The golden hues of sundown glittered across the gently folding waves of Lake Calenhad. Liri had to give the surface credit for this, at least—sometimes the sky turned the most amazing colors.
She tilted the barrel of oil back, spilling it's contents on the dry ground between the makeshift palisade spike barricades by the village square. Just enough to ensure the first few waves of corpses would catch and burn before even meeting their other lines of defenses, and hopefully not enough to spread and catch the buildings on fire.
She paused and surveyed her work. When the time was right one of the archers or mages should have no trouble lighting it up. The real trick with all these traps was going to be timing—if they were careless they could trip everything in the first hour and have to spend the rest of the night fighting the dead head-on. Liri didn't have many doubts about how she and her fellow Wardens and companions would fare against waves of tireless corpses… it was the villagers she was worried about.
The others had done a remarkable job getting the village ready, all things considered. The blacksmith was about as drunk as her mother on a good day but still pumping out repairs like no tomorrow. Isefel and Cousland had managed to bully and/or convince a few reluctant but skilled individuals to stand and fight.
And really, Aothor had put in an impressive amount of work with the militia. He wasn't all that pleased with the results—she saw it in the crease of his brow as he instructed them on group shield formations and the idle tapping of his toes as he watched them practice in the archery range—but Liri thought he ought to be proud of the progress they'd made in these few hours of preparation. Between the efforts from the others to gather support and Aothor's guidance and instruction, the militiamen were borderline optimistic.
But being optimistic didn't stop you from dying.
And that's where she came in. When you got right down to it, very few forces in this world were immune to enough fire and force. And that was something they could bring in spades.
They'd checked and double checked everything they laid out—Liri was almost even feeling optimistic, herself. With nothing left, they joined the rest of the Wardens and their companions in the village square. Murdock was organizing his own people. It wouldn't be long now.
"We were just about to send someone to get you," Cousland said, looking them over as they arrived. "So, on a scale of one to ten, how much destruction are we looking at?"
"Not as much as if Sandal would have let me have his thunder runes," Liri said, lip shaping into a pout. She knew the merchant and his kid were essentially running a business and all, but seriously, couldn't she have a few deadly runes on the house? They were fighting zombies, here!
As it was, Bodahn and his boy had taken shelter in the Chantry with the other non-combattants. She'd thought about just nicking the runes she wanted from their cart… but something about that kid made her uneasy in a way she didn't particularly want to test.
"I'm feeling good about what we have ready. We often won't have the chance to set up kill-zones like this—normally we're chasing our enemies or they're chasing us," Edmund said brightly. "This is a unique situation when we can hold one position and make them come to us. We have the advantage of creating a real set-up in our favor."
Liri cracked her knuckles. "We're gonna make the shambling fuckers pay for every yard."
"Hell yeah," Edmund said, grinning down at her. "And just a heads up, it's very likely that we'll go right from holding the village to fighting through the castle. We need to pace ourselves accordingly."
"So it'll be from the frying pan to the fire, hm?" Isefel mused.
"You know it. God, what I wouldn't do for coffee…"
"We're splitting into two teams—one at the windmill with the knights, another here in the square protecting the Chantry." Aothor said, commanding the group's attention. "I believe this goes without saying, but protecting the non-combattants inside is priority number one."
"It's likely the fighting will start and first be thickest at the windmill as they try and get through the gates," Edmund added in, pointing over his shoulder to the slowly spinning structure. "But that won't be the case for long. Sooner or later the dead will start coming out of the water, bypassing much of the village's established land defenses."
"Except for the ones we added, of course." Rosaya added, a small but sly smile on her face. Though not as openly enthused as she and Edmund had been about rigging the villages defenses, it was obvious the Dalish girl took pride in what they'd managed to accomplish.
"Rosaya, you know where all the traps are set around the square?" Aothor asked, and she nodded. "Good. Then I want you on point down here in the square with Murdock and the militia. If your traps need manual triggering, it's on you to call the timing, along with resetting when necessary. And make sure none of our own people get caught in them."
Rosaya blinked a moment, but collected herself after a second and nodded sharply. "You can count on me."
"Good to hear. Alistair, Isefel, Jory, Morrigan, I want you with Rosaya in the square. Protect the militia and the Chantry. When it comes to managing our defenses in this area, what our Dalish says goes."
"Aye, Commander." Isefel said, nudging Rosaya in playful camaraderie. "So I guess that means the rest of you will be up by the windmill?"
"Edmund, Sten, Cousland, Leliana, Liri and I will work with the knights, yes." Aothor nodded.
"Makes sense," Liri mused, "I guess this way both teams have a mage, an archer, a mabari, a front line fighter, and a pair of strikers."
"Exactly," Aothor said, eyes bright. "Liri, you're our point for traps on the hill and the paths around the gates. When it comes to timing and focusing the enemy, the rest of us will follow your lead."
"Giving up the reins, eh princey?" She chuckled, brow raised.
He frowned a bit, but it was gone quickly with his even reply. "What can I say, I just don't want to get caught in them myself."
"Good. You're too pretty to be horribly disfigured by a grease fire."
Aothor did not translate that for the group, but just laughed and shook his head. Liri wasn't sure if the slight redness on his cheeks was from a blush or just the lighting from the sunset.
"I don't like the team being split up, but we have two locations to hold. I guess we'll just have to send someone as a runner in case we need to communicate with each other mid battle, no helping that." Cousland said looking over the assembling militia thoughtfully.
"Actually, Morrigan and I can handle that, I think," Edmund said, grinning to his fellow caster who only regarded him with a single raised brow.
"How so?" She asked cooly.
"We can send up different colored flares in the air. Like, red if you're being overwhelmed, blue for a pause or lull in the enemy's advance, yellow when a new wave's been sighted. And so on."
"That's not a bad idea, actually," Aothor said, stroking his beard as he considered. "It'd save having to send a runner between teams for communication. And it's maybe a good method to establish in case we need to use similar tactics later."
"Who knew battle strats could boil down to a game of 'red light, green light,' huh?" Edmund chuckled, though no one else really seemed to find it funny, so Liri assumed this was just another one of his inside jokes with himself.
"We better get into positions—it won't be long now." Aothor said, looking the group over one more time. "Stay focused, watch each other's backs. We've got this."
This would be their first big fight since Ostagar. This was their chance to prove themselves to, well, themselves. That even though they'd been defeated once, they wouldn't be held down again, that they could face unfavorable odds but pull the mission off anyhow.
Their half of the squad joined up with the knights by the windmill. They were clustered together, and from the bits of their conversation she caught it sounded like they were praying together. Good for them, she supposed. Whatever steeled their nerve for them to fight.
"Hey, what are you going to do about Jory?" Cousland asked, the question pointed directly at Aothor.
Liri, for one, didn't think the decision should start and end with him. And she suspected Aothor didn't think so either—but this was something where the rest of the group was looking to him for direction on this. No matter what the outcome was it would set a precedent. On whether it was the outcome that mattered, or how they got there.
Liri knew where her opinion on that was settled. She was less sure when it came to the prince.
"That depends largely on him, I think." Aothor said evenly, though there was a note of bitterness in his voice. "If he elects to remain with the Wardens, he'll face the Joining like the rest of us did once we have the opportunity to put him through it."
"And if he doesn't?" Cousland asked softly.
"If he is a deserter he should be put to death now." Sten added, ever so helpfully. "One weak link can destroy the mightiest chain. Better the weakness removed, lest the whole suffer for its impotence."
"Under ordinary circumstances, I would agree with you. But these are not ordinary circumstances." Aothor said tiredly.
"He said he'd deal with it after," Edmund added, glancing back at them all from where he walked at the head of the group. "So we'll deal with it after. One problem at a time."
"You do know you are actively one of those problems, right?" Cousland asked dryly.
"Me? A problem? Nooo. Where could you have ever gotten that idea?" Edmund drawled disparagingly.
"Edmund, I want you up on the windmill," Aothor said before the two of them could get into it, pointing up the the exterior platform that encircled the structure behind the slowly spinning blades. "It'll be a good vantage point for you to see the battlefield from, and you can keep a lookout for when the dead start coming. Send up those sparks as soon as you see movement."
"Ooh yes, please put me far away from the zombies. I like that idea," Edmund laughed, then raced off.
Sten paced the perimeter, eyeing the defenses. Cousland leaned against a lamppost with his mabari faithfully by his side, speaking quietly to Leliana.
Liri glanced back town the hill, barely able to make out the armored figure of Alistair standing by the firepit in the center. She never would have guessed him for royalty. Though, when she thought of princes the first image in her mind was Aothor… so it was no wonder when Alistair didn't really seem to fit that bill.
"You know, the undead part is the least shocking issue of the day. And not just because we had a heads-up about it." Liri said. "Never thought I'd find myself in such lofty company. One royal is unbelievable enough, but two? Now that's just a cosmic coincidence that borders on the hilarious."
Aothor frowned, gaze dropping from her to the blade he was working on sharpening. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but there's still just one prince in the group."
"I know I didn't have a fancy formal education like you, but I can count. There's two."
"No, only one. In order for one to be a prince, one must be in line for a throne. The only one who fits that description is Alistair." he said simply. Even though his voice was even—stoic, even, Liri wasn't convinced.
"Why?"
"Because," He said with that slowly building tone typically reserved for pestilent children. "I'm not a prince anymore. I'm a Warden."
"Has it occured to you that a person can be two things at once without either contradicting?" She asked, a little curious and a lot patronizing, which he caught onto right away.
He rolled his eyes, fixing her with a glare. "Weren't you the one who said I shouldn't hide behind titles? I thought you said I should, oh, how did you put it in Ostagar? 'Just be Aothor,'" he huffed.
She reached out and flicked his nose, catching him entirely off guard and causing him to flinch back.
"Yeah. But the whole point of that is that you're the one who decides what that even means, dumbass," she rolled her eyes right back at him. "When you let other people make that choice for you, it defeats the purpose."
"It's not something that's just up to me," He said, no affect at all to his voice. "I was stripped from the Memories. According to the Shapers of Orzammar, I don't even exist."
"Oh yeah? The Shapers don't matter. Wanna know why?" Liri crossed her arms briefly, shaking her head before smiling at him. "Because fuck them. That's why."
"It's not as simple as that, Liri," He said, not giving and inch.
"Isn't it?" She pressed.
"No, it really isn't." Aothor said with a look that carried a challenge. "I've thought about what you said in Ostagar, but it just doesn't fit with how the world works."
"Yes. It does." She said simply. "If everything started and stopped with the Shapers and the Memories, then what does that say about me? I never existed according to them in the first place, so do I not matter?"
His expression turned alarmed and he shook his head. "No, that's not at all what I'm saying—"
She cut him off with a short gesture before continuing. "I'm a Warden, and I'm also just a carta thug. I'm an explosives expert, and I'm also just a cheap corner whore. I am my best days, and I am my worst days." The last rays of light dipped below the horizon, bathing the village in low purple light. "But I get to decide which of those matters. Could be all of them, could be none of them. But the important part is that I'm the one that's choosing which ones are Liri."
"Listen, it's a nice thought. And maybe that works for you. But I just can't think like that," Aothor said. "We are made of more than just what we choose to be. More than what we would like to be. That's an inescapable truth."
"Then why are you ashamed of yourself, if that's the case?" She challenged. "I was, and am, a shit person, but at least I can own up to my life. I don't hide from any of it. But you flinch at even the mere allusion to your previous station."
"You're not a shit person, Liri." He said immediately, then stilled a moment, not rising to the bait at first. But words of protest did eventually seep out of him. "And I do not. It's just… not something that bears relevance. Maybe I have taken a page out of your book, after all. Maybe I've just decided that… that part of me isn't a part that matters anymore."
She knew him well enough by now to know if that was the case, he wouldn't be pushing back like this. "You haven't told any of the others about your background, right? None of them have any clue you're a Prince of Orzammar. Edmund and I are the only ones who know who you were and that's just because we met you before you joined the Wardens." Liri wasn't oblivious, and she didn't like that he somehow thought this was something she wouldn't have noticed by now. "I think… you're desperate to prove yourself because you feel like you fucked it up."
"There is no 'feel like.' I did fuck it up." He sighed, and despite the defeated tone of his words his countenance was strangely assured. "I let myself get distracted, manipulated, and I made mistakes I can never take back. I won't let it happen again—I can't let it happen again. Especially now, when the stakes are higher than ever. Because it isn't just about me and my sodding reputation anymore."
There it was, at least. Even Liri wasn't sure exactly how he'd wound up in the Deep Roads that day, exiled and desperate to find the Wardens as a means of survival. But she knew he'd been betrayed, and that his fall from grace must have been quite the plummet indeed.
"Why… why do you even care?" Aothor asked. It wasn't accusatory, but curious. And maybe even hopeful?
Liri just shrugged. It was a fair enough question for him to ask, she supposed. She wasn't probing anyone else like this, though that was more for lack of ability than motive. And it wasn't hard to see that pretty much everyone in the group was a barely functioning conglomerate of personal crisis.
Except for herself, of course—she decided she was crisis-free and perfectly alright at all times.
From the outside looking in one would assume Aothor was the one who had all his shit together. Most of the others in the group probably thought so, at least. But Liri didn't buy it. Whether it was just her nature as a problem causer or something more, she liked finding the cracks in his perfect prince facade and digging into what was actually underneath.
Or maybe it was that he was as familiar an element as she had up here on the surface. Because even though he was familiar, he came from a part of her home she'd never understood. Because he was interesting, and he had kind eyes, and was running from himself.
The sky was dark grey now, and a dense fog was beginning to rise.
"Someone has to keep you humble, and Stone knows it's not going to be any of the others," She finally answered. "They're too busy looking to you for guidance as their new illustrious leader. Thus, the task falls to me. Tough luck for you, princey."
"Seriously, just stop calling me that."
Stone, he was stubborn. But so was she.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because even if the rest of the world forgets… even if you forget… I'll always remember you're Prince Aothor Aeducan."
Though her words had no sound, they hung heavy in the air. The sky was dark. The only light was that of a dim quarter moon and a scattering of stars glowing in tandem with lanterns and fire pits around the village.
"Careful, keep saying things like that and I'll follow you home." he drawled, injecting humor to deflect how close to home she must have hit if the look in his eye was telling at all.
"It's too bad I'm homeless, then," she quipped right back.
"Is this going to be a thing? You challenge my sense of self before every important battle. Because if so, I'll have you know I am not a fan," Aothor huffed.
"Maybe I will," Liri chuckled. "I'm bored and bothering you is quickly becoming my favorite pastime."
"I thought bothering Edmund was your favorite pastime." he said dryly.
"Nah, he just gets all existential and sad these days. It's a real bummer," she said with a sideways glance up the windmill. "If nothing else Aothor, you're at least fun to argue with."
"I am so glad I can be a source of amusement for you in these trying times," he deadpanned.
"That's the spirit!" she said with a sharp cheer, jabbing him in the shoulder.
The relative silence of the village was broken by a flash of golden light and a crisp pop as Edmund launched a signal flare into the night sky.
Hoarse moans rose on the wind accompanied by the distinctive clack, clack, clack, of bones and metal bumping together. The fog seemed to be pouring out of Redcliffe castle itself, enshrouding the husks as they marched forwards, only their horrible silhouettes visible through the mist.
Liri smiled.
"Come on, princey," Liri said, unhooking her mace from her belt. She turned it over in her grip, and almost on cue it blazed with fire courtesy of their mage. "Let's help these shambling bastards remember they're dead."
. . . . .
Rosaya did one last check of her arrows, making sure her oil-coated ones were well covered and ready for lighting once the time was right.
The last rays of light dipped below the horizon, bathing the village in low purple light.
"You know, there's an old elven proverb about fighting walking corpses," Isefel said lightly.
Rosaya couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Is that so? How does it go?" Isefel was full of 'old elven proverbs,' all of which were usually utter bullshit. But amusing.
"You don't have to be faster than the undead. Just faster than your friends." The older elf said dryly.
"I've heard similar proverbs regarding bears." She couldn't help but laugh at the macabre joke. "Have you ever fought undead before?"
"Not many walking corpses in Denerim. But I imagine the more violent drunks emulate the experience well enough," Isefel shrugged.
"That's probably true. Though, I imagine most drunks aren't hellbent on eating your face off."
"You would be very surprised, I think." Isefel snickered with dark humor. "What about you? Ever fought undead before?"
"A few times," Rosaya said, idly tapping her fingers along the length of her bow. A memory of the ruin with the mirror flashed across her mind briefly before she banished it from her thoughts and focused on the present and practical. "Don't underestimate them. They'll shamble slowly towards you, and then move with a burst of speed that can take you completely off guard if you're not careful."
"Huh. That is good to know, actually. Anything else?"
"Crippling their mobility is going to be more effective than going for typical kill shots. Take out an arm or leg instead," Rosaya said, now aware of several of the militia listening to her words as she spoke. "And crush the bones and joints that fall off, when you can. I've seen walking dead re-assemble themselves from pieces of other fallen skeletons if they can get their boney fingers on them."
"Well that sounds absolutely horrible." Isefel said.
"'Tis most effective to sever the source of magic feeding the spirit animating the corpse, thus rendering it useless," Morrigan added cooly from where she sat on the Chantry steps. "Though, such mundane routes as the ones you have described will do as well."
"Is that something you could do?" Isefel asked, one hand on her hip as she eyed with witch. "Wiggle your fingers and say a special chant, and the undead become normal dead?"
"Only if one can interact with the source of the animation," Morrigan said lightly. "Alas, the source of this trouble is coming from within the castle walls and thus well beyond my reach."
"So what I'm hearing is we're doing this the hard way. Lovely." Isefel deadpanned.
"Chin up. At least it's not darkspawn." Rosaya said lightly.
"Yes, but at least we can feel the darkspawn coming."
"I know. That's the worst part." She shuddered, the ghost of the sensation tickling at her senses even though there was nothing blighted around but her fellow Wardens.
Isefel gave her a look that was somewhere between sympathy and pity, and it strangely made Rosaya's heart ache for the memory of Ashalle. So she turned away, idly counting her arrows to keep herself busy.
The sky was dark grey now, and a dense fog was beginning to rise.
Alistiar stood slightly apart from the others by the main firepit. He was trying to seem relaxed but failing miserably, the tension he carried betrayed by the iron grip he fixed to the pommel of his blade. He'd been on edge since that morning's revelation, and though the others were all trying to go about business as usual there was a noticeable change in the atmosphere as far as it concerned him. She just didn't know what it all meant, yet. But he was clearly upset.
"Careful. The Harhens always said if you made a face long enough it would stick forever," Rosaya said as she approached him.
He turned sharply to face her, the sullen glower melting from his face almost immediately as it was replaced by a half-quirked grin that struck her as strangely familiar. "Funny, the brothers at the monastery would say the same thing. I'd stick my tongue out at them for what felt like hours, trying to test if my face would actually stay that way."
"I bet they just loved that," Rosaya said, then paused, fumbling briefly as she tried to compose her curiosity into a question. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it right now, but… why did you keep your birthright a secret?"
"You never asked?" he asked back, brow raised slightly.
"Right, because that's a normal question to ask people," Rosaya said, then comically changed her posture in an over-exaggerated offer of a handshake she's seen other humans offer one another on first greeting. "'Hello, nice to meet you. You wouldn't happen to be the bastard son of the local monarch, would you?'"
"Huh. That does sound pretty ridiculous, hearing it outloud," he chuckled lightly, but there was no heart in it. "The thing is, I'm used to not telling anyone who didn't already know. It was always a secret. Even Duncan was the only Grey Warden who knew. And then, after the battle, when I should have brought it up… I don't know. It seemed like it was too late by then. How do you just tell someone that?"
Rosaya dropped her hand to her hip, head tilted as she thought. He had a point. "I guess… it doesn't just come up in normal conversation. Unless someone asks the insane question I just used."
"I… I should have told you anyway. It was important for everyone to know. For you to know," he dropped his hand from his pommel and ran it over his face in a miserable sort of way. "I guess… part of me liked you not knowing."
Rosaya tilted her head to the side and frowned at him. "You enjoyed not telling me?"
"No, no that's not it," He said quickly. "It's just that anyone who's ever found out has treated me differently afterwards. I was the bastard prince instead of just being Alistair. I know that must sound stupid to you, but I hate that it's shaped my entire life. I never wanted it, and I certainly don't want to be king. The very idea of it terrifies me."
The sky was dark. The only light was that of a dim quarter moon and a scattering of stars glowing in tandem with lanterns and fire pits around the village.
"That doesn't sound stupid at all." And it made her heart hurt a little, that his immediate assumption was that she would think it was. That anyone would think it was.
"For all the good it does me. My blood seems certain to haunt me no matter what I do. I guess I should be thankful that Arl Eamon is far more likely to inherit the throne than I am. He's not of royal blood, but he was Cailan's uncle… and more importantly, is very popular." He said the words like he was trying to console himself before meeting her gaze with something like shame in his eyes. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I… I guess I was just hoping you would like me for who I am. It was a dumb thing to do."
"I do like you for you," she said quickly. Almost too quickly, she realized with a belated start, so she continued the thought in hopes she wouldn't trip over her words. "I can't speak for how the others feel, obviously, but… well, I'm Dalish. Some royal lineage doesn't really mean that much to me."
His expression softened from one of worry to one of relief. "It's nice to know you don't see me any differently. You know, because of the prince thing."
"As far as I'm concerned, you're still just Alistair, and that's more than enough," she said with a definitive nod. "The fact that you're related to some king doesn't change who you are. It's our character that defines us, I think, not bloodlines."
"I like the sound of that," he said, smiling softly before looking away and letting out a long slow breath. "And I guess it's kind of a relief that you know now."
The relative silence of the village was broken by a flash of golden light and a crisp pop as Edmund launched a signal flare into the night sky.
The warning light. The dead were arriving.
The fog seemed to be pouring out of Redcliffe castle itself, seeping down the hills and paths until the whole of the village was thick with it.
Isefel and Morrigan moved to join them where they stood, watching the sparks in the sky and the distant movement of the team on the hill engaging the enemy.
There was already a glow of a fire being lit around the distant gates. It was faint, but Rosaya could hear the sounds of the windmill team fighting against the monstrous enemy. It wouldn't be long before the fight would really begin for them, as well. And she was right.
The dead arrived, shambling to the square by the roads that lead down from the tavern and boathouse.
"They're here," Alistair said grimly.
Morrigan sent yellow sparks into the sky, matching the ones Edmund had fired just moments before. For a heartbeat Redcliffe was bathed in golden light… it would have been beautiful if not for the monstrosities bent on killing them all.
Rosaya readied an arrow, bowstring drawn all the way back to her cheek. She counted their number… five, ten, fourteen, twenty three… more… a chill ran down her spine. When Teagan said they were being attacked by an army of undead, she had not imagined he was being quite so literal.
They were advancing slowly. Rosaya fired her shot. It made contact—one of the walking corpses dropped, but the rest burst into action, shaking erratically and beginning to wail as their speed increased.
Murdock called for his people to take up arms and get in position. Alistair and Jory joined them, ready to defend the line.
"Hold back, draw them through the chokepoints," Rosaya said, her voice pitched loud to rise above the rising shrieks of the living dead. "Make them do the work for us—let them come through the traps."
The sound of metal clashing filled the air before their blades even engaged with the enemy. The dead walked over claw traps, which snapped closed and fractured their decaying femurs with ease. Already they were beginning to tumble one over another as the ever quickening horde pressed it's approach through the prepared kill-zones.
Rosaya moved up with the line of archers and crossbowmen, taking shots at the dead while they were stalled at range. Their early progress helped the confidence of the men; they'd killed a lot of walking corpses. She was less assured—the night was young.
She watched them advance past the claw traps. Rosaya could see their blades now, fierce weapons clutched in hands that more resembled claws now. She heard a sound like music to her ears: a wire snapping, a spring pulling… and the carefully placed containers of sticky pitch positioned on the rooftops dropped.
Rosaya lit one of her oil coated arrows in the fire and shot a blazing arrow into the cluster of corpses stuck to one another, lighting the lot ablaze. They shrieked and moaned horribly, decayed flesh melting from bone as the flaming pitch tore through them. Berwick did similarly, and she had to credit his aim—a few of his shots landed dead in the eyes.
The burning dead fell. A few among her claw traps still struggled fruitlessly against their restraints as they were peppered with projectiles. It was a good start.
But the dead had the advantage of numbers on their side. They advanced through the traps. Those that didn't get caught in the claw traps or stuck in the pitch pushed past and then suddenly stilled in their shambling advance. And then all at once they burst with movement, running and flailing erratically as they charged at the defenders in the square.
It was not lost on Rosaya how the militiamen, though gathering their courage in the face of these monsters, still had arms swinging as they swung their blades. That they hid behind shields at times when they had a chance to dispatch an enemy.
But thankfully they had more than a militia of fishermen to hold the square.
"Time to get to work," Isefel said. The older elf glanced back at her and Morrigan and winked—or at least Rosaya thought that was the intent, she did only have the one eye after all—and then she was gone, disappearing back into the thick of the fight as a whirl of blades.
If Isefel's old elven proverb carried any weight, then she had nothing to fear; not one of them could hope to match the city elf for speed. And then there was a slight shimmer of light around her body, one Rosaya had seen Merrill use before, and Isefel moved like a blur—Morrigan was granting Isefel the benefits of a Haste spell. Combine that with that elegant green blade of hers and she cut the undead like a hot knife through butter.
But Isefel couldn't be everywhere at once, no matter how quick she was. And the deeper she cut into the cluster of zombies, the more encircled she became, and there was only so much Rosaya's supporting fire could accomplish.
Thankfully, she wasn't alone for long. Alistair broke off from where the rest of the militia was fighting and joined Isefel in the advance, deflecting blows with his shield that otherwise would have struck her blindside.
She was momentarily concerned for the militia without Alistair's presence, but a quick look their way showed Jory and Dwyn with his goons were doing most of the heavy lifting there, anyways, battling a group of dead that had tripped the second pitch trap.
Rosaya fired one arrow after another, choosing her targets carefully to avoid a misplaced shot harming any of her allies. Not that any of her shots were ever misplaced. But it was good to be on the careful side.
She pulled another arrow back and looked for a target but found none. She counted heartbeats, one after the other, but no more foes presented themselves. She shared a glance with the other archers then to the frontline fighters, who were all taking heavy but even breaths.
"Is that it?" Dwyn asked in a huff.
"For now, maybe," Rosaya said carefully. She gestured for the others to gather with her behind the palisades. "How are we doing? Is everyone alright?"
"I think we're okay. A few minor injuries, but everyone's still fighting fit," Murdock said gruffly. "Poor Lloyd may have lost his eyebrows to that pitch fire, though."
She breathed a small sigh of relief. No one was seriously hurt, and they were not currently being attacked by walking corpses, so she could count it a win.
"Ah, hate to be the bearer of bad news," Alistair started hesitantly, immediately ruining any sense of ease she might have had. "But I don't think they're done yet."
It was a second wave of the dead, following behind the first quick enough that Rosaya didn't have time to re-arm any of her traps.
"Stand in formation!" Jory called to the villagers, rallying them to his sides.
"Archers, make ready!" Murdock cried.
Rosaya glanced down to her mabari, who remained by her side protectively but stood with the tension of a drawn bowstring.
"Barkspawn, charge!" She said, using one of the commands Cousland had been working with them on.
He was off like a shot, breaking out into snarls and howls that had even Dwyn and his men flinching out of the way as her dog collided with the line of the dead.
She watched from that slight distance as he tore into the corpses with claw and tooth, using her bow shoot the weapons out of their hands before they could strike her hound.
Something shifted—she wasn't sure why she caught it, but the hairs on the back of her neck raised and on instinct she ducked behind one of the palisades right as a volley of arrows flew by right where she'd been just a moment before.
The dead had archers.
"Come, heel!" Rosaya said and whistled sharply, drawing the mabari's attention back to her. He could dodge the dead when he was right up on them, but archers could kill him before he got close enough to hurt them. "Morrigan, we need—" she started as she moved to join the archer line, but she stopped her words halfway as she glanced back and saw that the witch was already drawing on her magic.
Her power manifested cold and sharp, curling around the walking corpses one by one until the chill was palpable and fighting against the heat of the bonfire.
Rosaya thought for one rueful moment that this was a situation in which it would actually be better to have Edmund and his mildly pyromanic tendencies around—flame was the way to deal with dead, the cold didn't really hurt them all that much.
And then her notion that frost would be useless was promptly dismissed as the zombies quickening advance slowed, their joins freezing together. It hindered their movements right as they were beginning to pick up speed for a charge, and though it did not harm them directly it created opportunity for their less adept archers to actually get in some effective shots.
Their bones had become brittle as well. Jory raced forward to meet the shambling husks, Dwyn and his goons close behind, all of them with heavy weapons raised and ready to strike. When their blows made contact the dead shattered.
Rosaya aimed her shots carefully, picking off stragglers as they split off. The other archers and crossbowmen were attempting to emulate her, though the only one among them met with any real comparable success was Berwick. Things were going well, so far. Alistair and their other front-liners were holding the chokepoints without significant issue, thanks to the traps and Morrigan's magic hindering the corpses movements.
She eyed the pools of oil… no, not yet. They would need that later when they were tired. For now while they still had their energy about them they could let their blades do the heavy lifting.
The last of the walking dead fell, but they remained in their positions with weapons ready.
Dawn was a long way off.
Moments crept by at the speed of molasses as the darkness beyond their perimeter failed to stir. Rosaya slung her bow back over her arm, rolling her shoulder lightly as she looked around.
"Berwick, Isefel, check the area. Make sure they're not just trying to lure us out of position," she said, gesturing to the two of them. Unlike the humans in their company, they wouldn't need to take torches with them through the gaps of the buildings to check that the dead were indeed gone and thus give away their position.
The two nodded and raced off into the night.
A stream of blue light curled up from the windmill, bursting in the sky above the village. The dead were no longer advancing on the gates above. Rosaya spotted Isefel and Berwick returning from the dim of the village alleys, and she ran to meet them.
"They're gone, at least for now." Berwick said, but did not sound relieved.
"I doubt we've defeated them. I imagine they're pulling back and regrouping for another wave," Isefel said, idly turning over a small throwing knife in her fingers and ever watching for threats in her peripheral vision.
Rosaya said. She put her hands on her hips and once again did her best to imitate the confidence Aothor had when he gave out direction. "Morrigan, send up a flare and let them know we also have a break in their advance. Isefel, Berwick, get back on our perimeter. Take Dwyn and his men and keep a patrol—the dead will be back and I don't want to be caught unawares when they arrive."
Morrigan tapped the base of her staff against the ground, launching up a light of her own of matching color. As the blue sparks started to fade from the sky their scouts went to keep watch against the night.
Murdock and his people started retrieving their arrows form the fallen corpses as well. Or, more often from the ground or the sides of buildings, which was where their shots ended up landing more often than not.
Rosaya didn't let herself stand idle. She returned to her grid of claw traps and immediately went to work resetting them, tightening springs and re-arming firing mechanisms. She didn't like being hunkered down out in the open with her hands full and eyes occupied, not when it still very much felt like they were in the middle of a fight. But Barkspawn stood steadily at her side as she worked, eyes and ears open for any approaching threats. While she couldn't say she was put at ease, exactly, she was reassured by his presence.
She glanced upwards towards the hill, her keen elven eyes cutting through the dark enough to spot the small figure of Liri doing similarly around the gates and the path down. Smoke still drifted upwards into the sky from where she and Edmund had made frighteningly effective use of the flaming oil—the scent of burning flesh was already thick in the air from their own traps in the square, but the breeze drifting down from the hill was particularly potent with it.
Rosaya gagged slightly, immediately missing the village's afternoon fragrance earlier of rotting fish.
She looked at what they had left—the pitch traps had been activated and fired, but they had yet to use the oil spills. Good, they would need that for future waves. Most of her net traps were still intact as well, and would likely be invaluable later on as their own forces tired in the late hours of the night and needed more ways of slowing the dead down.
The traps were successfully re-armed. She had no guarantee the dead would stay gone for long, so Rosaya turned back to rejoin the square.
But she cut her stride half way, spotting a familiar elven woman out of the corner of her eye standing still in the middle down one of the side avenues.
"Isefel? Are you alright?"
"Yeah. I'm fine." Isefel said, her voice strangely distant. She held up a hand and waved her over. "Come here, look at this,"
Rosaya joined the older elf where she stood above a pair of the fallen undead, staring at them with something akin to puzzlement on her face. "What is it?"
"You tell me: how old are these bodies?" Isefel asked, voice low so as not to be heard by the militiamen moving around them.
Rosaya knelt by the corpses and inspected them more closely. These hadn't been burned by the flaming pitch, but covered in frost and pelted with arrows—most of which were hers, she noted. Even though these bodies hadn't been burned they still smelled of rot and she scrunched up her nose and tried not to breathe in the rancid odors, and then she frowned, realizing what Isefel was on about. Rosaya hadn't noticed because she'd been fighting them from afar, but…
"... the bodies… are recently dead."
"Yeah. Is that normal for undead, or is it as weird as I think it is?"
"No, that is unusual. Walking corpses are normally years dead at least, risen from crypts or old mass graves. Spirits aren't as partial to inhabiting those who've freshly passed, according to my Keeper anyways, they like old bodies… unless a mage or another more powerful demon guides them into a body intentionally. "
Rosaya stood, glancing down the road to the square where Murdocks people worked on moving the re-killed undead onto the burn pile. None of them would look at the corpses directly, and they all dragged them with their fronts down in the dirt as if they were afraid to accidentally glimpse their faces.
Her stomach turned over itself in flips as she looked to Isefel with wide eyes, who just stared past her and up at the castle with a hand clenched tightly around the fine green blade.
"Whatever, no, whoever is raising these bodies is fucking with the village intentionally," Isefel said darkly. "All these corpses we've been fighting are the servants, guards, and workers who lived inside that castle. Anyone who died in that first attack as well, likely. Members of this community, people these militiamen know…"
"That's beyond evil," she shuddered. No wonder the resolve of the village had been so crippled. They weren't fighting a faceless horde. They were fighting their family.
Isefel sighed heavily, running a hand over her face. "Teagan implied as much when we spoke with him earlier, I just didn't realize… shit. This is what Owen was so scared about. Andraste's ass."
"I noticed Murdock's people were holding back… I thought they were just afraid to engage with them." She'd thought them weak. A notion she was now regretting as foolishness. "They were hesitating because they didn't want to hurt their own people."
She found herself doing something she never thought she would in even her wildest dreams—she admired the resolve of these humans. Would she be able to have that same strength? To fight against a monster bearing the face of a friend?
Rosaya could only hope she'd never be so unfortunate as to have to discover the answer.
"We can make sure it ends tonight," she said firmly. "If we stop the dead from rising again, they won't have to return anyone to the grave twice over ever again."
"I suppose that's the hope, anyways." Isefel turned away without another word, returning to her patrol in the dark.
She returned to the square, a weight settled on her that hadn't been there at the start of this fight. And when she looked at the militia, she saw that same weight on them in a way that was magnified.
Rosaya looked at Jory, the knight everyone else insisted was a coward. He stood with Murdock and a few of the other men, and from the low tones rising up from their group it sounded to her like he might have been leading them in a quiet hymn of some sort.
Maybe he didn't have the muster to face down darkspawn… but did anyone, really? No one was truly made to face such horror, at least not with the rest of your self still intact. And here Jory was, staring death in the face—the literal death of people he knew from his home come back to claw him and the rest of this village down with them.
She wanted to say something to him, to the militia, but she lacked the words. And she was an outsider. Their pain was for them to share in, to give comfort to each other in their grief. That was what community was for. And she had no part in that here.
So Rosaya paced the edge of the square, staring down the roads and into the dark for more dead to come.
An hour passed, then another.
Alistair joined her in her rounds, not saying anything for once but keeping by her side with a hand on his blade and an eye on the night. The gentle clinking of his armor cut through the quiet like ripples on the surface of a still pond.
She glanced at the somber expression on his face, and she guessed he may very well have come to the same conclusion as her and Isefel on the source of the animated corpses. A horrible reality to face, but at least none of them were facing it alone.
Another hour crept by.
Rosaya looked up towards the windmill from time to time, eyeing the gently bobbing torches of the knights and their team at the gates. All was well with them, likely—if anything catastrophic had happened they'd have heard from them by now.
Isefel, Berwick, and Dwyn all checked in, assuaging any fears that they had been eaten by the monsters in an alley somewhere, and then resumed their patrol.
Some of the men sat on the steps of the Chantry in an effort to relax, but the nervous energy that possessed them all was too overpowering to allow for any true rest. Well, except maybe Morrigan, who leaned idly against the stone wall of the Chantry with her eyes half-closed and not a visible care in the world.
Clouds obscured the already dim moon now, thick enough that Rosaya was beginning to find it difficult to track the time.
Strangely, she had yet to feel tired. Whereas many of the militiamen and non-Warden combatants were beginning to show the effects of the lateness of the hour, Rosaya at least did not. Alistair seemed maybe just a little worn—but he was also walking around wearing a full suit of plate, and she had light leathers and chain.
There was some grumbling from the tavernkeep Lloyd particularly about missing out on beauty sleep—not that Rosaya thought any amount of beauty sleep could help his unfortunate situation, but that was neither here nor there.
Golden sparks showered the sky. The windmill team spotted another advance of the dead at the gates.
"Shouldn't we go help them?" Alistair asked with concern heavy in his brow.
She wanted to. It worried her, that the rest of their friends were fighting just beyond reach of their aid. But Rosaya shook her head.
"The three of us Wardens can go lend a hand if they need help," she said. "But we need to wait for the red sparks. If we rush out when we're not needed, we could be leaving the people here vulnerable."
She had the distinct impression that the first waves had simply been to test their defenses. She didn't know if the dead—or whatever was animating them—was smart enough to plan around their strategy like that, but Rosaya wasn't willing to risk the village's safety unduly by betting against it.
Alistair continued to watch the sky for the distress light. Rosaya remained by his side on alert.
And then her attention was drawn sharply upwards again by a roar and flash of light—only this was no red flare.
Flames burst along the front of the gates, first blue, then gold, then strangely green and burning low over a wide area.
"Well, well. A grease fire. Destruction over finesse, indeed." Morrigan said, a chuckle and a smile on her face that felt dangerous.
The dim sound of metal clashing rose on the wind and then faded, and a burst of fire flashed again as Edmund lit another grease fire to stop the dead from circling past them and pouring down the hill towards the square.
Over time the fire and fighting on top of the hill died and the fighting at the gates stopped… And then it was quiet and dark again. Rosaya couldn't help but snicker slightly, noticing that one of the sails of the windmill was smoldering with a curl of small flames at the edges of the cloth. Their mage was consistent if nothing else. And none of the fire had caught onto the village buildings. Yet.
A few moments later Edmund sent up blue sparks. Rosaya shifted uneasily, glancing to the lake. Their team hadn't been attacked in that wave, and yet she was all the more unsettled for it.
She wasn't sure of the time now, but it had to be well past midnight.
"Sun up can't be too far off, now," Jory said hopefully. "We've already faced more monsters tonight than any night before. Perhaps it's over."
Rosaya sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Of course he said that. "Nuva mar'av aria ma." she moaned.
"Huh?" Jory blinked.
"Just save us the time an explanation would require and take offense." Morrigan said, rolling her eyes.
"The lake! They're coming out of the lake!"
To his credit, as far as tempting fate went Jory's timing couldn't have been any better. Isefel came running back from her patrol, weapons drawn and eye focused in the direction of the shore.
"How many?" Alistair asked, tightening his shield on his arm.
"I didn't exactly stick around to count, now did I?" Isefel said as they others from the scouting groups returned to the square as well. "It was a lot. And they're different than before."
"Morrigan—" Rosaya said, glancing back at the witch, but she was already on it.
Golden sparks showered over the village. The light glittered off the waves of the lake… and also the water-logged remains of the corpses charging towards the square.
Edmund had insisted they lay a large amount of their traps in between the buildings that lined the roads to the shoreline. Now she knew why.
Claw traps and tripwires were being activated every moment but with numbers like that the effect they had was superficial at best. It was buying them time for now… and only for now. She'd need to set off her nets.
Rosaya ran to stand in line with the melee fighters, bow drawn and a pair of arrows ready. She fired them off, manually activating her first net trap. It dropped down like a wall, suspended between two sign shops. She turned down the other road and repeated her motion, activating the second.
She'd spent a not inconsiderably amount of time that afternoon converting fishing nets into traps that would suit their needs, attaching wiring and spikes to the weave that would cause the corpses to get stuck on them as they charged into it.
She felt a small surge of pride as it worked exactly as she hoped. The lines of dead charged forwards in blind rage, colliding with the net, and found themselves unable to pull away from it. The more dead that got stuck, the studier wall it would make, and their own advantage of numbers would be the barrier that kept them from entering the square.
"You coulna done that earlier?" Dwyn huffed.
"Even this won't hold forever," Rosaya said, eyeing the net as it shook when the dead railed against it. "But it should be strong enough to last until sunset. If we're lucky, we won't have to fight them at all—"
"Uh, they're climbing. They're climbing!" Jory said with rising panic. "Can undead climb?!"
Fenedhis.
"Apparently!" Rosaya responded, passing the tip of an oiled arrow through the fire and firing it into the grease, catching it and the dead that crossed into it with a blaze.
The dead spilled over the net and right into the fire.
Her nets were holding strong and acting exactly as they should. Except now the dead were using the mass of those already trapped to the spikes and snares of it and climbing up their bodies in an effort to get around. An effort that was working.
"It's at least slowing them down, even if it's not working quite as intended." Alistair said, then braced his shield. "Dwyn, Berwick, with me!" he said, then raced to meet the still burning dead rushing to assault them.
Controlling the field of battle. That was the goal, but that control that had held up so far into the night was starting to spiral away as Rosaya spotted shapes cresting the rooftops of the village buildings. Her blood turned cold as she fired an arrow at one of the silhouettes and dropped it—the dead were avoiding all her other traps by moving on top of the buildings and making a direct move in the direction of the Chantry.
"They're on the rooftops! Don't let them get around us," Rosaya shouted to the rest of the archers. She fired on the dead a few times before she stilled, blinking her eyes as she tracked one unusually quick figure up on the buildings before she realized what she was seeing.
Leaping from roof to roof of the rightly clustered village cottages was Isefel, dispatching the dead or kicking them back down to the ground on the sides of the structures opposite the square. Somehow it felt akin to seeing her in her natural element.
But Rosaya realized with cold dread that Isefel was alone up there on the rooftops—Rosaya wasn't sure exactly how she'd managed to get up there so quickly without anyone even noticing— and had no one at her side to watch her blindside. And more and more dead were beginning to climb up the perimeter buildings. Rosaya kept her bow aimed high to protect the older elf even as the dead charged into the heart of the square.
"Barkspawn, guard!" Rosaya said, though the command was redundant, because that was what he was already doing. Barkspawn ripped into the walking corpses as they got close. He took out their legs, pulled weapons from decaying hands, but he did not stray far from her.
The dead were past their defensed, engaged in close quarters. Rosaya backed up the steps of the Chantry to put distance between herself and the corpses as she continued to give Isefel supporting fire.
These dead weren't the victims from the castle or the previous attacks. Whatever force was behind this animation had reached beyond that, now, drawing bodies from their watery graves in Lake Calenhad. And where before the corpses moved with hunger, these were fueled by rage.
The ones that had weapons wielded arms rusted and jagged. Those unarmed either lifted weapons from the dead felled before them or simply surged forth with jaws wide and claws intent on rending living flesh.
Morrigan grabbed the walking corpse by the back of it's head as it's teeth gnashed for Jory's throat. Her nails dug into it's skull as she dragged it away, the skin sizzling where she made contact. She shoved it forward into the advancing horde. The moment it collided with it's fellow dead it's form exploded with a force that destroyed several others, their bodies bursting apart in a shower of bones and decayed flesh.
Rosaya flinched back and ducked behind Alistair, allowing him to block the ichorous spray with his shield. She did not want to wash corpse guts out of her hair later.
Though Morrigan's spell had created a dent in their numbers, more were coming, wading through pitch, dragging half-dismantled traps after them as they all converged on the square. The militia was running out of steam, and Rosaya only had so many arrows left.
"We can't hold them all, we need help!" Rosaya said over the rising moans of the corpses crawling out of the lake.
The witch cursed under her breath and held her staff aloft, a burst of red light sailing upwards and breaking into a shower of crimson sparks with a thunderous crack.
The dead were past the traps. The militia formed up under Murdock's command, creating a semi-circle of defense around the Chantry doors.
Morrigan's magic infected the walking dead, weakening and slowing them to the point they were almost falling over their own weight by the time their melee fighters engaged with them, but there were just so many—
She saw the white mabari first, bursting into the torchlight with a loud howl and breaking the line of undead archers. The hounds partner was quick to follow, maul crushing the bones of the dead to dust as he allowed it's weight to carry him through the cluster of assailants.
Isefel wasn't alone on the rooftops anymore. Leliana had stowed her bow and had joined her with a pair of blades, cutting down the dead that threatened to encircle the elven woman. Any of the dead that succeeded in getting past them and dropping down into the square did so in several pieces.
And whatever misgivings any of them may have had about the qunari in their midst, Rosaya at least was glad for his presence on the battlefield. She did not know if undead were capable of feeling fear any longer, but she thought they should at least be a little intimidated by the way Sten plowed through their number.
She was just glad he was on their side.
With Sten, Leliana, Cousland, and Lady joining the battle and crashing against the enemy's flank, they were able to push them back.
"Perfect timing," Rosaya said to Cousland as he dashed by to dispatch the dead the witch had weakened. "Are things alright by the windmill?"
"When Edmund's not busy almost zapping us full of lighting or burning the hair off our skin, yeah," Cousland huffed, whipping some sweat form his brow. He did smell a bit singed, she thought. He pivoted, spinning with his weapon and using it's weight to crush a corpse pressuring Murdock. "He and the dwarves are holding the hill with the knights in case more come there," he added.
"We're almost there," Rosaya said, chancing a glance towards the sky before firing off two more arrows and felling a pair of corpses Alistair was facing off with, and he sent a grateful glance back over his shoulder to her. "Sunrise is nearly here."
"For the Arl! For our home! For Redcliffe!" Jory cried, rallying the militia to his side. He hefted his blade outward and led a charge.
A few of the militiamen had taken injuries and retreated behind their line of archers, but even they stood again, taking up their weapons despite their wounds and joining the advance. And with the reinforcements from the windmill squad, she believed they could hold out.
No, more than that—they could win.
The last of the dead fell. The night was still.
Morrigan sat on the steps of the Chantry, paler than normal and breathing heavily though her countenance was even. Though clearly drained still she pointed her staff towards the sky, launching blue sparks to alert the other team of their victory.
A breeze pushed across the lake and through the village, carrying away some of the scent of burning flesh. The moon was beginning to dip down the western side of the sky. Slowly, the darkness above gave way to that deep blue that heralded the rising sun.
It was over. They made it. Redcliffe was safe.
. . . . .
Isefel was not a morning person. It was just her nature; she was always more active at night. And over the course of her life her nocturnal tendencies had only been exacerbated by her self-imposed part-time job as a nighttime vigilante.
But for perhaps the first time in her life, she saw the sunrise and was filled with something other than begrudging exhaustion. It was relief, all consuming and brimming with triumph as the gray pre-dawn gave way to golden rays of sunlight.
She'd had long nights full of fights before. In the past coming off one of those nights normally meant she needed to crash afterwards, but as she sat in the still-cool light of morning Isefel didn't feel at all as worn as she'd have expected. Maybe it was because she wasn't fighting alone anymore. Or maybe it one of those supposed physically enhanced benefits of being a Warden.
Once it was confirmed safe with the sun fully in the sky the Chantry doors opened and those inside poured out, their trepidatious steps met with the loud cheers of the knights and the militia celebrating and reassuring them of their success—the night was one without a single life lost.
Children ran to their fathers, and elderly couples held their sons still sore from the fighting as if they couldn't believe they were really alive. It was a perfect golden moment after a long hard night.
Both of their mages had vanished from the crowded square fairly quickly. Edmund and Morrigan were no doubt exhausted from casting all night with minimal breaks, and Isefel wouldn't have been at all surprised they'd passed out on the pews of the Chantry in an effort to get some rest. She found the idea fairly tempting, herself.
There was no time to offer real funeral rites for the dispatched undead. Instead what bodies they could identify after the decay and the flames and general wear of battle were sent off by their families and friends. The rest were given their final farewell by Bann Teagan and the Mother from the Chantry, all of them loaded onto funeral skiffs and sent off into the water.
It was a somber affair, and Isefel watched the volley of flaming arrows meant to ignite the remains of the dead fly from a position on the Chantry's rooftop. It was a funny thing, that not that long ago she'd broken into a Chantry with the intent of taking a life, and now she'd spend all night the lives of those inside one.
She watched as in the village below Rosaya and Liri went about disassembling their various traps and mechanisms left over from the fight. Their careful preparations were no doubt what kept any more of the living from joining the dead last night. Isefel made a note to buy the both of them drinks the next time they managed to find themselves at a tavern. Which would hopefully be sooner rather than later.
Isefel spied who she'd been keeping an eye out for walking through the square—Bevin and Kaitlyn. Bevin was actually running about with a few other children his age while his older sister watched on.
With practiced deft she scaled back down the side of the Chantry building, unclipping the sheath of the Green Blade from her belt as she landed. With the weapon in hand she approached the young woman, making sure her footsteps were loud enough to announce her presence so she didn't take her by surprise.
"You did it," Kaitlyn said as she turned to greet her, eyes glassy but a smile on her face. "You've saved Redcliffe."
"It wasn't just me," Isefel said, gesturing behind her where several of the others were moving to and from about the village. "Everyone had a part to play to make victory possible."
"True, but quite a few of the men are talking about you specifically, you know. The dashing elven maiden who chased the dead across the rooftops," she said with a light laugh.
"It was nothing, really." Isefel said. "They should be talking about the clever Dalish that set up the traps that kept us all alive. Or the little dwarven woman who made all the flaming traps and grenades. Or better yet, the mage that likely came very close to burning the windmill down."
"Oh, I'm sure they do speak of them. In fact I don't think any of you will be able to show your faces around here as anything less than heroes for the rest of your lives."
Now that was a humbling notion.
"Well, then allow me to do the noble and heroic thing, if that's what I am," Isefel said, holding the sheathed blade out for Kaitlyn to take. "Thank you for letting me wield it against the dead. I just hope I did it's legacy justice."
"Your feats are now added to the legend of this blade, Warden Tabris." Katilyn cradled the blade and looked like she may very well burst into tears again. "I'm sure Bevin will make sure what you've done for us will be remembered. I know I will."
Isefel glanced to Bevin, where he and his friends had picked up sticks and were now playing sword fight. She glanced again to the fine weapon he would one day inherit. "Make sure you get your brother some proper training before he starts handling this, would you? 'Stick 'em with the pointy end' is a good start, but true blade mastery takes more than that. I think he has what it takes to be great."
"You think so?" She mused, watching her brother fondly. "Perhaps I'll speak to Bann Teagan about getting him squired to a knight under his service. Once things are… settled."
"Stay safe, Kaitlyn," Isefel said, and then bid her farewell.
It was important to remember the little people caught up in all this, she thought. That in between all the darkspawn, betrayals, and nightmares there were families with their own stories and histories that existed before this conflict.
Perspective, and all that.
The village was beginning to gather in ernest now. Even the mages had come out from wherever they'd slipped off to to rest. Isefel spotted the rest of her companions grouping on the raised steps of the Chantry alongside Bann Teagan so she opted to join the edge of their group.
"The people will sing songs of what we've done for them," Leliana said. "We did the right thing, helping these people. I'm happy they won't have to fear the dead any longer."
"We're not done yet," Cousland said lowly, glancing over the tops of the village buildings and towards the castle. "It's only done once we deal with whatever's in there."
"Still, this is a victory," She said. "We should enjoy it, for the brief moment we are able."
"For the morale of the people, yeah?" Cousland said with a relenting smile as he looked back down and across the assembled populace.
"Now you're getting it!" The former Sister said brightly.
"Dawn arrives, my friends, and all of us remain. We are victorious!" Teagan cried out to the crowd, fist raised high in the air.
Somehow this small fishing village roused a cheer that rivaled the impassioned cries of hundreds more.
"And it is these good folk you see beside me that we have to thank for our lives today. Without their heroism, surely we would all have perished." Teagan turned to them, his arm sweeping a wide gesture over their number. He inclined his head towards them, and many of the villagers did the same. "I bow to you, noble sers. The Maker smiled on us when he sent you here in our darkest hour."
"Thank you, Bann Teagan. We are honored," Cousland said, the first to step forward and return the Bann's bow respectfully. The rest of them copied the gesture, with varying levels of grace.
"With the Maker's favor, the blow we delivered today is enough for me to enter the castle and seek out your Arl. Be wary, and watch for signs of renewed attack. We shall return with news as soon as we are able." The people cheered, holding on to one another as they raised their fists high. Teagan turned to them, the confidence melting from his face as soon as it was no longer visible to the populace. He pitched his voice lower and spoke again, this time just to them. "Now, we've no time to waste. Meet me at the mill. We can talk further there. We're not out of the woods yet, friends."
The sinking feeling in her gut only intensified as she walked him walk off through the crowd, exterior of confidence once again renewed.
"Was it too much for me to hope we might at least get a nap in?" She wondered aloud, stifling a yawn.
"Haven't you figured it out by now?" Edmund mused. "We're Wardens. We don't get to take naps."
"I'd like some breakfast, at least," She grumbled. "We've certainly earned some."
"We have food in our packs," Aothor said, already starting towards the windmill with most of the group following him by default. "We shouldn't delay—every moment we spend outside that castle is time whatever is inside it has to prepare against us."
The walk up to the windmill was strangely somber, especially beside the high hopes of the villagers who cheered for them as they passed. But each of them knew the night of battle was only the first step in solving Redcliffe's problems.
Couldn't anything ever be simple?
"Odd how quiet the castle looks from here." Teagan stood with his back to them, staring at the distant walls of the fortress with a thousand-yard stare. "You would think there was nobody inside at all."
"Maybe we'll get lucky and all the undead left the castle last night and there won't be any left inside for us to fight." Rosaya suggested, only partly in jest.
"Let's not count our gems before they're polished," Aothor said with a long sigh.
"We shouldn't delay any further. I had a plan. To enter the castle after the village was secure." The Bann turned to them now with renewed strength in his posture. "There is a secret passage here, in the mill, accessible only to my family."
"What is with you rich people and your secret palace exits?" Liri said with a blatant roll of her eyes.
"This will be the third time these secret palace exit has come in handy," Aothor said, brow raised. "I figured you'd be a fan."
"Well yeah, I am," Liri shrugged. "I'm just suspicious of how convenient it all is."
"Perhaps I should have gone into the castle earlier… but I could not leave the villagers—Maker's breath!" Teagan stopped mid-sentence and stared past them and towards the gates with the sheet-white face of a man who'd seen a ghost.
"Ah. Right on cue," Edmund said, but without the sort of excited anticipation he usually had when he was waiting for something to happen. In fact, the mage looked rather like he wouldn't mind if the ground below his feet opened and swallowed him whole.
"Teagan!" a woman's voice cried out, and their company turned in unison to see a woman in a fine gown racing towards them with several guardsmen following close behind her. She ran past all of them, her outstretched arms latching onto the Banns as she held onto him tightly. "Thank the Maker you yet live!" she cried in relief, her orlesian accent thicker than even Lelianas.
"Isolde!" Teagan said, still trying to shake away the shock. "You're alive! How did you…?"
Their hands were all on their blades on instinct, but Aothor waved them at ease as he deemed her not a threat. Isefel kept a small blade palmed just in case. This woman had come from the castle, after all.
"I do not have much time to explain," she said quickly, backing away half a step and wringing her hands nervously. "I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over, and I must return quickly. And I… I need you to return with me, Teagan. Alone."
"Hold on," Isefel said, stepping forward. "We're going to need a bit more of an explanation than that."
Isolde's head whipped to her, as if only just now becoming aware of anyone else standing their aside from the Bann. Isefel could feel the aspects of her person being appraised as the noblewoman's eyes swept over her: blades first, eyepatch next, ears last but most lingering. Isefel squared her shoulders and maintained the woman's gaze until she was the first to look away.
"Who is this woman, Teagan?" She said the words with a curl of her lip and crawl in her tone that was, unfortunately, quite familiar to Isefel.
Isefel remained cool and still. "Normally a greeting starts with, 'hello, nice to meet you.'"
There was a sigh over her shoulder and a slight shuffling of plate armor as Alistiar moved towards the front of their number.
"You remember me, Lady Isolde, don't you?"
"Alistair? Of all the…" She noblewoman said, voice somehow dripping with a disdain that rivaled even Morrigan. "What are you doing here?"
"Allow me to make introductions, Arlessa," Cousland said, quickly interposing himself between the rest of them and Isolde's withering eyes. "We are the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and we're here to aide Redcliffe."
"Please, Isolde, calm yourself. I owe these men and women my life. So does the whole of the village." Teagan said placatingly.
"You… you are Eleanor's boy, no?" Isolde said after holding Cousland under a moment of scrutiny. The took a breath and physically shook her head in an effort to clear it. "Pardon me. I… I would exchange pleasantries, but… considering the circumstances…"
"I'm glad to see you're alive, but…" Teagan said, placing a hand on the noblewoman's shoulder and turning her attention back to him. "We had no idea anyone was even alive within the castle. We must have some answers!"
"I know you need more of an explanation, but… I don't know what is safe to tell." Isolde look up and past him towards the castle before she stepped back and away from him and began to pace a short erratic path. "Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle. The dead waken and hunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still it continues."
"You didn't mention a mage." Cousland said quietly just to their group, a sideways glance to their own caster.
"I was planning on getting to it over breakfast, but you all rushed us up here," Edmund hissed back as Isolde continued to race through her thoughts.
"And I think… Connor is going mad. We have survived, but he won't flee the castle. H-he has seen so much death. You must help him, Teagan! You are his uncle. You could reason. I-I do not know what else to do!"
"Could it be a demon?" Isefel wondered aloud. The words had no more left her lips than they all turned and looked at Edmund, all their eyes carrying the same question.
"Yes. It's a demon."
Isolde froze in place, her already pale cheeks now devoid of any color. "I… Maker's mercy! Could it truly be a demon?"
"Uh, yeah. It is." Edmund said, oddly unimpassioned.
"I can't let it hurt my Connor!" She said, once again frantic and moving. "You must come back with me, Teagan! Please! He is just a boy!"
There were gaps in what the Arlessa was saying. But Isefel couldn't be sure if it was because she was intentionally leaving something out to mislead them, or this woman was just beside herself with panic for the fate of her child. Then again, there was nothing that said it had to be one or the other. Both simultaneously was entirely possible.
"What can you tell us about this mage you captured?" Rosaya asked.
Isolde glanced to her for the first time, lips pursing as she took in her kaddis fashioned as traditional Dalish markings. "He's an infiltrator, I think—one of the castle staff. We discovered he was poisoning my husband. That is why Eamon fell ill," she said hesitantly. "He claims an agent of Teyrn Loghain's hired him. He may be lying, however, I cannot say."
"No, that tracks," Cousland said, tapping his fingers against the haft of his maul. "Howe had a spy stationed in the village meant to watch the castle. And Howe and Loghain are working together… they wanted Eamon out of the way, just as they wanted my family gone."
"Eliminate the core pillars and the rest of the cave collapses from it's own weight," Aothor added softly. "Howe and Loghain would find themselves right at home in Assembly, that's for sure."
"That still doesn't explain why Teagan has to go in alone," Isefel said, staring directly at the Arlessa with a challenge in her eye.
Lady Isolde did not meet her gaze. "For Connor's sake, I promised I would return quickly and only with Teagan."
"Promised?" Teagan asked, a frown starting on his face. "Whom did you promise?"
"Something the mage unleashed," Isolde said in a small voice.
"The demon." Edmund added flatly, almost bored.
She glared at him, but continued her plea to the Bann. "So far it has allowed Eamon, Connor, and myself to live. The others… were not so fortunate. It killed so many, turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village!"
Compassion did enter her heart, at that, as Isefel remembered the state of the walking dead they'd only just defeated. Likely Isolde had born witness to whatever dark magic created them in the first place, and no one deserved to see that.
"It wants us to live, but I do not know why," The Arlessa continued, a choked sob in her voice. "It allowed me to come for you, Teagan, because I begged, because I said Connor needed help."
Why that was what allowed the demon's permission was a point Isefel found particularly curious, as no doubt did the others.
"We can't afford to stand about," Aothor said. "We need to decide on our course of action."
"The king is dead, and we need my brother now more than ever." Teagan hung his head slightly, rubbing his brow tiredly. He breathed in, then out, and looked up across the lake. "I will return to the castle with you, Isolde."
"Oh, thank the Maker! Bless you, Teagan! Bless you!"
"You're sure?" Cousland asked, offering the nobleman a concerned look. "There's no telling what you'll find in there."
"I have no illusions of dealing with this evil alone. You all, on the other hand, have proven quite formidable," Teagan said with something sharp in his gaze. "Isolde, can you excuse us for a moment? We must confer in private before I return to the castle with you."
"Please do not take too long! I will be by the bridge."
"Here's what I propose: I go in with Isolde and you enter the castle using the secret passage." Teagan started towards the windmill, waving their company to follow after him. He slid an ornate ring off his hand and passed it to Cousland. "My signet ring unlocks the door. Perhaps I will… distract whatever evil is inside and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed. What do you say?"
"It's a ballsy move, Teagan, I'll give you that." Liri said with a wide grin.
Teagan only shrugged, a deep tiredness hanging at his frame. "What choice do we have? If your business with Eamon is important, you're going to have to go inside to find him."
"He's right. Without Arl Eamon, we'll never get the support we need." Alistair added.
"Perhaps we can have Ser Perth and his men can watch for danger at the castle entrance. If we can open the gates from within, they can move in and help," Aothor said, his mind already shifted fully into gear as a strategist.
"It's a sound idea," Teagan nodded. "I don't think there's anyone else who can help you. If you choose not to go, then it's up to me to do what I can. Whatever you do… Eamon is the priority here. If you have to, just get him out of there. Isolde, me, and anyone else… we're expendable."
"It won't come to that. Not if we have anything to say about it," Isefel said, projecting confidence into her voice and poise for his sake. "Have some faith in us yet, Teagan."
"You are a good woman. The Maker smiled on me indeed when he sent you to Redcliffe." He said with a small smile and a laugh.
"One fool plan on top of another," Sten added lowly, more ruminating himself than contributing to the discussion.
"It's not a fool plan if it works," Edmund said brightly. "Take care of yourself, Bann Teagan. Hope you wore your dancing shoes!"
"That is a very ridiculous thing to say." Teagan said, giving the mage an appropriately odd look.
"Yeah." Cousland said, somewhat miserably. "He does that sometimes. I'd say don't worry about it, but…"
"Stone guide you, Teagan. We'll be right behind you." Aothor said.
"I can delay no longer. Allow me to bid you farewell… and good luck."