quick look.

To her relief, there was nothing. Another empty chamber. This one, too held sarcophagi, but was better lit, with more torches. It also smelled of more frequent use. Bronwyn made a face, thinking about what the werewolves probably did in this water. Across the room was another door—thank the Maker, a closed door. She clambered out of the pool, dripping and nearly naked, and walked softly to the door, pressing her ear against it.

But the doors in the ruin were heavy, and she could hear nothing. Giving the door the gentlest push, she peered through a crack into the next room. It was spacious and littered with animal skeletons, excrement, and other debris. In the distance, she could hear growling conversation.

Steeling herself to brave the pool again, she slipped down into the water, took another lungful of air, and swam back through the tunnel, more quickly this time. Since she knew what to expect, it was not so difficult. She burst up out of the water to Scout's excited barking and her friends' relieved cries.

"Yes, there's a tunnel," she told them. "It leads to another pool, just on the other side of that wall. The werewolves aren't far away, so we'll need to be quiet. You don't even have to swim. You can crawl along the tunnel if you're fast. You've just got to take a really big breath and not give up until you're out. The problem will be our gear, but I can take it all in a few trips."

"As can I," Zevran assured her. "I can help Tara and Astrid and with our possessions as well."

"I can help, too," Danith volunteered.

"If it is not far," Astrid said, "I will wear my weapons, at least."

"Fine," Bronwyn agreed. "Let's get everything bundled up and make it as water-resistant as possible."

Danith had a special gut pouch for her bowstrings, which were her main concern. Bronwyn asked that she put the little journal and their tinderboxes in it for safe-keeping. Their clothes and armor would be wet, but there was no help for that. These items were bundled up for easier carrying.

It took some time to get through the underwater tunnel. Bronwyn took one trip, bearing her armor and wearing her weapons, and then went back to help Astrid through. Then she urged Scout after her, hoping he did not panic. He almost did, and shook himself afterwards, coughing and sputtering.

"Only a mabari could do that, Scout," Bronwyn praised him.

With one thing and another, they all made it to the pool on the other side of the wall, and emerged with relief, dripping and wringing out their hair. Putting on their armor was very unpleasant indeed, but must be done, and eventually they were battleready once more. There was nothing left but to follow the werewolf voices to the heart of their lair.

The door creaked as they opened it. There was a barking roar, and three surprised werewolves leaped at them, raging. Bronwyn expected more to come: they were making an unholy racket. The werewolves screamed as blades bit into them, and the Wardens swore and shouted. Metal tore away flesh and shattered bone. Two of the werewolves went down: one quickly, one thrashing in agony. The last of them broke off the fight and fled down a passage, yelping.

Grimly, Bronwyn wiped her sword and slowly followed.

In a windowless, torchlit room, three werewolves were waiting. Bronwyn braced herself for an attack that did not come. One of the creatures was bleeding from the fight, and slunk back into the shadows, its tail between its legs.

The tallest of them, a pale-furred creature, rumbled, "I am Gatekeeper. We did not think you could come so far. We do not wish anymore of our people to be hurt. I ask you, outsider: Are you willing to parley?"

Big as they were, the werewolves seemed afraid. Why not? They were in mortal danger. Bronwyn wondered what was in the lair beyond the door? Were there children...babies, even? She was here for Witherfang, not to slaughter creatures that were defending their home.

"All right," she said slowly, "let's talk."

Gatekeeper made a brusque gesture. "Not with me! I come on behalf of the Lady of the Forest. She means you no harm. She believes you may not know all you need to know to judge fairly. She is willing to meet with you, provided your offer of parley is an honest one."

"Not an ambush?

"What would be the point? You have already proven your strength. We have no wish to anger you further."

"Why did you not make this offer earlier?"

"Swiftrunner did not think it would matter. He thought you would attack and kill no matter what was said. The Lady disagrees, and since you have forced yourself this far, we must acquiesce to her wishes."

Finally! A sensible person. She was eager to meet this Lady of the Forest. Bronwyn glanced at Astrid, who nodded. They would give it a try.

"Very well. Take me to this...Lady."

It was not far. Another short passage...another door. It opened on a round chamber whose walls were deeply penetrated by massive roots. Light slanted down a shaft leading up to the surface. It appeared that the last of the werewolves were here: less than a score in number. Some were growling and defiant: some cringing and terrified. There was a sudden stir, and from among them emerged the strangest being Bronwyn had ever seen. Woman-like in shape, fair and slender. but pale green as young shoots and twined with brown roots. She was nearly naked, save for the thin, brown branches twisting up from her thighs and curving tenderly around her breasts .Her long, straight hair was dark, and her eyes brown and opaque as the bark of old oaks. Her hands—the fingers ending in sere and leafless twigs— rested on the shoulders of two of the werewolves. The beasts knelt in submission. The rest followed suit. Scout sniffed and wagged his tail, just a little.

"I bid you welcome, mortal. I am the Lady of the Forest."

Bronwyn almost broke into a smile at the sound of that voice: gentle and lovely, refined and musical. She summoned up all her diplomatic training, and gave a little bow.

"Greetings, Lady. I am glad you have permitted me to speak with you."

The werewoves growled. Swiftrunner shouted, "Do not trust her, my lady! She will betray you! We must attack!"

Tension boiled in the air, and then ebbed at the sound of the Lady's exquisite voice.

"Hush, Swiftrunner. Your impulse to fight will only lead to the deaths of those you wish to protect. Is that what you want?"

"No, my lady," Swiftrunner rumbled hopelessly. "Anything but that."

There was a silence. Then the Lady spoke to Bronwyn again.

"I apologize on Swiftrunner's behalf. He struggles...with his nature."

"As do we all, Lady," Bronwyn said quietly.

A soft, ironic laugh. "Truer words were never spoken; but for these creatures it is a an extraordinary burden, for their nature is a curse, forced upon them. You must have questions. There are many things that Zathrian has not told you."

"And why should we believe you?" Danith challenged her.

Bronwyn scowled. "I wish to hear your version of the tale," she said to the Lady.

Tara put her hand on Danith's shoulder, much as the Lady had with Swiftrunner. Zevran gave Danith a quick, repressive look, and both sides quieted themselves to hear what the Lady of the Forest had to say.

She began, "It was Zathrian who created this curse: the curse the werewolves bear; the curse his people now suffer. Hundreds of years ago, when Zathrian was a young man, the Dalish came to this part of the forest. Zathrian had children then: a son and a daughter whom he loved dearly. Nearby lived a human tribe, who wished to drive the Dalish away. One day, when Zathrian was away, they attacked and captured the boy and the girl."

Swiftrunner took up the tale: "The boy they tortured and killed. The girl was raped and left for dead. The Dalish found her, and she discovered she was with child. She...killed herself."

"And so," said the Lady, "Zathrian cursed the humans..."

Danith surged forward. "They deserved it!"

"Sshh!" Tara hushed her. Bronwyn turned and frowned, signaling to them all to be silent. She gave the Lady a slight nod.

After a moment, the Lady continued.

"Zathrian raised a terrible spirit from the forest, binding it in the body of a great wolf, whom you know as Witherfang. This creature hunted the humans. Some he killed, and some survived his attacks, but the curse passed to them. They became werewolves: savage monsters preying on loved ones and strangers alike. The human tribe fled the forest, leaving behind their cursed kin. Many generations have lived and died as werewolves. Other humans, traveling through the forest, have become infected by ill chance. The actual perpetators of the crime against Zathrian's children, of course, are long since dead and dust. And so the werewolves have lived in this forest for almost two centuries: pitiful mindless beasts."

"Until you came, my lady," rumbled Swiftrunner. "You gave us peace."

The Lady nodded thoughtfully. "I showed Swiftrunner that there was another side to his bestial nature. As you see, they have come to have a society of their own. They have learned speech, and struggle to live as rationally as their werewolf nature allows them. They have taken names. They have regained, if not their memories of their former lives, as least their minds."

Bronwyn was about to ask why, if the werewolves had regained their minds, they did not attempt to rejoin human society, but stopped. It was a ridiculous question. Who would accept such creatures?

Instead, she asked, "Is that why the werewolves attacked Zathrian's clan? For revenge?"

Another, considered nod. "In part. We seek to end the curse. The crimes committed against Zathrian's children were grave, but they were committed centuries ago by those who are long dead. For years now, we have tried to speak to Zathrian when his landships passed this way, and he has ignored us." The gentle, lovely face grew taut and fierce. "We will no longer be denied!"

Swifrunner put in, "We spread the curse to his people, so he must lift it to save them."

"Oh," Bronwyn managed, understanding at last. Did Zathrian know this? If so, how could he hesitate a moment to protect those he led?

"I beg you, mortal," urged the forest spirit, "go to Zathrian. Persuade him to come here. When he sees the suffering of the werewolves, surely he will lift the curse, and they will be free."

"And what if he wishes to cure only his own people?"

"Surely his rage cannot run so deep. If he will come, I will summon Witherfang here, for I have that power. If he does not..." said the Lady with silken menace "...If he does not come... if he does not lift the curse...he will never find Witherfang, and he will never cure his clan."

"I shall find him," Bronwyn said grimly, "and I shall do my utmost to bring him here."

"It is well. The passage to the surface has been opened. Return with Zathrian as soon as you can."

This was the door. then, that the werewolves had barred against them. This was the door that had forced their dangerous detour into the realms of spiders and phantom; that had forced their confrontations with a dragon and a wraith and the walking dead. A small thing, to cause them so much trouble. Bronwyn stalked out, not looking forward to her next confrontation: that with Zathrian. It was a long, weary climb up the broken stairs to the entry hall—

—where Zathrian awaited them.

Thanks to my readers, to those who have favorited, alerted, and lurked, but above all to my reviewers: MsBarrows, demonicnargles, derko5, Blinded in a bolthole, Zeeji, Aoi24, almostinsane, Tyanilth, karinfan123, Lehni, Josie Lange, The Moidart, Shakespira, Judy, JackOfBladesX, mutive, SkaterGirl246, Dante Alighieri1308, cloud1004, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Zute, Rexiselic, Anonymous, Have Travel, Kira Kyuu, Enaid Aderyn, Jyggilag, euromellows, mille libri, Jenna53, Costin, chocolatebrownie12, Herebedragons66, Death Knight's Crowbar, Northern Warden, ellechiM, callalili, Graffiti My Soul, and Juliafied.

Death Knight's Crowbar: since your private messaging feature was disabled, I was unable to reply to you lengthy and interesting review. I will take your critique under advisement.

This chapter became monstrously long. The other half will be edited and posted next week.