Tristan summed it up dryly:
— The bell tolls for us. They must have seen us descending to the cove. Troubling.
Just beyond the fence-line—broken in many places and only nominally marking the settlement's boundary—began three meandering alleys, running more or less straight between similar houses, sheds, and backyards filled with modest gardens. Leafless branches, black against the grey sky, jutted like bones washed from a forgotten grave by the rains. The alleys twisted their way down to the cove, merging into a wide crossroads with the main street. That street curved around the shore in a semicircle, disappearing behind buildings. Aside from a few modest dead-ends and the descending alleys, this single street served as the settlement's axis, upon which, like beads on a string, lay the bridge to the fortress island, the mill, the dock, and the chantry.
Staring into the dead silence of the houses, Morrigan mechanically asked a question while her thoughts frantically sought shelter for Leliana:
— Why should that trouble us?
The Witch narrowed her eyes, watching the man's reaction.
— How to put it... I expected the port to be overrun with the dead by now. And since they cannot breach the fortress, the possessed would have scattered in search of new victims. Watchful eyes and a bell toll mean there are still people in the village holding out. Yet, no patrols in sight. Is it too dangerous on the outskirts? Are they not needed? The windows weren't boarded up hastily. It was done with thought. Whatever is happening here, they have the luxury of predictable respites. And yet, the houses on the outskirts are abandoned, meaning the threat hasn't passed. Does that sound like the behavior of a horde of walking dead?
The older Templar grunted grimly and replied curtly:
— Not at all.
— Meaning, someone not only 'creates' the 'walkers', but also holds the reins of control. By the way, even from here you can see the drawbridge to the fortress is raised. What are they afraid of in there, if the village holds?
Bethany ran her tongue over her cracked lips—the cold instantly bit into the fresh moisture, but her fear was stronger than any pain.
— What are we waiting for?
The young mage's voice trembled:
— These empty houses... they're more frightening than any wilderness. And if you say it's on the edge of the village...
The Seeker raised a hand, suggesting the girl be silent, and voiced his own thoughts:
— I don't think we have anything to... fear right now.
The man stumbled on the last word, as if tripping over his own thoughts, and sharply turned towards the slopes surrounding the cove. Throwing a sidelong glance at Morrigan, he said thoughtfully:
— Easy to hide on those slopes.
The girl also looked back, then met his steel-grey gaze with her pair of golden eyes.
— Of course. Plenty of trees and stones. Even if this side of the hills is mostly birch and aspen that have already shed their leaves. But fresh snow is a fine sentry. Local eyes would easily spot movement on the white, or a fox's recent track.
— And if the snow lies on top of you?
— Then...
The mage turned her eyes to the slopes again, then flicked them toward the friend slung over the Templar's shoulder. Tristan cursed quietly in Orlesian, quietly enough that only Morrigan heard him, and even she didn't catch the meaning.
— By the Chantry census two years ago, about eight hundred souls lived here. And in thirty or forty years, everyone ends up in the ground. In Ferelden, burning the dead isn't customary. Roughly twenty corpses a year. It's cold most of the year, meaning flesh falls from the bones in about five years. I've never heard of lesser demons being able to make a collapsed skeleton move properly. At least, not without Mortalitasi nearby. So it seems... a curse upon our heads...
Morrigan clenched her fists and slowly clarified, without taking her eyes off the snow-covered slopes where the only thing moving was a faint breeze:
— Is this leading to the conclusion that up to a hundred possessed corpses are hiding in the snow?
— Perhaps more, if the recent years have been harsh.
The Seeker deftly drew a narrow, familiar stiletto from his clothes and pricked the center of his left palm with it. Clenching his fist, the man closed his eyes and waited for a ruby drop to fall. As before, in those moments while the blood steadily dripped towards the snow mixed with dirt underfoot, Morrigan thought she saw something barely perceptible twitch and slip between the trees in the distance, at the very edge of her vision. But as soon as she moved her head, it became clear—the harsh landscape remained motionless. The scarlet drop spread across the snow like a harbinger of doom.
Tristan exhaled:
— The Void... They're everywhere.
Bethany reacted first:
— Where?!
The girl's voice dropped to a whisper:
— I don't see anything...
Suddenly, from the roof of a building a little further off, an unfamiliar male voice, blending fear and resolve, rang out:
— Are there mages among you?
Morrigan, Tristan, and Bethany spun around sharply, while the Templars continued to scrutinize the slopes, leaving the mages to deal with the new danger. On the opposite slope of the roof, barely keeping from sliding, stood an archer—a shadow with a drawn bow. A middle-aged man, with short-cropped black hair and a beard gathered into a tuft at his chin. A dirty, warm woolen caftan and an arrow nocked, but for now pointed down. Her gaze slipped to the quivers on his back—one held only four arrows, which spoke volumes. From his belt hung a forged tinderbox, a flint tied on a cord, and a length of frayed hempen rope. The man's gaze nervously darted from the band of strangers to the surrounding slopes and back.
First—a barely noticeable stirring of the snow. Then—another. And now dozens of previously invisible silhouettes were rising from the white shroud. Tristan's voice cut through the frosty air like a blade:
— To the chantry! Run!
An arrow thudded into the earth right by the leader's boot. Already nocking a second arrow and drawing the string halfway, the archer snapped sharply, as if chopping off his words:
— Not a step! The creatures only seek those with the talent. If you don't interfere, they don't care about the rest. If they've stirred—there's a mage among you. Go further—you'll lead the horde to the innocent. Sorry... You'll have to stay here…
— Tua vita mea est!
The cry came the instant the archer finished his sentence, and the mage was already moving. A barely visible ribbon of refracted air shot forward and upward, missing the incoming arrow by a hair. Not attempting to dodge, the girl threw up her right hand, her splayed palm shielding her heart, her forearm her eyes. The broadhead passed through her palm like wet parchment, tore through the fabric, and left a bloody line on her chest. Hissing with pain and fury, the mage spun sharply, dissipating the shot's force and snapping the shaft on the move. Tearing the arrow from her flesh and throwing it aside, the girl in a leap grabbed the low eave of the roof. With a heave, she pulled up her bent legs, and with the next movement used her hands to thrust her body upward, flipping entirely onto the top.
Surprised cursing erupted above the mage, and behind her came the sound of feet slapping in the wet snow. Rolling once more and gathering herself, crouching, she lunged forward like a beast, crushing tiles under her soles. A third arrow, loosed at point-blank range, passed through the mage's ear as she barely managed to tilt her head and drop onto her left hand. Next, the girl's shoulder slammed into the now-pale archer. Morrigan didn't strike—just surged forward, putting all her fury into the rush. And they both tumbled down. New bruises, shard-edges digging into their sides, and the crunch of breaking arrows. After a short fall, both landed in the shallow snow with a dull thud.
Morrigan was the first to roll aside, immediately turning on all fours to face the enemy. The man, clearly not in the best shape, was floundering in the cold mud, vainly trying just to get up. Tristan was the first to run into the alley from around the building's corner. Skidding on the turn and sending up a wave of white spray, he drew his shortsword on the move. Without slowing, the Seeker drove the toe of his boot into the opponent's stomach. The rest of the party appeared right after.
Gasping hoarsely for air, Tristan spat out a terse question:
— The dead only hunt those with the talent?
Gasping, the archer only convulsively nodded, which could be taken as agreement.
— A trap. Snares set for anyone coming for the bait.
Making sure the wound on her palm had closed, Morrigan ended the spell. Stealing a glance at her terrified apprentice, the girl considered the death of the skillfully hidden lookout a pointless cruelty. But she understood perfectly: this man's life meant nothing to her. And to the Seeker's conclusion, she irritably muttered, clenching her bloodied palm:
— Your guesses don't help us.
The senior Templar clarified in turn:
— Orders?
Bethany shot a frightened look at Morrigan, as the first sounds of the approaching dead carried from the slopes. Initially appearing as dark spots on the white among the black trees, they could now be made out. Their bodies, twisted by decay and unnatural force, seemed to step from the pages of the darkest legends. The slowest had almost lost their flesh; others were fresher. But, regardless of the degree of decomposition, all the corpses looked desiccated, thoroughly darkened, and matted with fallen leaves. The dead moved in silence, but their movement—monotonous, unstoppable—chilled the soul. Starting with slow steps, they accelerated, gradually shifting into a monotonous run.
The Seeker furrowed his brow and snapped a new question at the prisoner:
— Who leads the survivors?
The man coughed and, throwing a frightened glance towards the slopes, hurried to answer:
— Milord Teagan. The Arl's brother.
— Splendid... The master archer and I are going to negotiate with Milord. I have extremely persuasive arguments to draw him and the rest of the people out to meet the horde. I'll learn about the fortress while I'm at it.
Morrigan clenched her fists. Her voice grew quieter, but only more dangerous for it:
— Just... you?
— Just us. Along with Tralin, carrying your friend. And for this to work, you will have to serve as bait.
Bethany moved forward to intervene, but Morrigan stopped her with a gesture. The older of the mages measured her boiling rage with an effort of will, and with feigned calm, uttered:
— How convenient.
A hint of sarcasm still cut through her next remark:
— Your Templars really do resemble trained hounds. But I am not blind. Both in the Circle and here, your abilities are nothing but blood magic. Which means you, too, are not lacking in the 'talent'.
Tristan winced, casting a glance at the approaching monsters. The nearest were no more than a hundred and fifty paces away.
— Not the time for lectures. — The Seeker turned sharply towards the slope. — Blood magic? You don't even understand what you're talking about. Do as—
— And if I refuse?
The man replied instantly, and his words struck like a whip:
— Two mages—good bait. And such a demonstration will strengthen the locals' belief in the attainability of victory. In the presence of a chance. But you're concerned about your own skin, hm? My skin is also on the line, so here are the dry facts. Killing a mage through their phylactery is no problem for me. Distance is no barrier. And then your 'apprentice' is just ballast. Try to survive. Or die.
The man didn't even wait for an answer, hauling the barely-standing archer to his feet with a jerk and shoving him in the right direction. Tralin, with Leliana on his shoulder, rushed after him, barely keeping pace. The warrior's face clearly showed relief at leaving. Morrigan turned to Bethany. Her lips twisted into a smirk, but her eyes held only icy fury:
— Choice and consequences...
The Witch fixed her gaze on the girl—and immediately tasted iron in her mouth. That's what fear smells like, she realized. Someone else's panic. Grabbing her apprentice by the shoulder, Morrigan shook her girl ruthlessly.
— Look at me!
The mage hissed, digging her fingers into Bethany's shoulder:
— Fret later. Now—stay close, conserve your mana, strike true. And keep your eyes open.
The dark gold of her eyes jumped to the older Templar who had remained nearby, his blade now bare. The man narrowed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and nodded. He radiated a cold fatalism, as if he had already realized and accepted his own fate. And this readiness to step towards death without hesitation or doubt frightened Morrigan more than the host of approaching dead. Such a mindset seemed alien to the girl, almost repulsive. Simultaneously, the first two creatures slipped through the pitiful remains of the fence-line into the alley.
Despite limbs swollen with decay, the dead slid forward with unnatural speed, as if pulled by invisible threads straight towards the dark-haired mage, blindly singling out only the possessor of the deepest 'well'. The Templar lunged forward, his sword swinging up—seemingly too early. But at the last moment, he pivoted on his heels, and the blade, describing an arc, crashed onto the dead thing's collarbone with such force that the bone cracked like a dry branch. Though the fragile vessel was reinforced by a lesser demon's will, it could not withstand either the force of the blow or the abilities reinforcing it.
Spinning on the spot, he wrenched the sword from the falling corpse to meet with a horizontal slash a creature trying to slip past. The blade sliced through arms thrown up at the last moment—and in the next instant, a head rolled through the snow. A couple of breaths passed, and the first two enemies, turning into black voids in the space of one heartbeat, collapsed into the soft snow, filling the cool air with the stench of death.
Morrigan gave a respectful nod, straining to pull the only available weapon from a nearby bundle of sharpened stakes.
— The power of the lesser ones is modest. Damage the vessel sufficiently, and they won't have enough strength to maintain it. And without a shell, minor entities cannot even manifest themselves.
Tossing a stake to Bethany, the girl added in a rapid-fire mutter:
— 'Flaming Weapons'. Ignite it. Strike like with a spear. Point towards the enemy. Let it impale itself on the stake as it attacks.
Pulling a weapon for herself, the mage scanned the alley with a glance. It was undistinguished, save for the leaning fences, the broken fence-line, and the houses with boarded-up windows. Except that near both of the nearest huts, a step away from the barricaded doors, stood a sealed barrel with a coiled rope on top. It looked out of place. From Bethany's direction came a quiet hiss as the remnants of snow clinging to the 'weapon' rapidly heated up; a swiftly warming palm brushed it away. Meanwhile, Morrigan stepped towards the man:
— No debt, no secret goals.
The girl tossed out, touching his sword:
— Just survival.
The blade, coated in black sludge, instantly turned white. Frost crept over the metal like a spiderweb, leaving patterns of rime in its wake, from hilt to point.
By the outermost house, a new walking corpse of a once moderately plump old woman emerged quietly, as if from the ground itself. Inevitably catching sight of the bloated, emotionless features of the dead woman, Morrigan couldn't help but marvel at the conflicting sensations. On one hand, a strange sadness filled the girl. Behind the mask of rotten flesh stood a history sunk into oblivion, and now the body's remains had been reduced to a vile shell for the embodiment of primitive ideas like hunger and hatred. On the other hand, the mage caught herself in a repulsive realization: in the whole world, likely not even a dozen living souls would remember this old woman. And the value of her life was measured so modestly that it was barely noticeable even within the Arling. And yet... Could one apply such a measure to someone who was, perhaps, a mother? Beyond the fence-line, the girl's attentive gaze discerned new figures approaching in a bestial manner, on all fours, their heads twisted at an unnatural angle. From the right and left came the crunch of partially intact fences.
Leaving the fence-line to the Templar, Morrigan beckoned to Bethany, who was breathing in ragged gasps from excitement, and began retreating towards the second line of buildings.
The warrior skillfully dodged the straightforward blow from the creature that had taken the old woman's form. But he failed to finish it with one strike. The monster clumsily and uselessly blocked the sword with its arm. However, while removing a considerable chunk of dark flesh along the bone, the blade failed to sever it this time. This gave the other possessed the precious moments needed to surround the man drawn into combat. Three burst into the alley from the front, immediately rushing the man swinging his weapon. Two paused briefly on the hut roofs, blindly swaying their sunken faces from side to side as if unable to choose a victim, but ultimately threw themselves at the swordsman. Had it been less threatening, the straightforward movement of the possessed, clambering over the chimney stack instead of simply going around it, might have seemed comical...
Complete encirclement forced the Templar to shift from lethal blows to a continuous dance of parries and preemptive swings. Snow, mixed with black corpse-sludge and wet mud, squelched under his boots, clinging to the soles and making every new step risky. The dead felt no pain. They pressed forward even when the sword lopped off fingers, or even entire hands—which fell into the snow like dry twigs. Anyone seeing it would understand: the Templar fought not to win, but to manage to die on his feet.
A sharp cry from Bethany stabbed into her back like a knife. Morrigan, almost instinctively, without even fully processing the warning, slid to the right, thrusting the sharpened pole backward. A half-rotted body that had slid down the nearest roof slope slammed onto it as onto a stake. The rotting flesh on the bones crackled, ready to fall apart at the slightest impact. Deftly adjusting her grip on the 'weapon' so the falling possessed wouldn't break her wrist, the girl yanked the improvised spear from it and, with a turn, hurled it at a creature that had rolled out from behind the nearest corner. The pole easily pierced the center mass of the male corpse, sending it tumbling in the snow. But this was only a reprieve. While Bethany, clutching her superheated spear, methodically finished off the downed dead thing, Morrigan spun sharply towards her 'ally'.
A dozen creatures had now surrounded the Templar—twisted shadows of people, circling like a pack of hungry hounds. Many threw themselves forward, almost impaling themselves on the blade, so that the others might get a chance to sink crooked fingers and remnants of teeth into yielding flesh. The fragile balance held only until his first mistake—or their luck. Hesitating for a moment, Morrigan threw a glance at her apprentice. The girl had dealt with the first possessed, and judging by the cheerfully blazing pile of flesh, had managed to burn the dead thing previously struck by the spear. In that same instant, Bethany drove the superheated weapon into the chest of a dead thing that had jumped from the roof—the corpse crackled like a burning splint. Morrigan suppressed both surprise and the currently misplaced pride, returning her attention to the warrior. Throwing her hands forward, she spat out an incantation filled with power:
— Edé te!
Curling her fingers as if squeezing something invisible of the most bizarre shape, she immediately felt the loss of a significant portion of her mana.
Fifteen corpse-like figures—some with sagging skin, others with bare bones—closed the ring around the Templar... only to jerk in unison, jaws gaping, and collapse into the snow like puppets with severed strings. A moment before everything froze, they filled with a deep blackness, as if losing all volume, and then turned into ordinary corpses. But the warrior was in no state to continue drawing attention to himself. Two fingers were missing from his left hand—bitten or torn off, judging by the ragged edges. Sweat mixed with blood, streaming down his face, lacerated with scratches. And his wheezing breath spoke of overexertion.
The mage drew in a stench-filled breath and snapped:
— Fifteen, more...
She didn't get to finish, as a dead thing that appeared from nowhere on the left, accompanied by Bethany's full-throated cry of anger, slammed into Morrigan, immediately landing a crushing blow from a sodden fist into her stomach. Already floundering in the snow, the possessed thing tried to claw out the girl's eyes. But a bright wave of flame washed over the corpse, causing it to flare up like a candle. Blinded by the flame, Morrigan instinctively drew up her legs and kicked the burning dead thing—it flew back, scattering sparks like a blazing torch. This was followed by a fit of wet coughing, alternating with attempts to keep the meager contents of her stomach and bile inside. A momentary disorientation was broken by Bethany plopping down into the snow beside her. A skeleton that had attacked from behind, wrapped in pathetic scraps of flesh holding the decrepit remains together, had been so silent that it took both mages by surprise. And now the creature was desperately pressing down on the girl's spear, trying either to strangle its victim or to gnaw through the smoking stick with its well-preserved teeth.
Grunting as she flipped onto her knees, Morrigan forced out the words, pointing forward:
— Fríos. Tenací...
The creature slowed briefly, coated in a layer of rime, clearly visible from the side. The spell was not powerful enough to stop the corpse completely. Or to inflict any real harm. It wasn't the scant flesh, but the fact that the corpse moved solely due to the will of a creature from the Fade. The girl, pinned to the ground, immediately released the weapon and clasped the dead thing's skull with her bare hands, blazing with heat. A hiss sounded—and the skull crumbled in her scorching fingers like dry clay. Shoving the disintegrating skeleton aside, Bethany let out an involuntary, low sob full of disgust. Scooping up snow, Morrigan rubbed her face, completely ignoring the cold and fresh scratches. Gritting her teeth, the Witch cast aside her doubts—Bethany had just proven her worth.
From the fence-line, where the blade had just been cleaving the air, came a wet, squelching groan. Both girls turned to see the Templar on his knees in the mud. His blade rested deep in the chest cavity of a creature lying a step away, one that had possessed the body of an impressively built dead man. Before falling, the lesser demon had gripped the sword with its hands, wrenching it from the warrior's weakening grasp as it fell. On the Templar's back, like a giant leech, sat a nearly faceless old woman corpse. The possessed dead thing had just torn a substantial chunk of flesh from the warrior's throat, and the man's life was pouring from the ghastly wound in crimson pulses. In time with the last beats of his heart, blood bubbled on his lips, while behind him, a new pair of dead things with incomplete sets of limbs were predatorily closing in. In his eyes—wide, glazed—Morrigan saw what she knew better than any spell: even faith cannot stifle the horror of eternal darkness. Like a prisoner breaking the bars in the final moment before death. And then, a reflection of alien resolve flashed in her own dark gold eyes, and the girl flung herself towards Bethany. Grabbing the just-rising girl by the shoulders, the mage dragged her down the alley, towards the cove. Three or four wide steps later, something seemed to touch the older mage's hair, and simultaneously, everything fell silent behind them. For the next ten steps, all that could be heard was the slap of feet on wet snow, heavy breathing, and the soft crackle of the crumbling, ember-filled weapon Bethany soon tossed aside.
Rushing up to one of the houses with unbarred doors and windows, Morrigan slammed her elbow into a small window, divided into smaller panes of glass. Pulling down her right sleeve and wrapping it around her fist, the girl began decisively knocking out and tearing out the remains of the window. At the same time, a fleeting wave of heat washed over them from behind...
Spinning on her heels, Morrigan saw the flailing limbs of another clearly female dead thing, engulfed in smoldering flame. Two steps away, Bethany was growling in frustration, having fallen face-first into the snow this time. Steam rose from the mage's hands, plunged into the cold slush. And above the girl, swaying like a leaf in the wind, was the skeleton of a half-rotten old man. A faint creak of tiles overhead hinted that several dead things were also closing in on Morrigan herself.
A sobering thought flashed through the mage's mind: if she kept merely reacting to the situation, both mages would very soon end their own journey exactly as the Templar had just done. Dropping to one knee and throwing her hands upward, the girl viciously spat through clenched teeth:
— Edé te!
As three bodies, in varying states of decay, slumped lifelessly from the roof as dead things should, the mage lunged forward. By her reckoning, she had mana left for a couple more clashes. And the stream of dead things itself wouldn't run dry anytime soon. But now she needed to think not only of survival—she needed to understand the essence of what was happening.
Slamming her shoulder into the chest of a creature that was about to grab Bethany by the hair to sink rotten teeth into her neck—so hard that the crunch of rotten ribs echoed in her own bones—Morrigan knocked it off its feet.
The dead things attacked like scavengers on prey—blind, insatiable, devoid of even a shadow of reason. But within this chaos lay its own pattern: all roads led to the mages. The mage did not believe it was possible to train such creatures, or to compel them to anything by will alone. In the Tower, the weak obeyed the strong because they received comfortable conditions in exchange on this side of the Veil, and the 'master' could instantly strip the disobedient of all advantages. The lesser ones, placed inside the dead, were already existing in the worst possible conditions. Literally nothing could make their situation more repulsive. In such a scenario, no threats could force such a horde to submit. Creatures capable of only the simplest reasoning should be scattering from the dominant force into the surrounding forests, becoming a constant threat to the locals and smaller game. Just as the Seeker had supposed. But magic... magic could force the creatures of the 'Fade' to obey, by putting each one on a 'leash'.
Hauling her apprentice out of the snow, the mage pointed wordlessly at the rising dead thing. Trying to blink away her disorientation, Bethany nearly blindly doused the enemy with a Flaming Flash, while Morrigan herself darted to the nearest fence and wrenched from it a new, thicker 'weapon'. Turning away from another corpse turned 'torch' and shaking the snow from her hair, the younger mage exhaled heavily:
— Mana... — Bethany swallowed. — Three spells. No more...
Nodding, the older of the two adjusted her grip on the pole and said curtly:
— And nowhere to run.
Strength was slipping through her fingers like sand, but Morrigan clung to a single thought... Magic is imperfect. Regardless of the current circumstances, this concept had been maturing within the mage for some time. It seemed to require an incredible volume of effort to conjure even the most trivial thing from nothing. But upon closer consideration, it began to seem the opposite was true. Yet, no matter how hard one tried, the result could never be cleansed of inaccuracies and minor flaws. If the dead obeyed a spell—then the spell had weak points. Like any enchantment. And the girl had seen proof of this with her own eyes. If the archer's words were to be believed, the possessed, targeting those with mana, should ignore all others. But as soon as anyone began destroying the vessels of the Fade creatures, the dead immediately attacked the new threat. Therefore, the very concept of 'threat' carried significant weight, influencing their behavior. In the mage's opinion, the possessed defined 'threat' simply: anyone who, in sight of others, destroyed a vessel, or was fighting near previously destroyed vessels. This seemed a way to bind the enemy's attention to Morrigan alone.
Driving the pole with all her strength into the lipless grimace of a dead thing, she felt it plunge through decayed flesh. Jerking it sideways, the mage threw the creature into the snow. Having lost its last teeth, the dead thing tumbled in the snow, immediately trying to rise, arching its skinny arms at an angle impossible for a human body. Morrigan noted that a large portion of the undead corpses preferred to remain out of direct line of sight until the last moment, attacking from around corners and from roofs. Moreover, they avoided the alley where, near the fence-line, a pile of shattered vessels lay around the Templar's body. Without turning to Bethany, Morrigan muttered:
— Keep up! Keep your eyes open... and conserve your strength. We'll create a boundary of bodies to buy time. Then we retreat.
While her mana had been sufficient, the thought of the transformation spell had barely troubled the mage's mind. But the closer her mana dipped to a dangerous threshold, the more the thought became an unbearable itch. Yet the girl did not want to resort to that magic. Not in front of Bethany. Not in daylight. Not with the risk of being caught by the Seeker or other chance witnesses from the common folk. And so Morrigan recalled everything she knew about wielding a staff as a weapon, spinning on the spot, using sharp strikes of the pole to knock back yet three more dead things. The pole, ripped from the fence, emitted a sickly crunch with each blow. But for now, only the skulls of the dead were being damaged, with no serious consequences for the latter. Lacking suitable magic, proper weapons, or a Templar's strength, Morrigan was only delaying the inevitable, unable to shatter the vessels.
Feeling the weapon giving way, Morrigan, fluid as water, altered her pattern of movement, shifting from wide sweeps and spins to barely perceptible, stinging lunges that robbed the dead of their balance. From the sound of footsteps behind her, Bethany sensed something was wrong. But the older mage immediately snapped back:
— No! Let them focus their attention only on me!
The enemy knew nothing of fear in the conventional sense, so the dead could only be stopped literally. A minute, two, three... There were five possessed now, and Morrigan felt it: her sweat-soaked clothes were freezing, sticking to her skin; her heavy breathing stole the ease and speed from her movements; her muscles were stiffening and aching from the strain and pace.
Forcing the last of the air and saliva through her clenched teeth in a sharp exhale, Morrigan spun the improvised staff like lightning, hurling it at the nearest creature. Drawing a short breath, the mage performed a backward wheel, ignoring her dangerously trembling hands. Landing back on her feet, the girl snarled a shout, thrusting both hands towards the dead things pushing their way after her:
— Edé te!
The spell's pulse struck directly in front of the girl, instantly returning all the possessed bodies to a truly dead state. But a quick glance at the roofs and into the depths of the courtyards showed the next dead things were already drawing closer. Turning to Bethany, the mage gestured towards the five bodies in the snow:
— Run! — And added on an exhale, grabbing her apprentice's hand. — This won't hold them for long!
Forcing her legs to move, Morrigan tried not to show that the frenzied, prolonged fight had drained her to the dregs in many ways at once. Bethany's ragged breathing, her deliberately slowed steps—it all seethed inside Morrigan with acrid anger.
Unexpectedly, the house walls fell away, spilling them out into an open crossroads. Here, as with the others, it met the main street running along the cove. A sweeping glance immediately caught on new boarded-up houses, just like at the fence-line. A good reason for thought, since the huts in the middle of the alley stared at a chance traveler with the dark voids of completely unshuttered windows. However, the sounds of cracking and sliding tiles perfectly distracted from unnecessary thoughts, forcing them to search the roofs for approaching creatures. At that same moment, Bethany suddenly tugged her older companion by the shoulder, blurting out a jumbled guess in a rapid-fire mutter:
— The barrels... Fire! — Shaking her head, the young girl gathered her thoughts. — The dead things were hiding under the snow in damp leaves, but any of them flare up like dry kindling.
— They purge the influence of moisture to preserve the vessels from rot.
— Exactly! The archer had a second quiver, and a tinderbox and flint on his belt. And the barrels! By every boarded-up house—an oak keg, like for moonshine!
The barrels indeed waited silently near the houses facing the crossroads from the alleys. Licking her parched lips, Morrigan uttered:
— Set them alight.
Not wasting precious seconds, Bethany rushed with all her might to the far-left barrel, grabbing the rope on its lid with her still-superheated hands. It immediately burst into bright, pale flame, nearly singeing the careless mage's eyelashes. Startled, she raised her palms, coated in the burning remnants of the greasy substance used to treat the ropes, and rushed on. Morrigan's gaze feverishly scanned the roofs, straining to catch the first signs of movement, while her mind wrestled with the puzzle—how exactly the locals had planned to use the kegs. The mage's knowledge of flame was limited to lighting campfires and what could burn in a forest. As the first silhouettes appeared on the tiled slopes, standing on all fours, the girl had to exert effort to maintain a cold, logically coherent train of thought. Five of the six barrels were now burning, but how could this help against the dead? Especially for the archer... Morrigan's eyes widened:
— What if... these barrels weren't for the archer at all?..
Seven possessed froze on the roof ridge, staring with the eyeless remnants of their faces at the sources of open flame, and Morrigan felt the breath of revelation. Running to the nearest barrel, its upper part blazing brightly with palpable heat, the girl pushed it with all her might, toppling it against the door of a boarded-up hut. Under the pressure of its contents, the lid easily flew off, scattering sputtering, burning splashes across the snow. A murky liquid smelling of burnt grain and alcohol hissed out, its surface immediately racing with pale blue flame. At first it seemed weak, but it surged up at once, fiercely licking the log wall of the hut, the roof slope, and even the mage herself, who instinctively rolled back through the snow. Ignoring the nauseating smell of singed hair, Morrigan shouted to Bethany:
— Tip them over!
Soon, every alley was cut off by a wall of fire—the tongues of flame practically joining. The fire roared like a beast, consuming the wood with insatiable fury. Breathing heavily and examining the singed sleeves of her clothes with their burnt holes, Bethany distastefully shook the greasy soot—left from the burning of the compound coating the ropes—from her cooled hands. She only succeeded in smearing it between her fingers. Sighing bitterly, Bethany muttered:
— Some kind of grease, apparently... But they came up with a clever idea using the mash.
— Mash?
Morrigan repeated, frowning. The younger mage nodded.
— Wheat-based. The main alcoholic drink in southern Ferelden. Carver knew more about this, but I... only a little. Probably, the oak barrels held the raw distillate, which is usually diluted to lower the proof and turn the fiery brew into something tolerable.
Morrigan crouched down, her attentive gaze fixed on the catching house fires and the murky silhouettes of the dead things gathering on the far side of the veil of dancing flames and shimmering heat. Snorting, the mage uttered:
— And once again, flame saves me. Ironic... If not for your guess, our bones would already be grating in dead things' jaws. And my skill... in the end, would have changed nothing.
— That's not—
— Your modesty doesn't give a damn about the bare facts. They must be accepted as they are. Don't indulge in illusions; your success wounds my pride quite seriously. But if you let the shroud of pride and emotions blind you, everything around becomes blurred and indistinct. And besides, I openly admit, it was partly pleasant for me to see your success. I'd just like to know the reason...
A timid blush bloomed across Bethany's pale cheeks—two rosy spots against the soot and fear—but, reining in her emotions, she nodded silently. Morrigan, meanwhile, surveyed their surroundings. The crossroads was spacious enough for a dozen tents or a festival ground, but now the fresh snow held the tracks of only the two mages. From here, they could retreat through the backyards onto the bay ice, or along the street in one of two directions. But for now, the girl saw no sense in the choice. After a moment's thought, Morrigan remarked:
— Flame and death, an excellent place for a conversation, lest we lose our composure in the face of our foolish execution. Take you, for instance... You keep much of yourself locked away. And I wouldn't have noticed over half of it if Leliana, in her own manner, hadn't pointed it out. The last time I saw your emotions openly was your mother's death. Everyone chooses how to live for themselves. But there is a bond between us.
The younger mage offered a bitter smile, her eyes fixed on the flames.
— Leliana is right; your concern is like a tight embrace—it holds fast, but it hurts. And your words are so sharp, it's a wonder one doesn't get cut... And still, I don't believe my usefulness is the only thing that concerns you.
— You don't believe it? Or you don't want to believe it? I know it for certain, yet I don't fully understand it. But right now, something else is important.
— It must be... Truthfully, I just don't want to seem weak in your eyes. Because you—
— The Void...
Bethany flinched at the sharp expression and glanced at her older companion. The latter, massaging her eyes wearily with her hand, winced before replying:
— You, and Leliana... You've stared into warped mirrors and decided to take your example from what you saw. So, you. You see before you a cold, determined mage, one who takes risks without a sign of fear. But the truth is, I often think too distantly. I perceive my own body and pain incorrectly. That's why I sometimes don't feel fear. And I weigh risks with bias. All those words about your purpose at my side had meaning and weight. On one hand, I struggle to understand the value of strangers' lives. On the other, logic dictates: a cold-blooded killer has few choices in society. So, I make every choice with a glance back at you. That's why seeing my own warped reflection is doubly useless.
A brief silence fell, filled by the crackle of wood and the roof tiles beginning to split from the heat. Beyond the shimmering veil of flame, the silhouettes of the dead had dissolved. Either the haze and smoke hid them, or the possessed had left. When Bethany finally gathered her courage, she whispered:
— I'm afraid that if I relax... I'll fall apart at the worst possible time. You know, sometimes I have nightmares. And thoughts... They lead to strange places, winding through recent events as if to punish me, pointing out my weakness, helplessness, and foolishness over and over. But not when you're nearby. And it's not about a deceptive feeling of safety. Or any other such fleeting folly... Sorry... It's about the unbearably attractive possibility of going with the flow, when I don't have to define the goal myself, make choices, face difficult decisions. Bear responsibility for every step... When things are bad, you get used to that in a snap, and the more trust there is, the faster it happens.
Morrigan shook her head, openly showing surprise.
— Such a thing never occurred to me. Thank you for the lesson. Speaking of which... The bell has fallen silent.
Bethany nodded, sniffed, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of soot on her face.
— The fire in the alleys is almost out. The wind from the lake... The fire will spread, but—
The senior mage shook her head.
— No. These possessed shun fire. I'll wager not a single one will even try to pass between the burning buildings. But this descent to the bay isn't the only one.
Morrigan rose to her feet and pointed towards the steeper slope that served as the settlement's natural boundary on the right. There, from beneath the soil and snow, the stone bones of the surrounding hills protruded clearly, framed by moss and dry grass. The slope wasn't impassable; in warmer times, surely some had easily climbed up and down that path, winding between sparse trees and boulders. Peering closer, Bethany made out, with horror, dozens of dark silhouettes steadily descending towards the settlement.
— The Void...
Time stretched agonizingly slowly as Morrigan coldly assessed how long they had before the wave of dead would pour into the crossroads. Not long. And with that calculation grew a certainty: it was better to test the threat posed by the Seeker now than to try their luck with a couple of dozen possessed creatures. It was then that her eye, attentive to any movement, caught the first figures appearing from the direction of the chantry. Touching her apprentice's shoulder, the mage pointed there.
A peculiar group was approaching from the chantry at a jog. Most were sturdy men, from greybeards to those with the first down on their cheeks. Each was armed with either a backyard woodshed axe or a heavier lumberjack's tool. For protection, rectangular window shutters with carved patterns were strapped to their left arms. Among the men stood several women gripping makeshift spears, plus the Seeker and a man following him, whose fresh stubble suggested that, unlike the common folk, he had been clean-shaven a week ago. Their faces were twisted with grim resolve, their gazes full of concealed malice. It all contrasted sharply with the image of dashing 'saviors.'
In a matter of moments, the crowd formed a ring around the mages. Their attention was cautiously on the Seeker, but impatience and restrained anger showed in their sidelong glances at the fire and the two strangers clearly responsible for it. Tristan immediately approached Morrigan, commenting wearily on the situation:
— So, reinforcements. Now I am twice surprised by your resilience and... the amount of collateral damage. This fire won't make my task any easier.
The mage opened her mouth to hurl a dose of venom in the Seeker's face, but then slowly closed her lips. Giving herself a few seconds to think and weigh the alternatives, the girl decided: aiming barbs of empty rage and sarcasm at the man would only be demeaning. Keeping her eyes locked on the Seeker, Morrigan set a goal: for mutual insults and jibes, she would wait for a moment when her words were backed by the power to make her own threats a reality. Sensing a hint of hidden thoughts on his interlocutor's face, Tristan sighed and shook his head irritably. Meanwhile, the man who had come with him, distinguished from the others by his lack of even a scruffy beard, asked with unconcealed fury in his voice:
— By your will, we are here. And what? Was this the plan? To burn Redcliffe Fort to the ground?
— Bann... Be silent, Teagan. — Tristan clenched his teeth, and his voice cut like a sharp shard of ice. — The fire was your plan. Or have you forgotten? The fact that the mages thought of it too doesn't change that. And you are here only because you agreed with the arguments—
— You know perfectly well what 'arguments' persuaded me. The fire was a backup option. The last one. Winter brings death as inexorably as these dead. But winter doesn't care if you're a mage or a fisherman. And the dead only thirst for the blood of these two destroyers. We will be left without homes and provisions if the fire spreads—
Clearly mustering all her courage, Bethany interjected, timidly interrupting Teagan:
— But... but the wind is blowing from the lake...
More than one pair of stinging gazes fixed on the girl at once, silencing her. Morrigan's lips twisted into a contemptuous smirk, but before anyone else could intervene, Tristan cut in harshly:
— Control yourself, Bann. I don't care about your anxieties. Or the anxieties of anyone here for utterly insignificant reasons: from seeking a scapegoat for your bitterness and rage, to pity for the junk burning in these flames. Redcliffe Fort was built as a refuge, to house the inhabitants of several nearby settlements if necessary and withstand a siege for at least a month. But the moment the gates slammed shut, you chose to ignore that possibility. You may not be a bad man, but you've gone soft from living within the framework laid down by Arl Eamon. So your worries about the simple natives of this place are at least half hypocrisy. Just two mages, thrown into the fight, managed to... What's the count, Morrigan?
The mage grimaced at the open mention of her name among a crowd of strangers and answered dryly:
— About three dozen.
Her words stirred a wave of astonished whispering in the crowd, forcing the common folk to look at the two girls in a new light. Whether calculation or sincere fury lay behind the Seeker's rough mask, his methods had worked: the crowd's mood shifted from tension and discontent. Moreover, not without surprise, Morrigan noted: she found this new expression on the strangers' faces... agreeable. It wasn't superficial self-admiration or satisfaction from recognition, though she didn't rule that out. Morrigan felt it in her gut—a deep, primal satisfaction from being acknowledged. What was this feeling? Not pride—too simple. Not vanity—too petty. Rather... recognition. Yes, that was what gnawed at her—a craving for these people to remember her. And Morrigan readily admitted that this craving had likely been the silent companion of her actions for a long time, only now manifesting more brightly than usual. Returning to the present, the girl smiled faintly, for the spoken words had done little to move Bann Teagan. His lack of reaction suggested the man was familiar with mages' capabilities firsthand. But, furthermore, that first conversation between the Bann and Tristan now cast a deep shadow over all communication between the two men. That explanation seemed plausible to the mage. Meanwhile, after a meaningful pause, now slightly quieter and addressing only the mage, the Seeker clarified:
— And?..
— Dead.
— Regrettable and expected... So. The main thing is to use what we have, not wait for a miracle. Predicting the intentions of miracles is a thankless task. In a minute or two, the defiled remains of your ancestors, acquaintances, and loved ones will spill out here. And we will cleanse them of their vile invaders. This is how it will be…
Tristan's plan, briefly and clearly outlined, proved surprisingly coherent, evoking a dual sensation in Morrigan. Either the Seeker noted everything the environment provided, to then virtuosically juggle ideas and use the slightest detail to his advantage, or he knew far more in advance than he let on. In any case, the girl felt there was something to learn here. Each 'militiaman' had a clay flask hanging from his belt—the kind usually carried by lumberjacks, the neck wrapped in leather against impacts. Now they dangled from short cords as they were. Each contained the same raw mash as in the recent casks. Ensuring that Morrigan and Bethany were not on the verge of collapse from exhaustion, Tristan began issuing orders.
The men formed up in two rows, the second staggered back half a body's length from the first. This approach seemed vaguely familiar to Morrigan. Anyone knocked out of the front row was immediately replaced by two others, capable of both fending off the enemy and dragging the wounded clear of the fight to the rear. The downside of this advantage was the high demand for coordinated action. The slightest hesitation, and chaos ensued.
Next, the mages, the Seeker, and the grim Bann fell into line, the latter two with blades bared, ready for battle. Bethany was placed precisely at the center of the formation. On command, the girl was to be let forward. Tristan left the remaining older men and women behind, firmly stating that there could easily be dead who had bypassed the fire via the left slope. Or even worse, some that could patiently sneak into the rear through the yards facing the water. But the main threat was expected from the west, given the lower forms' inability to resist when prey was right under their noses. Just like at the fence-line, if there were no shelters nearby and the direct path was the shortest, they would attack head-on, without guile.
Before the battle began, a lone cry cut through the leaden sky—a goshawk circled over the field of the coming fight. The bird of prey, it seemed, was astonished by the abundance of carrion, which could also attract its own dinner. The dead poured from the direction of the fort road in an uneven mass and at varying speeds. Three, then five, one, and many again. Less than an organized pack, but more dangerous than Tower beasts.
On the other side, the men with axes didn't much resemble a militia. Simply sturdy laborers, grown in a harsh land, unaccustomed to yielding easily to personal fears. In the grim restraint of these 'reluctant warriors,' Morrigan sensed the breath of death, which had already clicked its rotten teeth in the faces of these men more than once. So, the throw of the flasks on the signal went off without hesitation, almost militarily. This was followed by the crack of pottery against the dead or under the creatures' feet. The Seeker barked:
— Burn!
The sturdy men turned sideways in unison, forming a passage. And Bethany, biting her lip until it bled and taking a wide step forward, let loose Flaming Flash from her hands. Sheets of flame immediately engulfed both the snow and the six most hasty possessed. The fire that sprang from nowhere forced the following stream of dead to split. Bypassing the flames at a respectful distance to the left and right, they ended up on the flanks of the battle formation. Another shout rang out:
— Flanks! Back!
The young mage was unceremoniously and immediately shoved back into her previous place. And the five men at each flank, shoving somewhat unorganizedly, fell back four steps. The straight line curved, becoming an arc. And the next moment, the first possessed slammed into it, immediately met with swings of axes. While there were no more walking dead on the flanks than fingers on one hand, each faced at least two men, deftly hacking at rotten flesh and bone. But before the enemy bodies hit the snow, a good dozen corpses of varying freshness surged at the men. Without delay, Tristan rushed to aid his own flank, demonstrating a rapid flow of graceful and lethal movements. Evading the straightforward lunges of the dead—who were ready to hamstring their victim even at the cost of taking a blade in the body—with seeming ease, the Seeker severed limbs and heads as if they were boneless. Morrigan immediately recalled how the fallen Templar at the beginning had demonstrated a similar style and ability, though in comparison it seemed only a pale shadow. While the mage was distracted, the first man near her flank fell into the snow, staining it scarlet with blood from his neck, torn by the crooked but unusually strong hands of a dead man. It had ducked sharply under an overly wide swing. The loss of one fighter weighed heavily on the formation, threatening to immediately double the casualties. So the mage cut short all thought, thrust her hands forward sharply, and snarled:
— Edé te!
All the dead on the right flank collapsed into the snow, the now-familiar impenetrable blackness swallowing them for a heartbeat. Suddenly deprived of enemies, about a dozen men froze in silent amazement, which immediately turned into a ragged cry of victory. Smirking, Morrigan swayed slightly, struggling to blink away the spots dancing before her eyes.
Triumph was sharply replaced by a new wave of bodies forcibly raised from their graves. And simultaneously, a shout warning of readiness came from behind. Just as Tristan had predicted, about a dozen possessed had slipped into the rear... Several of the dead were impaled on spears, but while the weapons were being wrested free, the others closed in on the formation. Women's screams, piercing with unbearable pain—someone lost their eyes, someone had fingers torn off—wrenched the Seeker from his position. Sensing the threat with some animal instinct, Morrigan grabbed Bethany by the arm, yanking the girl towards her and to the side. But Tristan's furious strike, devoid of the forewarning hints typical of ordinary Templars, caught not only the dead but also the younger mage, who had drifted closer to them. With a glazed look, Bethany went limp in Morrigan's arms, and simultaneously, all the enemies in the rear collapsed into the cold mud.
Though Bann Teagan had rushed to the left flank in the Seeker's place, he couldn't possibly replace the man alone. So the price for the leader's maneuver to the rear was soon another fighter. The wounded fell one after another, turning the snow into a bloody slush. Within a minute or two, the two-line formation thinned to one, desperately trying to beat back the fallen whom they hadn't managed to drag behind their backs. And only Tristan's risky charge into the mass of dead, with a repeat use of that same ability, broke the possessed's onslaught, sending a good dozen creatures back beyond the Veil at once. After that, the battle evened out, allowing the common folk to chop down a few of the undead themselves. And as always happens in the heat of a fight for life, it all ended abruptly.
Some sank onto the bloodied snow, others rushed to the fallen—checking pulses, bandaging wounds. One man's hands shook as he tried to cover a comrade's torn throat with his palm. There were those who stood straighter, not moving from their spots and staring into emptiness. Heavy, rasping breaths, suppressed moans, and the crack of a roof collapsing in the distance. The smell of freshly opened graves, the copper tang of blood on the tongue, the taste of burnt flesh, acrid smoke—all mingled into one suffocating mess. Such was the reward for victory—pain, death, and stench. Carefully supporting the senseless Bethany against her shoulder and around her waist, Morrigan watched Tristan closely. The man was no superhuman and also showed signs of fatigue. But the mage's gaze was seeking something else. What made people obey this stranger almost unquestioningly? In the ensuing lull, the girl's thoughts again raced. Obviously, the Chantry standing behind him and his rumor-shrouded title of Seeker gave him a great advantage over the vast majority. But his bearing, his habit of making decisions rather than waiting for others to do so, his willingness to take risks—all played a part. Was this matched by a commensurate readiness to bear responsibility? For now, Morrigan could only guess. The way Tristan spoke to those around him, carried himself before them—left no doubt about who was in charge. Yet the man seemed to consciously avoid opportunities to stand out 'on the cheap,' preferring to let his mind, knowledge, and blade speak for him. In the glances furtively cast at the Seeker's tense figure as he surveyed the houses untouched by the fire, one could read not only respect—there was fear there too, and a kind of dark hope. And the Bann clearly saw it as well. Teagan's gaze, gloomy as a storm cloud, also slid assessingly over the surviving vassals. Was there a trace of grief or irritation at the losses incurred? Here Morrigan was blind, and she readily admitted it, regretting Leliana's absence. A slight surprise caught her when, in a couple of sidelong glances directed her way, she glimpsed a glimmer of similar emotions. Instead of simple, concise conclusions, what she saw sent the mage's thoughts on a long, roundabout path...
After waiting about ten minutes, allowing time to bandage all who were worth saving in the absence of a healing mage, and to send off the rest on their final journey, Tristan turned to the Bann, who was quietly conversing with one of the men.
— Let's move.
The Seeker wiped his blade hastily and continued:
— We'll burn the dead. Cruel? Yes. But they deserve no less.
Teagan nodded, reluctantly lending the veiled order greater legitimacy. And while those still whole shouldered the wounded and gathered the fallen, Tristan, to Morrigan's surprise, offered a shoulder for Bethany. Ignoring the searing gaze of those dark-golden eyes, the Seeker said quietly:
— If you want us to see the dawn alive… — The man's voice sounded weary, but held a steely resolve. — ...then in the coming hours, I will need your unusual mind to be clear.
* * *
Of course, "returning to the chantry" sounded simple only in words. The wounded needed to be settled somewhere warm, a place found for the dead, decisions made about who would burn the bodies and how, news delivered to relatives—some of whom had to be calmed, others comforted. Furthermore, "concern" about the fire had arisen, threatening to escalate into panic... The moment one focused on a single task, new problems materialized out of thin air behind one's back, settling as a heavy burden on anyone willing to shoulder the weight of leadership. Upon returning, Tristan had withdrawn from command, only occasionally permitting brief but pertinent comments. So the role fell back into Teagan's hands. But along with the heap of problems, the Bann, on crutches, was greeted by a man not yet grey, who introduced himself as the Steward, a man named Murdock. Working as a pair—with the Bann projecting authority and keeping his word before the people, and the Steward behind him offering practical solutions—they managed to deal with each new situation as it arose with moderate success.
Observing the survivors, Morrigan estimated that no more than half the residents remained, with a preponderance of women. They were all crowded into the street before the chantry, inside the chantry building itself, and in the nearby houses. Alleys, courtyards, and other bolt-holes were blocked by barricades of wagons, stones, and other junk hastily nailed together. Hunters hid behind chimney stacks on the roofs, men whose eyes could watch for prey for long periods, keenly reacting to every movement in the almost monochrome landscape.
While the bustle around the wounded peaked, Morrigan slipped away unnoticed—and found Leliana. Several "sisters of light" skilled in healing without magic had already seen to her. Spreading her fiery locks over the head of a bench, the girl slept peacefully near the hearth, her face smeared with a healing salve. The women, tired from the number of wounded and lack of sleep, explained that the problem was not so much the fracture as the resulting inflammation. Therefore, they hadn't set her jaw with a splint. Having located Bethany against a wall nearby, Morrigan soon found herself sharing a meal with Tristan, Bann Teagan, and a couple of other leading figures in the settlement: Ser Pert, a knight of the Arl who had lost his right hand, and Mother Hannah, who led the local Chantry parish. The former had once been a broad-shouldered handsome man with well-groomed moustache that drooped down instead of the typical local beard, but now his shoulders were slumped, his moustache looked dishevelled, and his eyes were sunken deep. The Revered Mother held herself more briskly, but the wrinkles around her eyes and the grey in her hair betrayed her age, and the events around her were taking their toll.
Instead of getting straight to business, the Bann pointedly ignored the Seeker at the table for quite some time, devoting himself to conversation with a well-built, copper-haired maiden approaching her thirtieth winter, who was in charge of the only kitchen currently working for all the survivors. Then, despite Teagan's initial reluctance, a serious conversation began. Surprising no one, Tristan was the first to speak:
— So, what is known about the events at the Arl's fortress?
The Bann threw a gloomy look at Ser Pert, who, sighing, began to answer:
— It's more a collection of facts than a full understanding. I'll start a little further back. With why we're in such a pitiful state. The Arl's illness...
— The Chantry is aware of the Arl's situation in broad strokes. A strange illness resulting in unconsciousness. The helplessness of healers, including a mage from the Circle. It's clear where you're going. To the absence here of the overwhelming majority of Redcliffe Fort's knights, dispatched across the land in search of a miracle cure for an unknown ailment and...
Tristan snapped his fingers slightly theatrically, as if remembering, and the Revered Mother, gently inclining her head, came to his aid:
— The Urn of Sacred Ashes.
Morrigan saw through this game—Tristan knew perfectly well about the Urn but was feigning ignorance. She chose to hide a contemptuous smirk in her mug of heavily diluted moonshine, a hint that the alcohol supplies had been depleted due to recent events.
— Yes. Thank you, Revered Mother. But none of that is important. My question is this: what happened at the fortress? Why was the bridge raised and the gates closed? What foreshadowed such an outcome?
Ser Pert winced at this treatment, while the Bann, showing faint satisfaction at having, with outside help, "wiped his boots" on his older brother's knight, readily began answering the questions:
— The events at the fortress and here are interconnected. The bridge was raised without any warning about twenty days ago. As the Arl's younger brother, I took on some duties, as Lady Isolde spent all her time either at her husband's bedside or with their son. And on that ill-fated day, I was at the port. A lull lasted for three days. Notably, not even guards were visible on the walls in those days. Then everyone returned to their posts, but... as if deaf and blind. Before the water froze, we sent a couple of boats over. To the small sea dock in the cliffs, right under the walls. We shouted, waved a flag. To no avail. Then we repeated the trick with a couple of mages. The healer from the Circle also had the misfortune of being outside the walls while searching the area for medicinal plants. We created a bright flash over the guards' heads. And that's when the... nightmare began. The local cemetery is located west of the settlement, on the crest of a hill, among bare rock. So that beasts couldn't easily get to it and water would drain quickly. A sensible distance from the living. And closer to the sky and the winds. The very next night, about two weeks ago, the dead began rising from their graves. But they didn't rush at us immediately; they waited until their numbers grew. In the end, at least sixty of the creatures attacked the people at once. Surprisingly few died at first. But then the initial horror subsided, people took up arms, and that's when the fallen became countless. The mages identified the threat as possessed, though they couldn't explain how such a thing could happen. And although the monsters' strange behavior was evident from the start, due to some disagreements, the knights decided to organize a counterattack. And... Well, that's in the past. As are our mages. Most were simply torn from our ranks by force; no one even suspected others of having such talents. And a third group... A third group was thrown to the wolves. To my great fortune, few were willing to go that far. So determining the fate of such people in these difficult days wasn't so hard. Even if there were twice as many... But, here we are. With your... assistance, and I admit, at a fairly cheap price, we've rid ourselves of the external threat. What next, Seeker?
Morrigan noted to herself that Teagan had been fairly sincere overall. Well, as far as the girl could discern behind the man's mask. However, some remarks had been made with clear intent. Tristan blinked wearily, like a man with a slight headache, and replied:
— Thank you for the details. You have probably been as honest with a subject of Orlais as you could be. And now you need to cross that line and fill in the gaps between the facts I already know.
Both Teagan and Pert involuntarily turned to Mother Hannah, but she maintained a detached air, betraying no emotion. It wasn't hard to detect a silent accusation in it, but outwardly, these stares didn't affect Tristan. He waited, tired and patient, like a predator in ambush. The Bann grimaced, clenched his fists until the knuckles were white, and said with obvious discomfort:
— There are things... better left unsaid.
The Seeker shook his head.
— Naturally. A question of circumstances. If it were a matter of life and death, you'd be singing a very different tune. Recall our first conversation without witnesses. With considerable help from Morrigan and Bethany, the immediate threat no longer stands on your doorstep. For now. And so you have remembered your duty and traditions once more. My blunt words are not meant to insult you. Intentionally. But everyone present is perfectly aware that you have spent, at most... seven seasons of the past twenty-plus in the Bannorn of Rainesfir entrusted to your management, right from the moment you came into your rights in the ninth year of the Dragon Age. And most often, you departed Ferelden for the north, to warm Ansburg, during the long winter months, the most difficult and hard to endure for these lands wedged between the Frostback Mountains and the great lake. So let's leave bravado and false patriotism behind. First, the real problem hasn't gone anywhere. And it can easily lead to further misfortunes. Second, you have been somewhat isolated here, which partly excuses you. However, you are not the only ones suffering from 'walking dead'; the entire Arling is. Consider that fact and try again.
While Morrigan appreciated how the better-informed Tristan juggled facts without ever mentioning the Chantry's personal interest in the events, a tension seemed to thicken over the table. Tristan's words had struck Teagan like a knife—he couldn't answer without losing face. The others sat frozen, as if they'd seen a ghost—death was already stalking the Arling, and winter was just beginning. After a brief pause, Teagan gave in. Perhaps it was the veiled threats, or a sense of guilt. But the mage also allowed that a sense of responsibility might be at work, awakened in the man under the pressure of circumstance. After all, the girl had seen him diligently tackle even unpleasant tasks, like speaking with an inconsolable widow who, in the throes of grief, cared nothing for pompous matters, politics, or "big" problems. Suddenly, fitting into place like a missing puzzle piece, came Bethany's recent confession. The phrase, "the unbearably attractive possibility of going with the flow..." could have played its own role here too.
— As you wish. There were... strange incidents. Well then... First of all, I should mention a suspicious elf. Name... Berwick. Actually, you don't see many elves in our parts. The climate is harsh, the people are suspicious and often... intolerant. And it's dangerous to roam these lands freely. They say the Avvar in the southwest have never welcomed the pointy-ears. And if you run into the Hasind in the southeast, it's even worse. It all started at the tavern—that's where the elf gave himself away, on the second day after the fortress bridge was raised. Berwick suddenly packed up and decided to leave the settlement in a hurry. The tavern keeper had a few questions for the strange guest. Rather caustic and insulting ones, according to witnesses. By the same accounts, Lloyd was always too blunt, arrogant, rude, and never had any warm feelings for elves. "Was," because the outcome of the ensuing scuffle was that the previously unremarkable elf cold-bloodedly slit the man's throat and tried to flee. A couple of arrows from quick-thinking hunters put an end to that matter. As it later turned out, Berwick had arrived here a month and a half ago—supposedly a hunter of fur-bearing game. And he just stayed on as a lodger at the tavern. He was quiet, modest, tight-fisted. But over that time, the amount spent on lodging was, frankly, quite substantial for a free hunter. And as you might notice, the elf's arrival coincides rather well with the time my elder brother took ill with his strange malady.
Tristan tapped his knuckles on the oak table and nodded. And Morrigan immediately calculated when these events must have occurred. It came out to about ten to fifteen days before the battle at Ostagar. However, Ferelden's internal politics and the balance of power in the country were an untrodden thicket for the mage. She would have to wait for Leliana to wake up or for explanatory remarks from the Seeker. The Bann, meanwhile, continued:
— The other point concerns the Templars. Yes, precisely so. Although by my elder brother's decree, the role of the Maker's warriors falls mainly to the knights, the formal Captain of the absent Corps, Harritt, was stationed at the chantry. Two days before the fortress bridge was raised, the Templar became overly agitated... I take it the Captain said nothing to anyone?..
The phrase was half a question, testing the depth of the Seeker's and Mother Hannah's knowledge, but their complete lack of reaction prompted Teagan to go on:
— Hmm... Well, people reported seeing the Captain here and there. The Templar became fidgety, wandered the area like a lost soul, tracking something he never told anyone about. In the end, on that very day, the Captain ended up inside the fortress. And no one has seen him since.
Another pause fell, and finally, Tristan asked:
— Is that all?
The question held a veiled disappointment. Yet, nothing on the Seeker's face indicated whether he knew something that hadn't yet been spoken by the Bann. Teagan exchanged a look with Ser Pert and shook his head despondently before continuing.
— No... But before we broach the delicate subject... You must... I would be extremely grateful, on my elder brother's behalf, if what you hear, for a change, remained between us and did not spread to the four corners of the world.
Tristan let out a weary sigh, momentarily meeting the Revered Mother's gaze, and coolly clarified:
— You do understand I am bound by duty and cannot give personal oaths? Any such oath would be broken if more serious obligations compelled me to do so.
— You Chantry folk... For you, a word is just a tool. A nobleman's word is his greatest treasure.
For the first time during the conversation, Morrigan laughed openly and remarked quietly:
— "Word" is a luxury of the rich and free. But it seems to me extremely difficult to gain wealth without compromising one's freedom. If one pokes you with a stick, it becomes clear that even your "word" does not fully belong to you.
Scowling, Teagan shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the mage's words.
— Be that as it may. At least promise me you will not speak of this unless your duty compels you to.
Tristan gave a restrained nod of confirmation.
— I promise.
— Good. After the bridge was raised. After the dead appeared. Just before the... knights' counterattack. We were visited by Lady Isolde...
— Stop. How?
The Bann sighed heavily, mumbling under his breath with a slight tremor:
— Eamon will have my hide for this... — Then, louder, the man continued: — From the old mill on the west side of the bay, near the drawbridge, a tunnel leads to the fortress. It's dug deep enough to pass through the bedrock under the bay floor all the way to the island. According to my brother, it's been here since the fortress's founding. Lady Isolde met with Ser Pert and me to... My good-sister was extremely agitated at the time. After telling us about the "dark evil" that had settled in the fortress, intent on taking the lives of my brother and Connor, the Arl's only son, Lady Isolde demanded that I return with her to the fortress. In order to...
— In order to?
— To confront the evil together with Connor.
— And?
— This madness frightened me. The incoherent babbling, bordering on hysteria, from a woman who once overcame the open hostility of her surroundings and ill repute to be where she wanted and with the one who held her heart. Given the circumstances, it seemed threatening. When Lady Isolde sensed I wasn't inclined to take her at her word... I'd never heard such cursing from my good-sister before. And such maledictions... I admit, I wanted to restrain her from returning to the fortress by force. But...
The Bann's grim glance slid toward Ser Pert, instantly clarifying all the accumulated animosity between them. On the knight's face, anger, shame, and something else—something he was carefully hiding—warred. Pert twitched his jaw and retorted dryly:
— I swore oaths, Lord Teagan.
Crossing her arms under her chest, Morrigan quietly commented on this justification:
— So, an oath of fealty and true loyalty are not the same thing... Paradoxical. It seems far more difficult for one bound to many to determine who is worthy of trust.
Leaning towards the mage, Tristan, also in a half-whisper, murmured:
— "Paradoxical"?
He leaned a little closer and continued:
— Far more interesting is how your "savage" mask keeps cracking at the seams.
Returning his attention to the audience, the Seeker continued:
— So, we have a passage into the fortress. Excellent. You can open it from this side, I assume?
Teagan nodded slowly, and, straightening up, Tristan concluded:
— We head for the mill tonight, under cover of darkness. And now—rest.