Two
Lavendel was sick.
By the time Halvas and the other Wardens arrived at the small stone fort overlooking the town – clearly worse for wear in having not been occupied and upkept in some years – the blight had already reached the wetlands. The town itself hadn't yet been tainted, but it wouldn't be long. As the Wardens scouted out into the surrounding area, they had quickly found tendrils and bulbs and boils of blight had already taken root and spread through the surrounding countryside. Halvas might not have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. The blight spread quickly, but not that quickly, and what was out there was not the typical black filth and gradual sickening that they were used to, but the clumps of misshapen rot like that which had clutched Weisshaupt.
This was not a Blight, not like the Wardens knew it. This was the handiwork of Ghilan'nain, the same ruin she had wrought onto the fortress of the Wardens. Lavendel was small, one of many tiny nowheres in the Anderfels, so it was not because of any strategic importance that would have made it expressly a target for the goddess. She could not have known that the Wardens would be headed to rally here and, even if she did, how did she spread the corruption so quickly? Weisshaupt was days away, and yet, the blight had arrived before them.
How quickly was it spreading and how far had it already gone? The question begged answering, although the Wardens were in no position to seek it at the moment, battered and broken as they were.
Those who had arrived first had taken to cleaning up the dilapidated fort and making it ready as a makeshift garrison. Others had gone around and set up new perimeter defenses for the town and staffed the walls, vigilant for any darkspawn that might encroach. Others still were trying to help the townsfolk, who were poor and struggling even before the blight showed up to poison their farms and wells. That, and the Wardens now occupied their town, even if the order had pledged that it would fend for itself. There were those in town who were relieved for the protection in these dark times, and others who were disgruntled at the imposition.
When he arrived, Halvas had gone out with some of the others to scout the surrounding area and provide a strategic analysis. Once he had ranged out and returned, he was discouraged. Lavendel was not defensible. If it came under any significant assault, it would fall. The fort was too open, more a waystation than a legitimate stronghold, and there were three different entrances into the town. The blight was closing in fast – the land was already sick and it wouldn't be long before all their water sources were tainted.
And, worst of all, the number of Wardens who had made it to the town was far, far too few.
On a rough count, it looked like there were more than a hundred, but much closer to that than to two hundred, and few of them were senior Wardens. That tracked, however, as the veterans would have taken to the front and met the invasion head on. And, when the battle turned, they would have stayed to cut a path for the others to escape. That was, after all, exactly what Halvas had done, what Ivon had done, what Commander Janos had done.
There was no sign of the First Warden. They had waited three additional days to see if he would stumble into Lavendel, but when those days had passed, when there had been no sign of him, and when the Wardens had finished shoring up their defenses as best they could and needed a new plan of action, they gathered and took a vote on leadership.
The majority had agreed, Evka Ivo would lead them. Evka and her partner Antoine had been working with Rook to investigate this new blight – against the First Warden's command, for better or worse – even before Weisshaupt. And in the command center, when the fortress was under assault and when the hot-headed Rook had let his frustration and anger get the better of him and laid out Glastrum, Evka had taken command of what was left of their defenses and lived to tell about it.
The election was without controversy. There were a handful of Wardens more senior than her, but none had put their name in for leadership. He had looked across the huddle at Ivon, then looked at the other old timers like Augustin and wondered if they too, were being called. Was that why none had stepped forward, to claim the command by virtue of their longevity and experience?
By then, Evka had correspondence from Rook about what had happened on the parapets of Weisshaupt. She confirmed that, yes, the First Warden was dead. Rook and his companions had managed to use the dragon trap to subdue Razikale. When it was down and Warden Davrin prepared to do his duty, to make the ultimate sacrifice to stop this blight, the First Warden had stumbled in. Jowin Glastrum had fought his way across the overrun fortress – a testament to his power to survive such a brutal trek alone – and stepped forward to claim the archdemon's life.
But then Ghilan'nain had appeared in the flesh and taken his life. The corrupted goddess had called upon the power of her blight, twisting and remaking her dragon into a monstrous multi-headed beast. Rook, Warden Davrin and his companions had somehow managed to overcome it. Davrin struck the killing blow but survived, somehow.
The Antivan Crow had taken his shot at the goddess… and missed.
Wounded, shocked and infuriated, that was when Ghilan'nain had called upon the full force of her blight and swallowed the fortress. Rook and his companions had barely escaped with their lives.
Holden, the blacksmith, had corroborated Rook's story. They had passed through their magic mirror, escaping the fortress, just barely, before it was swallowed in the maw of the blight.
Rook's so-called Veilguard said it stood in opposition to these blighted gods. Gods, plural. They sent word that Ghilan'nain was not the only one loose and wreaking destruction upon Thedas. Elgar'nan, the All-Father, they claimed, was with her and, allegedly, even more powerful.
Evka was a dwarf and, like most dwarves Halvas had ever met, she was a pragmatic type. Before they were capable of doing anything else, the Wardens needed to secure their foothold and survive. That meant locating sources of food and water, setting a defense and evaluating their enemy. She quickly appointed a series of trustworthy lieutenants to oversee each task.
Rhodri, a fellow dwarf, was put in charge of the farmland wall to the north, and wherever Rhodri went, his protege Jaynie was not far behind. Augustin, the old gray-haired mage, was put in command of the south wall overlooking the marsh. And to the east, guarding the entrance to the caves, she selected Greta, much to Halvas' approval.
Tomasz, Sasha and Vaughn were given leadership of the ranging parties who would sortie out into the surrounding area and, if they deemed it safe, to engage the darkspawn. Kalli was put in charge of training to ensure that, should they come under siege again, the young Wardens might better hold their ground. Holden would oversee the forge along with Clara, and Ilona would serve as quartermaster. The rest of the Wardens were split amongst those lieutenants and assigned tasks.
Tomasz, the Fereldan from Amaranthine who had joined after Warden Commander Caron saved the city from darkspawn in 9:31, wasted no time in conscripting Halvas to his ranging team. Halvas respected him, he was a good fighter and a better leader, having trained under one of the order's finest following the Fifth Blight. Word was he had been considered for the commander's job at the Vigil after Caron left for his Calling, even though they ultimately picked another. Still, leadership in Weisshaupt was impressed with his service record, and they had given him a command in the south, to re-establish a presence at Ostagar and to lead an investigation into the origin of the Fifth Blight.
There he had earned himself the name "Wildswalker" among the Wardens and "Wolfson" among the Chasind, a title of honor from their reclusive chieftains who valued both his prowess in battle and his respect for their custom. Tomasz had even managed to recruit a few Chasind fighters into the Grey Wardens, strong warriors who knew all too well the impact of the Blight that had ravaged their home.
With tasks in hand, the Wardens once again sprang to their duty. The townsfolk stood by watching as their new guests buzzed around, building fortifications, forging weapons, bringing in supplies and distributing what was needed where.
Tomasz was drawing up plans for a patrol route based on the information he had received from the forward scouts and rough-drawn maps they had sketched out. Tomorrow, they'd set a standard patrol to not only keep an eye out for darkspawn but also to keep eyes on the blight and whether it was continuing to grow and advance. The darkspawn that had swarmed Weisshaupt – if they hadn't been killed by Ghilan'nain as she lashed out against Rook and the Wardens who opposed her – would have to go somewhere. Tevinter lay to the south and east, ripe with large cities that would make tantalizing targets for the blight. While most of the Anderfels was barren, permanently scarred by the Blights of the past, if the corruption was coming, it would come this way.
Instead, Halvas took the time to check his gear over to ensure he would be ready. At his right hip he wore his broadsword, a thick blade reinforced at the hilt to bolster its durability. At his left hip was his Dalish war axe with its stout, curved blade for when heavy chopping was required, whether it be through darkspawn armor or ogre flesh. His heavy steel kite shield was showing its age – the griffon insignia emblazoned on the front was hardly recognizable from the amount of scratches, dents and rends the shield had taken over the years in battle. Still, it held firm in the face of the darkspawn and no smith yet had reason to question its integrity in battle, so he continued to carry the battle-worn guard. His shortbow was standard Grey Warden issue but it got the job done when needed. Long ago he had carried the ironwood Dalish recurve the clan crafter had made him as a gift when he was given his vallaslin, but that bow now resided at the bottom of a chasm in the Deep Roads so dark and deep that, when it had been knocked over the edge when he cast it aside as the battle came into melee range, he never heard it hit the bottom.
Despite the pitched battle at Weisshaupt, his armor was little worse for wear, thankfully. As he spent most of his time on the road, he preferred to travel lighter. He wore a short, light plated breastplate and plated pauldrons, vambraces and boots over leather and padded cloth, to strike a balance between protection and mobility, as well as lower weight for long days trekking through the wilds in pursuit of darkspawn or blight. But unlike most Wardens he also carried multiple packs and pouches – two on his belt, a third off his hip and then a bandolier with three more across his chest and a larger bag across his back. What he sacrificed in weight of armor he nearly made up in additional gear, carrying several potions, poultices, other alchemical mixtures and general supplies. It was not uncommon for him to be on the road alone, so he traveled to be prepared for any challenge he might meet and need to overcome on his own.
But, perhaps most important among those were the vials of lyrium and the most valuable item on him, the small glass bottle containing a precious ounce of archdemon blood to allow him to prepare a Joining if and when he needed it.
He had presented that cup to one hundred and twenty prospects since the day the Wardens entrusted him with the vial of blood from Andoral, slain in the Fourth Blight. Of those, eighty seven had survived the ritual, a good success rate for the Joining. He had lost track of most of those Wardens over the years. Some had been reassigned to nations far away from the Anderfels. Some had been killed doing their duty. Some, he assumed, died at Weisshaupt.
Among those in Lavendel, he had joined Greta; the trio of Miriel, Landon and Quincy who had taken their cup together four years back and who had been inseparable since; the young and talented, if not over-eager Beckett; and his last and newest recruit, Julius, the former mayor of the D'Meta's Crossing, who had been sent by Thorne as a sentence for his betrayal of his people to the blighted gods. Halvas had been convinced the man would die, but his spirit, his regret and his desire for atonement were strong, strong enough to carry him to the other side of his transformation.
Halvas sat in the camp and set out his gear before him, taking up his axe first and pulling his whetstone from his hip pouch. He dragged the stone across the edge to hone it after extensive use in the battle at Weisshaupt. He listened to the metallic scrape of the stone against hard iron, the sound temporarily drowning out the low and distant hum of music in the deep of his conscious mind.
When he was busy, occupied, he could almost forget that it was there, as he focused on the task before him and had no spare capacity to think about the song of the taint. But in those idle moments in between or when he lay his head down to sleep, with nothing else to mask the noise and distract from its presence, he could not push it aside. As much as he tried to not listen, as much as he knew that he should not heed it, it was impossible not to pay attention. It wasn't exactly music like the plucking of a bard's strings or the playful notes of a flute, but it was more than just the background noise of the world, either, unable to be tuned out like the sounds of insects at night or the whistling of the wind during the day. It was alluring, beautiful almost, familiar and beckoning. The Wardens had named it the "Calling," an accurate term, Halvas now knew, because there was no word that could better describe the pull of that sound as it tugged on his thoughts.
Instead he focused his attention on the ringing of stone against steel as he worked the edge of the axe. There was music in the labor as he brought the blade back to life. It would be needed again and soon, he could feel. When he was satisfied with the new razor's edge on the axe, he set it aside and drew his sword, checking the blade up and down for notches before he set it across his lap and put the stone to it too.
He might have closed his eyes as he fell into a nearly meditative rhythm, working the whetstone as he listened to the melody of the sharpening. As he worked, the steel and stone ringing like bass strings in the back of some troubadour troop at an inn, he found that he was humming quietly to himself. When he realized it, he stopped, recognizing the notes did not come from some poem or bard's song that he knew, but that they crept in from the dark crevices of his mind.
Before he had time to berate himself for his inattention in allowing that song to sneak back across his consciousness, his ears perked at an alarmed shout from the center of town. Halvas shot up, his half-sharpened sword in hand, and bounded towards the sound. It was close, at ground level.
"Sir, please, you're hurting me!"
As Halvas came upon the commotion – he was not the only Warden to jump at the sound but he was the first to make the scene – he saw it came from the voice of the young healer, Flynn. They were crouched down over one of the wounded and the injured Warden had lurched up, grabbing them by the wrist.
"Who are you? Are you a Warden? Where am I? Were you at Weisshaupt? Were you at Weisshaupt!?" The Warden was delirious, his hand clenched tightly about the healer's arm, nearly shaking them.
"Sir, calm down," Flynn tried to soothe him.
"Were you injured? Did they hurt you! The darkspawn… the, the goddess!"
"Kirin," Halvas called out to the patient. He was an elf, not Dalish but once a slave in Tevinter, rescued from Imperial justice by the Rite of Conscription after he fled west from his master. The Wardens didn't condone the slavery of the Imperium, but also as a policy didn't harbor or recruit fugitive slaves as not to anger the powers that be in Tevinter. Kirin, who had come to them with the raw, open wounds of twenty lashes across his back, arms, chest and face, had been an exception to that unwritten rule. The Tevinter justicars were not happy when the Wardens refused to turn him over after they joined him.
The elf's neck snapped around to a nearly unnatural angle to see who called to him. Halvas approached slowly, crouching down calmly as if he were trying to reach out to a wild and wounded halla.
"Blackblade," the elf said, recognizing him. "You were… you were there, right?"
"I was there," Halvas said with a nod, raising his left hand to call off the other Wardens who were approaching with blades drawn. Last thing he needed was to spook the man. "Can you let go of the healer?"
"Who is he? Have you seen him before? Was he there?" Kirin asked, nearly panicked.
"I'm Flynn, sir," the young healer spoke for themself. "I'm from here in Lavendel. I wasn't at Weisshaupt. I was infected when the blight came here. The Wardens saved me, joined me, less than a week ago."
"Maker bless you, then, child, and be thankful," Kirin said, breaking into a sob as his hand released and he let go of Flynn's wrist. He flopped back down onto the mat, muttering to himself, perhaps remembering the horror of Weisshaupt all anew.
"I have a potion for you, sir, for your fever," Flynn said, reaching for a small, dirty flask.
"No!" Kirin cried out, causing Flynn to recoil. "No, I don't want to. I don't want to!"
"You're sick, Kirin," Halvas said. "From your wounds."
Kirin muttered, his head twisting back and forth, his eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head. He was so delirious, he didn't even seem to realize that he was missing the bottoms of both of his legs, both held tightly by tourniquets above the knee, the flesh below burned closed after they sawed off the mangled legs bones that had been chewed apart by darkspawn. It was a miracle he was alive at all, much less conscious, as the raw flesh was bubbling with pus and stank of rot. He would die, maybe in a day, maybe a few, but his fate appeared sealed, Halvas knew.
"Blackblade," he muttered, his hands reaching up to try to grab Halvas. "Did you hear them?"
"Hear who?" he asked, although he suspected he knew.
"The gods, they were – they're calling it and I don't want to hear it yet. Please, not yet."
Kirin's fingers fumbled as his eyes darted around in fear. Before he could say more, Flynn had snuck to his side and pushed the tip of the flask into his mouth, pouring the tonic down. Kirin gagged and choked, some of the mixture running out of the corner of his mouth but some getting swallowed down. He convulsed, trembling, muttering and wailing to himself, his fingers clawing the scratchy bedroll, until his eyes shut and he fell still, asleep once more.
Flynn sat back, breathing heavily, clearly rattled by the encounter. They swallowed hard and took a deep breath, pushing their hair back and swallowing again.
"Thank you," Flynn said to Halvas when he had composed himself.
"Keep him asleep, until he goes," Halvas said as he looked at the Warden on his deathbed. There were few elves left among the Wardens that had survived Weisshaupt, few who knew Ghilan'nain as more than just some corrupted monster that had brought ruin upon them. Kirin had served twenty years, but now, as he lay maimed and sickened, he had nothing more that he could give. "He has suffered enough."
Flynn nodded, not willing to challenge the word of a senior Warden. "He said the gods were calling him. What did he mean by that?"
"Only that his time had come," Halvas lied. "Death has come to take him. And he is afraid. As we all are. Hopefully he will find peace, and soon. He has sacrificed too much."
As Halvas looked upon his dying brother in arms, the wind blew through the town. And while the breeze rustled Flynn's hair and he went back to his quill and the ink he had spilled upon the page before his wrist had been suddenly grabbed, Halvas knew he didn't think anything more of it.
But in his ears, he could hear whispers, quiet and distant, like the chorus of the dead somewhere far off, waiting for him to come and join them. And behind that, a low, charming humming.
I don't want to hear it yet, he had said.
Death would silence the sound in Kirin's head soon and, unlike Halvas, he would be free of the call of the taint, and of the goddess who spoke through it.