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Chapter Text

One

The curved lines of the vallaslin that adorned his forehead and chin, as seen reflected in the puddle of the murky, blighted water, looked blacker than ever and now felt blacker than ever.

Halvas spun the dagger in his palm, the keen blade nearly whistling as it rotated in the chilled midnight air, as he considered whether to use its edge to carve the flesh from his face, to peel his skin back, to force himself not to blink as the blood ran across his eyes in sheets, to grit his teeth and bear the pain as the price for his ignorance and the ignorance of his people, all in order to rid himself of the corrupted markings that he had once wore with pride but that now only filled him with disgust.

He had chosen to wear the markings of Ghilan’nain, the flowing lines curved upward like the horns of the halla she had created and for which he had been named.

Now, as he looked upon the reflection of his face in that blighted pool, black and stinking with foulness but not yet so far gone to rot as to not be able to hold the light of the moon on its surface, all he could see in those lines were the twisting veins of blight that snaked along the walls of Weisshaupt, the corrupted veins of a corrupted goddess who wielded that corruption as a weapon and sought to remake the world with it.

As Halvas contemplated mutilating his face in a vain effort to separate himself from her, of what she had willingly embraced, his hand was stayed by the recognition – or was it horror? – that perhaps he was not so different, that his revulsion at the goddess was merely a reflection of a sudden revulsion in himself, brought to light by the massacre he had just walked away from.

After all, decades ago he had willingly put the cup of black, blighted blood to his lips and drank of it, in order to gain its power. 

The Wardens would claim it was a righteous power, a sacrifice, to willingly take in the darkness in order to have the strength to combat it. But the undeniable truth was that there was power, too, in the taint. Once changed, once transformed, once corrupted , there was a power that took root, intertwined in their blighted blood, that set them apart from otherwise normal men and women. When the battle grew furious, when wounds opened and blood spilled, when they tread into places where there was no light and no warmth, that power drove them, sustained them, took hold of them.

Whenever Halvas gave into that side of him, when he allowed the monster, the horror that dwelt within him to come out, he left destruction in his wake, too.

The Dalish elders were wrong. The stories the hahrens told were wrong. The teachings of the People, the history they searched for and clung to and bled to recover, those had all been proved false in an instant the goddess came to Weisshaupt in a sucking, suffocating cloud that bore the blight to the doorstep of the Wardens.

He had heard the booming voice that echoed throughout the fortress. He had felt her words reverberating in his head, tremors threatening to shake his skull until it cracked and shattered. He had felt her inside of him, as if she had wormed inside of his very veins, writhing within his blood.

Whether he massacred his own face to try to rid himself of the black tattoos that marked him, it wouldn’t matter. Ghilan’nain, the mother of the halla, the mother of the blight, she was already permanently inside him, he knew. Even if he could erase the ink below his skin, he could not relieve himself of his blackened blood, where she resided not just in spirit but in form.

Hallas slipped his knife back into the sheath and stood, tearing his face away from the tainted puddle and the reflection of the fool and monster he saw within it.

The other Wardens were trickling by one by one, survivors from the destruction of Weisshaupt, making their way to the rally point at the old fort in Lavendel on the outskirts of the Hossberg wetlands. They trudged forward, wounded and weary, never looking back to the south and toward the impregnable fortress of the Grey Wardens that had not only been broken, but now sat consumed by the blight that their order was sworn to fight unto their deaths.

Weisshaupt had fallen. Hundreds had been killed. And yet, these forsaken wanderers, refugees, Halvas among them, had lived.

In war, victory.
In peace, vigilance.
In death, sacrifice.

All of them on the road to Lavendel had failed that oath in full tonight.

Halvas had served the Wardens for nearly thirty years now and never had he suffered a defeat so devastating and so complete as this before. Yes, when the walls were breached and the archdemon had smashed the fortress, he had led the charge to the postern gate, hacking through the horde of misshapen darkspawn. He had secured an escape route, and many had survived because of it. As the Wardens trudged past, he recognized many of the faces of those who still drew breath. He had Joined many of them, trained many of them, bled alongside many of them. 

As they walked past and saw him there, resting by the roadside, they tossed him small nods, appreciation for their lives, all they could muster in lieu of speech, the pain too close yet for words.

“Joiner, you made it.”

Halvas looked up to see the young woman approaching, her long dark hair spattered with darkspawn filth. Her dark eyes, usually full of light and joy, were tonight dark with sorrow.

“Greta,” Halvas said, dipping his head in greeting. She had come from Tevinter, a non-mage from a mage family, who had more or less been outcast from Minrathous when she didn’t manifest magic. She had come to the Wardens seeking a higher calling, a purpose from a society that had none for her. She was the only one of four he had given the chalice to that night that lived to see morning. Recruits died during the Joining, that was unavoidable, but something about that night in particular, that she had drank from the cup last and that she had been the only one to pass its test had felt like a sign to him, that there was something more to her, something that lay beyond what he had at first seen in her initiation. She was special to him, because of it. “It’s good to see you.”

“We wouldn’t have survived, if not for you,” Greta said. Her hands were still trembling, which she tried to hide by squeezing the grip of her sword at her hip. He didn’t fault her for fear. Every Warden who lived to see tomorrow should be afraid of what they had witnessed this night. To be anything but would be unnatural. “When you went back inside the gate, I wasn’t sure that you still lived.”

Once he had secured the gate, Halvas had gone back to cover their retreat along with some of the other senior Wardens. They had locked their shields and held the line for nearly an hour as the stones of Weisshaupt rattled apart underfoot. Then they had seen the giant boils of blight swelling, consuming everything before them, a massive wall of corrupted, rotting flesh that swallowed the fortress like lava running from the volcanic peaks in the north of the Anderfels. Halvas had blown his horn to signal a rapid retreat and then turned and bolted for the gate.

Eirik. Beth. Durgin. Millie. None of them, as far as he knew, had made it out.

“Have you seen the First Warden?” Halvas asked.

“You didn’t hear?” Greta asked. “Rook punched him. Knocked him out. That idiot. He always has acted first and thought later, ever since his Joining.”

Thorne had joined the order about the same time as Greta, Halvas remembered, and the two were on friendly terms, even if Greta was calm-headed and obedient while Thorne was impatient and rebellious. Halvas knew of the one they called Rook – and the fact that he was more often than not in trouble with command – even if he didn’t know him personally.

“Then the First Warden is dead?” Anyone who was left behind in Weisshaupt must be dead. Nothing could have survived what he saw.

“I don’t know,” Greta said. “I was told he battled his way across the fortress and fought the archdemon. He must have killed it. You felt it, right?”

Halvas nodded. Everyone had felt it, the presence of the archdemon, even before it had cut through the fog and laid waste to the fortress. It was a pressure inside his skull, an overwhelming presence and voice that echoed across and through the taint. Razikale. The emanations had formed the name in their heads, beckoning outward to the darkspawn and, by extension, to the Wardens, who shared their blight.

And then, in the middle of the battle, that voice, that power that pressed and pushed through the taint, it burst, a screaming, a shriek across their consciousness as it was destroyed. Someone had killed Razikale. It was impossible to tell who had actually landed the killing blow – any Warden could do it, any Warden would do it, as duty demanded to end a Blight – but the First Warden, if he had survived the initial assault, would have had first rights to the kill by virtue of his position.

“Who’s in charge then?” Halvas asked.

“Don’t know,” Greta said with a tired shrug. “You?”

Halvas might have snorted or laughed, if the mood were anything but dire. He was one of the most senior Wardens by time – twenty-eight years since his Joining – but he had never chased a command or title. He preferred to serve where it mattered, in recruiting, in training and in walking in the blighted places where no normal man willingly would.

“Joiner” they called him, for he had successfully brought eighty-seven recruits through their Joinings, with a survival rate of just under three in four. They called him “Whetstone,” for the way he honed those he joined into true Wardens ready to serve. “Blightseer,” some named him, for his ability to feel out corruption and trace it to its source, even when it wasn’t readily visible to the naked eye.

They called him “Steelshield” for the way he stood behind his kite in defense against the blight, or “Blackblade” for the color of his sword as it bathed in tainted darkspawn blood. Others still named him “Elfhorn,” for the low, clear call of his Dalish marpelwood horn that echoed the cry of the halla.

There were few who called him by his given name and none left who knew him as Halvas of Clan Ista, for his people of the Hunterhorn Mountains, whom he had separated from nearly three decades ago.

He was known and respected among the Wardens of the Anderfels, but that was the extent of his influence in the order, by his own choosing. He was not afraid to lead in battle, or to take command when duty required, but he was better used in the field in service of his oath than in Weisshaupt tending ledgers and letters, placating and politicking.

“No,” he reaffirmed, even though he knew Greta was only teasing him. “But I do have a task for someone trustworthy, if you’re willing.”

“Anything, Joiner,” Greta answered dutifully.

“Find a safe place, set a camp, light a large fire and gather any Wardens you can,” he said. “It is still several days walk to Lavendel and the darkspawn might be pursuing us. We’ll find strength in numbers.”

“I will see it done, Joiner,” Greta said, with a discipline that would make any teacher proud. She had always been a good student, sharp and skillful, willing to listen and willing to learn. “And what about you?”

“I’ll see if I can find any stragglers,” Halvas said. The search would keep him alone, for a time, where he needed to be right now.

“Joiner,” Greta said, a note of concern in her voice as she sensed the woe in his. “Are you okay? This, elven god, Ghilan’nain–”

“Yes,” Halvas interrupted before she could go further. As a human, not one of the People, Halvas knew she couldn’t truly understand, even though she meant well. Halvas couldn’t even yet understand as he grappled with history he had been told by his teachers against the irrefutable evidence of his own eyes and ears. There were some burdens that needed to be carried alone, even if others offered to share the load.

“Okay,” Greta said, although the bend of her brows and the curl of her lips suggested that she didn’t believe him. She never could hide her concerns well. “I’ll see you in Lavendel, then.”

“Creators guide you,” he might have told her in parting a day ago. But now, the sentiment was poisoned, the words corrupted. Instead, he only gave her a nod of approval, and she turned to continue along and do her duty.

When she had gone, Halvas turned himself back in the direction of Weisshaupt and began walking, to point any wayward Wardens toward the rally, to Greta and the camp she would set.

There were few to be found as he walked alone in the darkness. Either those who survived had outpaced his late exit from the lost battle, or they never escaped at all. The moon has crossed its crest in the height of the sky and was now beginning to descend. Morning would break in a few hours. If anyone hadn’t made it at least this far away by now, they were never coming, he knew.

He was about to turn back when one more figure in the distance caught his eye, walking slowly toward Lavendel. Halvas stopped and put his arm up to wave them down. They spotted him and turned slightly in the dark toward him. As the figure grew closer, Halvas recognized him as he dragged his warhammer behind him through the dirt. He was spattered in blood, both red and black, and was wheezing. His brow showed fresh claw marks, as blood trickled down his forehead and across his face like grim war paint.

“Ivon,” he said to the dwarf as he dragged himself closer, the short, dark-skinned, bearded Warden stopping and leaning heavily on the handle of his hammer as if it were a cane and he an old man. Ivon wasn’t old, in the sense that normal people got old, but he was old in his days as a Warden, like Halvas. He was past his twenty-fifth year, and much of that time had been hard years spent underground in the long-lost passages of the Deep Roads that snaked under the Anderfels.

“Steelshield,” the dwarf said, his voice ragged and grumbling, words spoken with great effort. He was clearly hiding more injuries that Halvas couldn’t see in the dark. “Ancestors be praised, at least they didn’t get all of us.”

“Is there anyone behind you?” Halvas asked, looking over the top of his head into the darkness toward Weisshaupt.

“No one,” the dwarf said, shaking his head, choosing not to speak the word “alive,” although Halvas understood his meaning. His eyes clenched hard, his mouth twisted and his neck bent to the side as if he felt a sudden wince of pain lance through him. “I stayed as long as I could, longer than I should have, probably.”

“Same,” Halvas said as he stepped to the dwarf’s side and turned, putting his back to the ruin of Weisshaupt and once more heading for Lavendel. “Retreat isn’t in the blood of old timers like us, is it?”

“You’d think we’d be wiser after all this time,” Ivon said with a cough that was wet and barking, as if he had blood in the top of his lungs. He must have taken some kind of blunt blow to the chest, an ogre or hurlock hammer or something. “Nope. Still as stubborn and stupid as a couple freshies.”

Ivon coughed hard again, this time actually spitting up blood, as Halvas had suspected. He wiped the back of his forearm across his mouth and swore. “How many made it out?”

“Too few,” Halvas said, not knowing exactly how many, but knowing that the casualties at Weisshaupt were catastrophic. “I saw a few. Beckett. Jaynie and Rhodri. Greta.”

“They got Janos,” Ivon said. “Stayed behind to bar the doors. Damn fool, a damn fool who saved dozens, myself included.”

In death, sacrifice, Halvas recited in his head, knowing that Ivon no doubt was thinking the same.

They walked in silence for a long while, Halvas slowing his gait to that of his fellow senior Warden, their slow march punctuated only by Ivon’s bloody coughs. As they walked, the dwarf kept grimacing, shutting his eyes hard and shaking his head. After a while, he began to hum quietly to himself, quiet and low, barely audible even in the silence of the night. He would start, catch himself, stop, grimace, walk some more and then start again, and then shake his head in frustration.

“This Blight. It feels wrong ,” Ivon finally said to break their long silence. “I was nowhere near Ferelden during the Fifth, but I still felt it, same as you. But this, something’s not right.”

“The darkspawn that attacked Weisshaupt, they weren’t right,” Halvas agreed. “They felt… old.”

“And empty,” Ivon added. “Without the rage, the hunger, the desperation of darkspawn. They just, were. Raw, empty shells of what darkspawn should be, if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Halvas said. 

He had felt the same thing. When the fortress had come under attack, when the darkspawn had flooded over the walls and broken through the gates, as he cut them down with sword and axe and bow, he could feel them, but they felt foreign compared to the darkspawn he had known and fought for his entire life as a Warden.

The First Warden had been convinced that it was a Blight, like the five that had come before it. The Wardens knew how to battle a Blight, hard lessons learned over more than a thousand years of victory, vigilance and sacrifice. The Wardens would marshal their forces and set forth into the field to push back the horde, hunt the archdemon and kill it.

But the horde had come to them. It wasn’t genlocks and hurlocks and shrieks and ogres like they knew. It was darkspawn, that was irrefutable, but they looked as if they were molded from wet clay, a work-in-progress, the shape of the darkspawn and the blight that they knew – but different, primordial, incomplete and yet somehow, even more virulent and terrifying.

And while there was an archdemon, it wasn’t the corrupted dragon that drove it forward. No, it was a goddess, an elven goddess, his goddess, who was not what the stories the Dalish told said she was. He could sense her, feel her too, within the taint. She was not divine. She was corrupted, just like the darkspawn. Just like him. She was not a creator. She was a destroyer. And she had nearly destroyed the Grey Wardens in one swoop.

Halvas wore her markings on his face. The elders tattooed his flesh in her honor. And she had descended on Weisshaupt, sicked her pets on them, and tried to kill him. She was not a goddess, not like the Dalish said she should be.

Everything was wrong, not just the darkspawn.

“Steelshield,” the dwarf added in a low voice, quiet, as if to keep others from hearing it even though they were alone on the night-blackened steppe. “If I tell you something, will you keep it to yourself, old man to old man?”

“Of course.”

“After the battle…” Ivon started, haltingly, pausing a long time before he found the words and continued, “There’s been a… sound. Quiet at first, barely there. But once I heard it, once I listened for it, it got louder. It’s low and deep, thrumming. I covered my ears and it was still there, loud as ever. Now, I can’t not hear it.”

Ivon stopped, resting his hammer down in front of him as he straightened, craned his head up toward the sky and then closed his eyes. His head turned, his ears rotating as if he was listening for something, even though the barren Anders plain was quiet around them.

“I thought I had more time. But a second Blight in my lifetime? And that archdemon. It roared and it felt like my head was splitting open. Maybe it did. Maybe he got in there. For good.” Ivon coughed and spat blood. “Shit…”

“Ivon,” Halvas said, not sure what else he could say. 

He knew. Ivon knew. Every Warden knew, eventually. If you lived long enough, there was a time that you sought out the old Wardens to ask about it. It was the last secret the senior Wardens kept from the younger ones. It was the final tenet of service, of duty, the last unspoken line of the oath they all took before lifting the cup to their lips and drinking.

Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn.

“What about you?” Ivon asked. “You’ve been in longer than me, Steelshield.”

Halvas looked at his dwarf friend, his bloody and scarred face, a tapestry earned over decades of loyal and faithful service.  It was not so unlike his face, the gnarled pink and brown and gray fissures in his flesh that danced within and around the dark lines of his vallaslin. In the same way one could count the rings of a cut tree to determine its age, a Warden’s scars told of his time in the order. Not even the best fighters could avoid claw and tooth and barbed blade for their entire lives.

Ivon’s eyes were dark, sad, filled or drowned with the knowing. Once a Warden began to hear that sound, hear the music that lay deep within the taint, behind the sounds of darkspawn and fellow Wardens always on the edge of your consciousness, there was no turning back. The music, the music called you, called all of them eventually. A Warden might try to ignore it for a time, to push it out of their head, to do whatever they could to not hear it, but eventually it would grow until there was room for nothing else in their mind.

It was the final evolution of the taint, when the sickness finally overtook them and the price for the power that they stole came due. When it came, it was time for the Warden to embark upon their last journey, their last mission, to bring their service and their oath to a close. The only thing that lay on the other side of that calling was corruption, madness, and servitude to the blight. 

In death, sacrifice, because the Wardens knew better than anyone in Thedas that there were things worse than death in this broken and blackened world.

He could not say how long it might be for Ivon. Days. Weeks. Months maybe, if his will was strong and his fortitude stout. All Wardens lived on the borrowed time of the taint, but now, Ivon’s time was up.

Halvas couldn’t be sure whether he saw fear in the dwarf’s eyes as he recognized his own end on the horizon, or was it merely that he sought recognition from a fellow Warden at arms, from a friend, to acknowledge that he had served and served well, to go into that final march into darkness with the assurance that the life that he had given to the Wardens was worth something.

It was. 

Halvas had to believe that, more now than ever.

“Yes. I hear it too.”

The thrumming in his head seemed to rise in volume as the words crossed his lips, a crescendo, like the horns at the gates of Weisshaupt, blaring into the sky, announcing the return of traveling Wardens to their ancestral home.

The taint now called him home.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

Three

Halvas tightened the straps on his armor, ensuring that the plates were secure against his body.

The old leather was worn and stretched, and his bracers didn’t hold as tightly against his forearms as they used to. The slight wiggle annoyed him, but it was nothing that he could fix now. He loosened and then tightened the belt at his waist, dropping his hands to his sides to check that they fell onto the hilts of his weapons where he expected them. He adjusted the scabbard of his sword back slightly, reaching his left arm across his torso until he liked where his fingers landed around the grip on it. After the incident with Kirin and Flynn, he had finished sharpening the blade and taken the time to oil it down, polishing the steel until it glinted in the dim light that struggled to make it through heavy dark clouds that seemed to hang over Lanvendel in perpetuity now, a side effect of the blight, he didn’t doubt.

Holden had told him he needed a helmet if he was going out in the marsh, to which Halvas had told him he needed to figure out how to forge a helmet that could accommodate elf ears. How many centuries had the Wardens existed and they still hadn’t figured out how to make a helm that didn’t require an elf to bend and smash his ears inside of it?

He had slipped an extra pair of socks on inside his boots, both to fight off the growing chill that had overtaken the town, but also to try to put another layer between him and the black murky water he knew he would be trudging through once he got outside of the town. The Dalish in Arlathan forest would go barefoot in wet places like this, to keep boots from sucking down in mud and to avoid the clinging damp of cloth against flesh, but Halvas had been a Warden longer than he had been a Dalish and there was no way he was going mucking through blighted water with his feet exposed. He had learned the hard way in his youth that darkspawn not only could but did lie in wait under the water, waiting for their chance to strike.

Tomasz had finally set his scouting plan, deciding on sending the Wardens out in pairs. Their manpower was sorely lacking and if a scouting group was ambushed, losing two men would be a serious enough loss without it being five or six or ten. His reasoning was sound considering their position and it made sense why the forward commanders had only taken experienced men under their lead for this job. The Fereldan commander had paired him with Ivon, knowing that they had a good rapport and had worked together in the past. His dwarf companion was still at the forge with Clara, getting some last-minute repairs done on his heavy chestplate.

“Are you done fidgeting yet?” Greta asked the question with a smirk as she stepped forward with his shield in hand.

“What have I always told you about preparation?” Halvas said, brushing off her teasing as he lifted the flaps on the pouches at his belt, his fingers dipping inside to check their contents and take inventory without having to look at them.

“‘Being prepared before you head out into the Deep prevents you from being dead,’” she recited in a monotone drone at the lesson he had drilled into her hundreds of times.

“And see, you’re still alive today to remember it,” Halvas said as his fingers finished rifling through his packs. He needed more elfroot, but it was hard to find in the Anderfels barrens. If he had time to travel east into Tevinter or south toward the Tirashan, he’d basically be covered in the common herb, but up here where there was little rain and too much sun, it was nearly impossible to find.

Greta frowned at that thought, no doubt remembering all of the Wardens they lost at Weisshaupt, and it made Halvas regret saying it and being the cause of her darkened expression. There was no amount of preparation that could have saved them at Weisshaupt. In peace, vigilance, but what level of vigilance could have prepared them for the literal storm of blight that had descended on their fortress?

“Don’t worry,” Halvas said, hoping to dismiss the thought from her head. “There’s nothing out there that I can’t handle. And, if there is, when I come running back here with the darkspawn nipping at my heels, I’ll have you here at the gate to save me.”

“Don’t even joke like that,” Greta said, her dour mood apparently heavier than he first perceived. The week they had spent so far in Lavendel had been hard, both physically and mentally on the Wardens who had survived the trek to reach it.

She needed to see the sun. The midday sun always caused her deep bronzed skin to show the warmth of its color, and when the light was very harsh, one could see her hair that looked nearly black in dimmer settings had an undertone of deep chocolate. She bore the tropical summers of her home in Minrathous in her visage, sun-touched but tempered by the humidity. He could easily picture her on the shoreline, bare feet in the sand where the water of the Nocen lapped up onto the land, as the sea breeze lifted her hair until it floated, like gulls hovering on the warm updrafts over the water.

Halvas carried none of that warmth, his flesh slightly darker, slightly deeper and scorched by the harsh sun, the sweltering day time heat, the freezing night time air, and the cutting, arid wind of the northern fingers of the Hunterhorn Mountains. Further south, closer to the Tirashan, the mountains were lush and covered in greenery, but Clan Ista had roved the northern slopes of the east-west range that separated the disputed border between northwest Orlais, western Nevarra and the southern Anderfels. His clan roved along what was locally and informally called the Index Range because it was the second of five fingers of mountains that stretched from the “wrist” on the far west side of the queer Orlesian forest. The arid hills gave plenty of places for Dalish to hide and hunt, but it was a hard existence compared to other woodland clans that enjoyed the bounty of forest and fauna.

What the Hunterhorn lacked in plant and wildlife, however, it made up for in long-lost dwarven ruins from before the First Blight. The recently rediscovered dwarven city of Kal-Sharok lay at the tip of the Thumb further to the east and the south, but signs of their once-great empire stretched throughout the mountains. It wasn’t uncommon to find long-abandoned stone doors in the mountains that were impossible to open from the outside. And occasionally, there were gates to the Deep Roads that allowed darkspawn to bubble up into the Anderfels from their lairs and pits deep underground. 

Halvas knew about the peril of those deep doors firsthand, and why the Dalish part of him seemed to feel like a distant memory some days.

There were times when he felt like he knew and understood dwarven culture better than his own, attributable not only to a youth spent in the jagged mountains of the west and the ruins of the dwarven kingdoms that once existed there, but because of the many years he had spent in the Deep Roads as a Warden, clearing darkspawn. The labyrinthine corridors of the old dwarven kingdoms were a marvel to behold, even as broken, blackened and tainted as they were today. Bold treasure hunters, and foolish ones whose bones littered the Deeps, had picked most of the roads and thaigs closest to the surface clean over the centuries. But occasionally, a collapse, a rock slide, a sinkhole or a lava flow would open a new passage lost to history and the Wardens would walk in places that had not seen red-blooded life for nearly a millennium.

The excitement of spotting the glint of dusty gold and jewels in the dark and gloom, however, was always tempered by the numerous small-statured skeletons that littered the thaigs, all that remained of dwarves who were trapped when the impenetrable Deep Roads doors shut or the stone caved in, trapping them within. The scratches in the heavy metal gates from swords and axes that had scraped those impregnable doors spoke of frenzied desperation to escape. The piles of rubble in the stone walls always seemed to have picks nearby as the starving dwarves tried futilely to tunnel their way out, never having the men, the strength or the luck to find a way to open a new passage.

Halvas couldn’t tell which he liked less, those caverns where the men and women of the dwarven kingdoms had been trapped and died in desperation, or the ones that were slickened with blight and spider webs, where they would come across broken blades, shattered armor, rotted shields and bones that had the deep scratches of teeth that had gnawed them when all the flesh was gone.

He sometimes wondered what Thedas had been like in the days before the First Blight. Had it been peaceful and prosperous? Had its people lived good lives in safety and security? And what fear must have gripped them when the shadow descended upon their world, corrupting everything that was once good into darkness?

Now, he once more geared himself to walk willingly into that darkness and its taint that he had willingly blackened his own being with in order to become attuned with it, that he might feel it and understand it in order to destroy it, even knowing that it would eventually destroy him and never itself be totally eradicated.

“Do not despair,” Halvas said as he took up his shield from Greta. “Commander Evka put you in command here, so you must maintain heart, even when the situation looks bleak. The others look to you now for strength, for hope. As do I.”

That erased the frown from Greta’s face, transforming it into the smallest smile, and even though it was tinged with sorrow, it was better than nothing. “Thank you, Joiner. I will try.”

Halvas pulled his shield across his left arm, wrapping his fingers around the grip and testing its familiar weight. He reached across his body and pulled the axe from its loop at his left hip and put it in his left hand behind the shield, for now, as he readied himself to depart. Ivon came up to them, as always nearly late but always there at just the right time. He had a dwarven sense of time, always knowing the right moment even when he had no sun or clock. The dwarves called that “stone sense,” an extrasensory perception of the world, even when they were leagues underground and surrounded by millions of tons of stone on all sides.

“Ready?” Halvas asked his companion of many years.

“Always,” Ivon said as he hoisted his heavy hammer onto his shoulder and smirked. He looked well-rested and at ease. Whatever injuries he had sustained at Weisshaupt he either wasn’t feeling any more or was hiding better than he had in their march away from the broken fortress. If the music in his head was bothering him, he also didn’t show it. “Who’s leading?”

“I have the shield,” Halvas offered pragmatically.

“Lead on then, Steelshield,” Ivon agreed, extending his hand toward the black mouth of the cave before them.

“Be safe,” Greta added, doing a better job masking her concern as she said it. “Blow your horn if you’re in trouble.”

Don’t be a hero, Tomasz had told them when he had given the orders. We’ve got enough of those buried at Weisshaupt. 

They were to patrol out, survey the land, take stock of where the blight was and wasn’t and how bad, and return safely. They were not to engage any darkspawn, unless it was necessary. The commanders were concerned that what might look like a small roving band on the surface might just be the tip of some swirling hive they couldn’t see, and the last thing they needed was a swarm bearing down on weak Lavendel.

“Wardens heading out!” Greta announced as she turned back toward her position atop the wall. The sentries opened the way, allowing Halvas and Ivon over the wooden wall. As soon as he hit the ground, his boots were ankle deep in water that was running through the darkened gullet of the caverns before them.

“Ready?” he asked Ivon, whose feet were sloshing in the pooled water underfoot as he muttered some quiet curse to himself.

“Let’s go.”

Halvas started forward, keeping his shield up in front of him the entire time he went, with his axe in his right hand back and down low. Ivon had his hammer clutched in both hands across his body, ready to jump into action at the first sign of trouble. They moved slowly and as quietly as possible with their feet skimming through the water.

As they entered the tunnel and it turned slightly left, Halvas turned his head back. The wall at Lavendel and the Wardens behind him was already out of sight. That, he noted mentally, was bad, that any approaching darkspawn belching out of the cavern would be on the wall with little advance warning. The sentries would need to be awake, because even a moment’s inattention and they could be overrun.

The caverns were already coated in blighted filth, the ceilings and walls covered in a tangle of blackened tendrils and fleshy boils. The water underfoot was black and stinking, tainted. They’d have to figure out a way to drain or dam up these caverns before that poisoned water started leaking into town and infecting its residents. They came to a fork in the tunnel, one path heading to the left, the other to the right.

“Right,” Ivon said quietly from behind him. “The blight feels heavier that way.”

Halvas agreed, as his blight sense was pulling him that way too, like whispers twisting down the tunnel and calling them in that direction. He gave one more look down the left path, then turned on his heel and pointed his shield to the right. Ivon came to his back, turning toward the other path to cover their rear in case something came lurching out of the darkness, as he slowly backpedaled behind Halvas’ feet.

The blight was so thick here already, choking the once-wide tunnel into a narrow tube of rot. The air was stale and stinking, dead, thick with the scent of the blight and no doubt carrying the taint. He could feel his black blood tingling, alight and pricked with the sensation of the corruption being pulled into his lungs, inert and useless against a Warden, but deadly to anyone unjoined.

As he crept forward, the blight constricting the passage, there was a cracking, crunching noise from the ceiling. Halvas stopped immediately, planting his foot down and pulling his axe up to his side, ready to strike. A clumped ball of blight filth twitched and swung down from the ceiling, dropping in the path in front of them and splashing into the water. Halvas held for a moment, tucked behind his shield, looking at the sphere of corruption. The black twisting ball of blight started to light, the dull pallid, rotting flesh seeming to glow and shine with heat, turning a bright red, like the tendrils and boils of blight that had clamped down on Weisshaupt.

“Back!” Halvas shouted, shuffling his feet backward behind his shield as Ivon moved in tandem so the two didn’t tangle and topple one another. The ball of blight before him swelled, the red color intensifying  like flame from within. Then, when the red glow grew so intense that it was nearly white, the corrupted ball burst, exploding in a squelching spray of black corruption and chunks of meat. Halvas tucked behind his shield, the exploding giblets and liquid striking the face. The splash off the face of the shield bounced up, a bit of black spittle striking his forehead as it peeked out over the top of his shield.

It was hot, burning his skin, as his right hand came across behind his shield and wiped it off on the back of his sleeve. He swore, shaking his head slightly to flick any else that may be resting on his flesh away as he swore quietly to himself.

“You all right?” Ivon asked from behind him.

“Yeah,” he said, noticing the steam coming from the face of his shield as the black, putrid spray liquefied quickly and ran down, dripping into the black water where it sizzled on the cool pool and steamed before disappearing under the surface. “Some kind of blighted mine or bomb. Nearly boiling.”

“Glad you’re in the front then,” Ivon said with a snort, as he didn’t carry a shield.

Halvas looked ahead, noticing a few more of those boils hanging in the ceiling, differentiated from the rest of the twisted blight by the slight glowing orange-red color. He lowered his shield, slipping it off his arm as he passed it behind his back. Ivon took it without a word and held it as Halvas dropped the axe back onto his belt. He reached behind him for his shortbow, bringing it around his body and setting an arrow to the string. He drew back, the arms of the bow creaking as the tired wood sprang to life, as he sighted one of the boils down the corridor and let the arrow go.

The grey-fletched arrow struck the bulb in the ceiling, causing it to shudder and fall to the ground. Like the one before, as it plopped into the water, it started to pulse and glow and erupted a moment later, spraying chunks and fluid, this time harmlessly out of range of them.

“Nice work,” Ivon said.

Halvas crept forward as he drew and set another arrow to the string, keeping his eyes peeled for any darkspawn that might leap out of the darkness as he was now disarmed for close quarters fighting. When nothing came and when he came up upon another one of those boils in the ceiling, he lifted the bow, bent it and fired, watching the ball pulse, glow and explode.

“I can see the exit,” Halvas said, scanning the ceiling for any more of those exploding balls and not finding any. He tucked his bow back behind him, clipping it to the belt as he extended his left arm behind him. Ivon deposited his shield back onto it and he drew his axe one more. “Be ready. It’s a wide clearing.”

“I’ve got your back,” Ivon said.

They emerged from the mouth of the cave and came to what appeared to be an old crossroads, judging by the wayfinding sign sticking up out of the muck in front of them. The blight was not as heavy here, but back to the north were the signs of destroyed homes. It was hard to tell with all of the flooded water, but as he walked, Halvas thought he could feel a packed road under his feet. He scanned the area, looking for any signs of darkspawn, feeling out with his sixth sense for them, and finding nothing in the immediate area. He lowered his shield and relaxed for a moment, gazing around the clearing between the high cliffs.

Ivon looked off to the north as he lowered his hammer. “Looks like that was destroyed well before the blight showed up.”

“Yeah,” Halvas agreed. “These people have seen hard times.”

“Hard times make hard people here in the Anders,” Ivon said. That was clearly true, based on Halvas’ time in and around the nation. The Anderfels was full of small, remote villages, always just clinging to life, and yet, the people who lived there would die before they ever considered leaving. It was their land, their home, and no drought, famine or Blight would ever displace them willingly.

There were no darkspawn nearby that he could sense, but there was something else, a tugging on his consciousness, unalike darkspawn but familiar and alluring. He recognized it even though it felt foreign, or because it felt foreign. That was not the usual blight. That was the sound, the sensation of the new blight. He had first felt it at Weisshaupt, as the primordial darkspawn had attacked and as their goddess-twisted tendrils of blight had snaked across the fortifications.

It was a thumping, a drumming, almost like a heartbeat inside his head, strong and steady, the beat underlying some greater symphony. He turned his head toward the south, the pulse coming from that direction, past an archway of stone at the top of a small slope. Whatever it was, it was strong, too strong to be ignored.

“Do you feel that?” Halvas asked Ivon, wondering if his companion sensed it too.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” the dwarf said. “What is that?”

“I don’t know,” Halvas said as his feet began to move toward it, even though he didn’t remember telling them to walk. Still, once he realized he was heading that way, he didn’t stop himself. He instead lifted his shield again and drew back his axe, continuing cautiously along. Ivon was close behind him, judging by the gentle splashing of water as their boots moved through the floodwater.

The sensation grew more intense as he grew closer, the drumming growing louder and clearer, so much so that it almost felt like the ground was vibrating under his feet. His heart started to race, an unbidden excitement that spread out from his chest into his limbs. It was not unlike the feeling he would get when he had been away for a long time and the walls and towers of Weisshaupt came into view over the horizon. It was a homecoming, the relief at a return home, to safety and rest. Yet, whatever it was out there that was pulling them toward it was the almost certainly the opposite of the security of home. The blight on the cliff faces was growing thicker, and it had clumped up so much around the stone archway that it nearly blocked the passage to whatever lay behind.

As Halvas reached the pass, he drew back his arm and hacked with his axe, cutting away chunks of the blighted tentacles that snaked to open a wider entry under the arch. The blackened tendrils and rot fell away and he could almost feel and hear them screaming through his extra perception as they broke apart. When the way was clear enough, Halvas wedged his shield into the opening and gave a push, bursting through to the other side. The shorter Ivon had less issue following him as they stood at the top of the slope.

Before them, tucked in between the cliffs, was what Halvas could tell had once been a verdant grove, but now was overrun with blight that had killed, corrupted and twisted the wooden bones of the trees that remained. The land, like everywhere else, was wet and flooded, as the blight wove up the cliffs and snaked through the branches of the dead trees.

Now with the blighted grove in sight, he could pinpoint where the drumming, the humming was coming from. In the center of the grove was a titan of an old tree, at least a hundred feet high in the air with long, strong, branches now stripped of all their leaves and life. The skeleton tree, however, still stood as a stalwart guardian of the grove, even as its branches now were home to nests of bulbous blight instead of birds, and instead of leaves there were drooping sheets of black filth curling down from the canopy. Whatever was calling them, it was coming from within that tree, and whatever the blight had done to it.

But the tree was not the only sensation that touched his mind as they entered the grove, as he now felt multiple smaller, chittering, buzzes within his blight sense.

“Darkspawn,” Halvas said, even though he didn’t need to, as he was sure a seasoned warrior like Ivon felt them.

The darkspawn felt them, too, as the shambling corpses that were skulking through the water suddenly raised up, as if they could smell the scent of live flesh on the wind, and turned all at once toward the top of the hill. They screeched and pointed their grey, dead limbs up, calling out in alarm at the intrusion to their blighted grove.

They were answered by a loud roar, a great bellow that shook the limbs of the dead tree, causing the blighted tendrils to sway in the air, as the misshapen gray ogre lumbered out from behind the sentinel tree.

“Shit,” Ivon said as he hoisted his hammer and came to Halvas’ side.

“We can’t let that ogre live,” Halvas said. “If it makes its way to Lavendel, it will be a problem.”

“Right,” Ivon said. “You deal with the little ones. I’ll distract the big guy. Just don’t leave me hanging out there.”

“Be careful,” Halvas advised.

Ivon snorted. “I was killing ogres while you were still hugging trees with your elves.”

“You’re younger than me,” Halvas reminded him.

“Yeah, which makes it even more impressive,” Ivon boasted with a laugh. “In war, victory!”

“Victory!” Halvas echoed as a battle cry as he reached to his hip, pulled his marpelwood horn and placed it to his lips, blowing out long, deep, clear blast to draw the attention of the darkspawn in the grove. It worked, as they all turned toward him, ignoring Ivon as the dwarf cut a looping path around the right to get around the flank of the ogre. Halvas dropped his axe back at his left hip and passed his shield to his right arm, reaching across his body to pull the sword from his right hip, better for dealing with small, weak spawn like these.

As the first of the monster closed on him, he brushed his thumb across the thick crossguard of the sword, the touch activating the rune that lay in the center of it. As the rune lit, tendrils of flame snaked up the blade, the clean and oiled steel shining brightly as a beacon in the gloom-darkened grove. If these darkspawn feared the flame, they didn’t show it as they continued to charge, either too conditioned to kill or too ignorant to know the danger.

The first lunged at him and Halvas timed the strike, throwing his arm out to deflect it at just the right moment, staggering the spawn as it stumbled backward from the impact. Halvas wasted no time following through, stepping forward and bringing the sword heavy over his left shoulder, slashing down and through the monster, striking its ribs and separating it on a diagonal as the flaming sword tore out the opposite side hip. As the tip of his sword touched down onto the ground, he stopped and tore his momentum back to his left side, a heavy horizontal slash that crushed another darkspawn that was coming on top of him before it had a chance to extend its claws to strike. It wailed as it was thrown away, engulfed in flame, thrashing wildly until the fire consumed it and it splashed down into the black water with a hiss.

Halvas picked up his gait, ducking behind his shield as he charged forward into the grove, lining up the next darkspawn in his way and driving it down, using the shield to batter it back until he smashed into and trampled over it, stepping down hard with his plated boot to crush the rotted skull beneath his heel as if he were crushing eggs underfoot. He drew his shield out to his side, closing on the next, bringing it across his body and using the edge to smash into the flank of the next in line, knocking it down to the ground where his sword quickly followed, piercing its chest and twisting, tearing diseased flesh.

These new blighted spawn were weaker than a hurlock, less durable than a genlock and slower than a shriek. As he had cut through their horde at Weisshaupt, holding the line for as long as he could to buy the Wardens a chance to escape, the danger in them came not from their actual prowess but simply from their numbers. They were a horde, a swarm, their strength in numbers and the hope of overwhelming their opponent. But one at a time, Halvas could stand and pick them apart one by one almost indefinitely, he felt.

He pushed down the slope and deeper into the grove, slaying the fifth, the sixth, the seventh, the eighth. He had cleared a path to where the ogre was engaged with Ivon, the giant beast bellowing as it threw clumps of exploding rot at the dwarf, who rolled out of the way and continued circling the grove, keeping enough space between him and the great beast.

“Ogre!” Halvas called out as he drew his right arm back, loosening his grip on his shield and whipping it forward, the heavy kite spinning in air like a disc as it struck the flank of the monster, causing it to turn and regard its new foe. Free of the shield, Halvas reached back down to his left side, hoisting the axe into his now-empty right hand.

The ogre took the bait, lowering its horned head and turning its back to Ivon. It charged forward toward Halvas, just as fast and reckless as any traditional ogre. He waited, judging the speed and the distance, and when the moment was upon him, he dodged right, raking across the left side of the ogre with his flaming sword and leaving a deep gash along its side.

The ogre crashed into one of the rotted trees, exploding the stump into splinters and roared, turning back and leaping, its giant, heavy fists over its head. Halvas stepped back out of the way as the ogre crashed down in front of him, shaking the ground, as he swung out his fiery sword in front of him, not with any intent to strike but merely to keep the gap between them. The ogre straightened and roared, drawing its right arm back at the shoulder to lay down a heavy punch at him. But as he bent back, he had forgotten about the smaller dwarf on the field.

Ivon drew back his heavy hammer and swung hard, the blunt two-hander smashing into the back of the ogre’s left knee. The impact caused the joint to buckle with a sickening crunch, causing the ogre to stagger and fall forward as it could no longer stand on the shattered limb. As it fell down into the muck, using its arms to catch it before it fell completely, Halvas knew his opening and darted in, driving the axe into the downed left arm. The ogre recoiled in pain at the hard blow, drawing its torso up from the ground, just high enough to give Halvas access underneath it as he pointed the tip of his sword up and drove it into the soft flesh of the neck, slamming the sword forward until it buried down to the hilt. The flames flared around the open wound, scorching the throat as the ogre flailed, trying to grab at the blade wedged in it.

Before it could find the hilt of the blade as Halvas rolled backward, now bereft of both his weapons he left wedged in the ogre’s flesh, Ivon bounded up the back of the beast as if he were scaling stone until he stood behind the shoulders.

The dwarf pulled his heavy hammer up over his head and roared as he slammed it down, smashing through the ogre’s skull and exploding its blood, brains and eyes out of the front of its head. The ogre toppled to the ground, Ivon skillfully maintaining his balance on its back as it fell to the ground and bounced with a splash as it hit the water.

The dwarf lifted his hammer and smashed it down again, crushing what was left of the ogre’s skull, just to ensure that it was dead.

Halvas measured his breaths, coming out on the other side of the battle. His hand was on the knife at his belt as he scanned the grove, looking for other darkspawn. He saw none. His blight sense felt none. The only thing he could sense was the constant drumming beat of the blighted tree and nothing else.

Ivon dismounted the ogre and splashed down into the black water, shaking his hammer to try to rid the face of the bits of ogre blood and bone that clung to it. He dipped it under the surface of the water and agitated it, pulling it up clean. He gave a satisfied nod and threw the hammer back over his shoulder.

As Halvas watched, the ogre before them had almost instantly started to liquefy, losing its structure and dissociating into black sludge as if it were ice left out in the sun on a scorching day. As it fell apart, nearly gone after less than half a minute, Halvas’ weapons sank in the muck until they slipped under the water. The flame rune extinguished as the sword hit the flood and submerged under the surface.

“That’s unsettling,” Ivon said as Halvas stepped forward cautiously, reaching down into the water to retrieve his weapons.

“These darkspawn are strange,” Halvas said. “It’s almost like they’re barely formed, barely corporeal. Did you see at Weisshaupt how they just rose out of those pools of blight?”

“Yeah,” Ivon said with a shudder. “That’s not right. I know where darkspawn come from. I’ve seen it, watched genlocks come sliding out of a broodmother’s twat before. Enough to give a man nightmares for life, Steelshield, but that’s where the ‘spawn come from. At least where they’re supposed to come from.”

“And when you kill them, they leave a body,” Halvas said, glancing back to where he had slain the smaller ones. There were no corpses, no sign that he had cut his way through anything at all.

Halvas went to go collect his shield, sheathing his weapons as he picked up his guard and slipped it back onto his left arm. He looked around the rocks and at the dead trees around them again. But the great tree beckoned, beating in his mind. He walked around the grove for a bit, trying to ignore it, noticing that there were other passages heading out of the low area.

“We should be getting back, Ivon,” Halvas said. “Wildswalker will want to know about the ogre, and this tree.”

There was no answer, only quiet in the grove, and the thumping in his head. “Ivon?”

Still no answer. Halvas picked up his pace, walking back out to the clearing, where he spotted Ivon sitting on a stone outcrop, his hammer resting down on the ground, and his neck craned upward toward the branches of the great tree. His mouth hung slightly open as he stared blankly up at its corrupted canopy.

“Ivon,” Halvas called out for a third time, a bit louder and more directly. That caused the dwarf to snap out of his head and turn to regard him.

“Huh?” Ivon asked, sounding almost disoriented.

“What are you doing?” Halvas asked, his curiosity growing. It wasn’t like Ivon to suddenly lose focus, especially not in the middle of a battlefield. Although it was clear for the moment, this wasn’t a safe place.

“I was just looking at this tree,” Ivon said, lifting a finger to point at its barren and blighted boughs.

“What about it?” Halvas asked, looking at the tree again, but not seeing anything that would draw his attention like that.

“Just,” Ivon said, craning his neck up again, his eyes sweeping over it. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s covered in blight, Ivon,” Halvas  reminded him. It might have been beautiful once, when the land was clean and the sky was clear and it bore a full crown of leaves. But now, it was just a skeleton, covered in lumps of rot and sheets of filth.

“Is it?” Ivon said, his mouth falling slightly open in what looked like awe.

“Yeah, don’t you see it?” Halvas asked, suddenly growing more concerned for his friend as the pulsing in his head grew suddenly more apparent. Behind it, he could hear that music, the sound of the blight, calling him. Halvas tried to push it out of his head, wanting to get out of this grove, now, as quickly as possible.

“Hmmm,” Ivon said, sounding as if he didn’t see it. “Still, it’s beautiful to me.”

“We need to get back, before the others come looking for us,” Halvas said.

Ivon didn’t move, as he still looked at the tree, entranced by it. Even as Halvas walked over, up next to him, he didn’t turn his head away from the dead boughs. Halvas turned his head up toward where Ivon was looking and could hear the heartbeat in his head. It was low and slow, steady and even, and somewhat comforting. He suddenly felt the urge to sit, to just take a moment to rest in the shadow of its limbs.

As he started to lower himself to the stone shelf where Ivon was sitting, his hand brushed against the horn at his hip, the marpelwood horn that sounded with the deep, proud call of the halla. Blow your horn if you’re in trouble. The memory of Greta’s warning crossed his consciousness and he recoiled, standing back up. He looked up at the tree, seeing the pulsing clumps of blight stuck in its branches, the black rot that stretched over the bark. The drumming seemed to grow in volume in his head, as if it rose to try to beat other thought out of his head.

“Ivon,” Halvas said again, his hand reaching down to shake the dwarf violently by the shoulder. “We need to get away from this tree. Now.”

The dwarf’s mouth twitched and his eyes narrowed, as if he was thinking about resisting, but then gave his head a shake and stood up, picking up his heavy hammer. He spared one more look at the great tree, then gestured with his thumb back toward the archway that brought them into the grove and started to walk.

The thrumming in their heads grew weaker as they climbed back up the slope, ducked under the arch and headed back toward Lavendel.

Chapter Text

Four

Halvas tried to ignore the buzz in the air as the rest of the Wardens fawned over Thorne as he arrived in town.

He had stopped to talk with Evka and Antoine when he first arrived, surveyed the Grey Warden camp, talked with Holden and his daughter Mila, and then set out around Lavendel to get a lay of the land. Some of the other Wardens were following him around like newborn puppies, yipping at his heels. Halvas shook his head at them as the young Wardens went in tow, and instead stayed focused on the edge of his sword as he honed the blade. 

The sword had been getting plenty of use over the last few days, as it sheared through darkspawn on just about every patrol they set out on. The blight didn’t seem like it was encroaching any further toward the town at the moment, which was a good news both for their survival and the survival of the townsfolk, but at the same time, no matter how many darkspawn they put down, when they went out the next day, it was as if nothing had happened the day before. No one could figure out where they were coming from – they weren’t coming from some crevice or crack or Deep Roads entrance because there were none around on any maps or charts of the Anders and no one had seen anything within a five-mile radius of Lavendel.

Halvas had reported how the darkspawn seemed to just emerge from the pools of blight and how, when killed, they seemed to liquefy right back into it. He wasn’t the only one who had noticed that either, as the other Wardens who were out battling the darkspawn every day had seen it too. If this was some type of new blight and if the darkspawn were capable of forming from the pools of the taint, then would there ever be an end to them? Or, Halvas and the others he had talked to had wondered, if you killed enough of them, would they eventually exhaust whatever raw material was spawning them? They had no definitive answer to that question yet.

It had become clear after less than a week in the Lavendel marshes that the glowing red boils that swelled up from the ground were important. As long as they remained, it seemed as if the darkspawn had no end – one of the other scouting parties had fought them for nearly an hour, testing the hypothesis, before fatigue threatened to overwhelm them and they burst the blighted boil. Once it was gone, the darkspawn stopped too. That was an important discovery and a good sign that gave them hope of ending this blight. That was, until they went out the next day and found another one of those boils on the moors in a different location, still belching more darkspawn around it.

Halvas and Ivon always found more darkspawn in the blighted grove. The darkspawn seemed to be drawn there, the same way that the tree seemed to beckon to the two of them to come to it. Ivon, in particular, was almost completely entranced by the tree. On the positive side, he fought like an absolute demon to purge the grove of any darkspawn that were lingering there, with a fury in his eyes and the swing of his hammer that spoke of his intense hatred. On the negative side, whenever they cleared the grove, his gaze would turn toward the tree and it was growing increasingly difficult to tear him away from it.

More concerning was the fact that Halvas had managed to convince Greta to come with him one afternoon, after their patrol had cleared the area, to show her. When they entered the grove and Halvas pointed out the tree to her and asked what she thought, all she could say was that she saw a tall, dead tree, sick with blight. When he had asked if she sensed anything unusual from it, she said no. When he asked if he she thought the tree was beautiful, as Ivon often called it, she scrunched her face in confusion and asked if he was feeling well. He shook off the question, thanked her, and quickly returned to their stronghold. 

Later that night, he had sought out Augustin, who the younger wardens affectionately called “Gramps.”  Augustin was a mage from Starkhaven and had joined the Wardens after the Circle tower there burned in 9:31. He was a senior enchanter in the tower at the time and, when the fire that destroyed the tower had started and many of the young mages had escaped, the Templars accused him of aiding them despite the fact that he had not fled and immediately turned himself over to the Chantry. He had been imprisoned pending an investigation, when the Wardens came to Starkhaven from an expedition into the Deep Roads under the Marches. Their leader was a savvy recruiter and always took time to stroll the local prison block to see who was locked up there, and a fifty-year-old senior enchanter from the Circle certainly caught his eye. He invoked the Rite of Conscription and rescued Augustin from Templar injustice, although the price in exchange was his life in service to the Wardens. For a man who was aware of what the Blight had just done to the south in Ferelden, he took the cup gladly.

That put Augustin at more than twenty years with the Wardens, and although he had missed the Fifth Blight just barely, the taint was more likely to quicken in him due to his advanced age. There was no exact time limit for one to experience their Calling – some barely made twenty years and some lucky ones might make it to thirty, although around twenty-five seemed to be a general average – and so Halvas had gone to him, discreetly, to ascertain whether he, too, might have started to hear the call of the blight.

The old man had taken no time at all to see through Halvas’ awkward questioning, although he swore to keep the secret to himself. A Warden’s Calling was their own business, not a matter for gossip among his peers, and each man had to come to terms with it themself and decide their course of action. Halvas thanked him for it, but the old man was able to offer little more than his silence and his sympathy. Despite having crossed seventy years of age, Augustin pledged that he had felt no sign of the call yet. That being said, he was well-attuned to the sensation of the blight, and he was more than willing to share that what he felt out among the wetlands was so unalike the blight he had felt for the entirety of his two decades of service.

Without walking into the center of town and announcing to all of his comrades that he was experiencing the early signs of his Calling, Halvas was left at an impasse. Outside of Ivon, he wasn’t aware of anyone else in camp who was suffering the growing pull of the taint and, therefore, had no way to further test his curiosity about the blighted tree in the grove.

He had considered asking Tomasz to reassign Ivon, to get him away from that grove, but had decided against it. He knew Wildswalker would want a reason why, and Halvas wouldn’t be able to give one without betraying his friend’s secret. So, they continued to range out day after day, patrolling the caves, the old crossroads and the blighted grove, before circling back and returning to Lavendel.

That left Halvas at the east wall, sharpening his blade, watching as Rook went from house to house, talking to the townsfolk and stopping to check their meager shops. As Rook stopped to talk to Ilona, their quartermaster, and check her collection of accessories for anything that might aid him, Halvas managed to lock eyes with the only other Warden who traveled with him as part of his self-styled “Veilguard.”

“ Anath ara, lethalin ,” Halvas called out as the man approached, greeting him in the elvish tongue. “Halvas, of Clan Ista.”

“Davrin,” the Warden introduced himself, without a clan name, although Halvas already knew him by reputation. “I’ve heard of that name. You’re the one they call ‘Elfhorn,’ right?”

Halvas turned his hip slightly to show the marpelwood horn that rested there as he paused from sharpening his blade. “And many other things. Although I wonder what they’ll call you, as I hear you were the one who killed Razikale.”

Davrin shifted uncomfortably but didn’t back down from the accomplishment. “I did.”

“And you’re not dead,” Halvas said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t know,” Davrin said.

The answer was honest. When there was a Blight, it was the duty of the Wardens to fight it, to hunt and kill the archdemon. Only a Warden was capable of killing an archdemon. When that final blow struck, when the life left the corrupted dragon and the taint sought a new host, the corruption destroyed the Warden it reached. So how did Davrin strike a killing blow against Razikale and live to tell about it?

Nothing about this Blight was right. Everything was upside down.

“How’s working with Thorne?” Halvas asked instead, changing the subject.

“An adventure,” Davrin said, looking over his shoulder. “And not always a good one.”

“Keep him grounded,” Halvas said. “I’ve trained a lot of young Wardens who felt like they were invincible. Most of them didn’t live to see Weisshaupt fall, for better or worse.”

Halvas had heard stories about his younger days as a Warden. Davrin had come to the Wardens with a reputation as a monster hunter. He had some good kills in his days after wandering abroad from his clan, and that might have given a young fighter a big head and a bigger mouth – like Thorne – but Davrin had approached his duty with the Wardens with a sense of humility and purpose. He didn’t join the Wardens to seek glory. He joined the Wardens to protect people from the dark and scary things in the world. That was the right reasoning to adopt at the right time.

Halvas himself, well, he wished he had been as mature in his youth, when the Wardens put the cup to his mouth and when he drank it to gain its power. That he had made it this far he might once have attributed to the protection of the goddess, except now he knew Ghilan’nain for the monster and imposter that she was.

“I’ll try,” Davrin said. He might have even meant it, Halvas thought, even though he suspected the job of corralling in Rook was an impossible one. 

Halvas might like to get Thorne under his wing for a year, drag him through the most wretched holes the Anderfels could provide and see how much arrogance he had when he emerged having not seen the sun for months, half-starved and covered in a permanent sheen of darkspawn blood and shit. That might fix his attitude and give him a little more perspective about the seriousness of his duties. He had gotten away with being reckless and playing the hero a few times before, but that kind of luck always caught up with a person, usually somewhere between an ogre’s fist and the ground and with the sounds of crunching and squishing in the middle of it.

Unfortunately that was time Halvas knew he now didn’t have, even if he could have found a way to shackle Rook to his wrist.

Halvas looked and noticed that Rook was talking to Greta – they had been joined at nearly the same time, and were peers – and shot a disapproving glare in their direction but didn’t say anything. When Davrin followed his gaze and saw that Rook was moving on, he offered his farewell.

“Duty calls.”

“Davrin,” Halvas called as his fellow Warden turned away. The Dalish monster hunter turned back. His vallaslin was in a slightly different style, but he wore Ghilan’nain’s mark on his face too. Halvas wondered what the revelation might be doing to him, but didn’t have time to probe it. “Good work at Weisshaupt. Stay safe out there.”

“I’ll try,” he offered and then went to rejoin his companion.

When Davrin left, Greta came over to replace him, smiling and laughing to herself. It was good to see her smiling, although he didn’t care for the fact that it was because of Rook. She was a good Warden, with a good head and a good heart. He was the type of person she needed to stay away from.

“How’s the boy hero?” Halvas said as he ran the whetstone across the edge of the blade once more and lifted it up, eyeing it in the dim and the firelight, before resting it back across his lap.

“As confident in himself as the day we met,” Greta said with a chuckle.

“Overconfident, some would say,” Halvas said as he slipped the sword back into its sheath and set it aside. That kind of overconfidence always ended up with the boy thinking he was going to end up a hero in a bard’s heroic epic but usually ended up with his name in a funeral dirge.

“Some like you?” Greta asked with a smirk.

“Yes, some like me,” Halvas said with little humor. “You’d be smart to avoid him.”

“Everyone else around Lavendel seems smitten with him,” Greta said.

“Everyone else hasn’t seen dozens like Rook dead in the Deep Roads because they couldn’t listen to people older and more experienced than them,” Halvas reminded her.

He didn’t need to lecture her. Even if she remembered better days as acolytes with Thorne, she hadn’t followed in his footsteps. She had been a good student and respected the chain of command. It was why she had a posting as lieutenant here and the trust of every Warden who served to her left and right as opposed to living out what was effectively a banishment. When the Wardens recovered from this disaster, he expected she would have a bright future in its leadership. The song in the back of his head reminded him, however, that he wouldn’t be around to see it.

“What’s Rook doing out there anyway?” Halvas asked. The Wardens had the area secured. They didn’t need Thorne out there running around stirring up any trouble, since trouble seemed to follow him wherever he went.

“He’s gathering some kind of samples for Antoine. He’s almost got a blight lab going up there in the fort. Jars filled with all kinds of disturbing things,” she shuddered at the thought. “Rook was also going to head up to Gaspin Manor. That local, Bastien, was talking his ear off.”

“That place is cursed,” Halvas said with a snort. Some of the Wardens had gone out there and ran afoul of demons, not darkspawn, and turned home. They had enough problems without tinkering with twisted spirits and a weak Veil. But it was exactly like Thorne to hear about such a place and then go rushing headfirst into it.

“He’s convinced he’ll solve the mystery,” Greta said with an amused smirk as she halfway rolled her eyes. Halvas cracked the smallest of smiles at that, at least.

In his younger days with the Dalish, Halvas was not so different. He learned the only way cocky adventurers ever learned better – the hard way.

When he had taken that Joining cup, when he had felt the strength of the Wardens coursing in his veins, he had been ready to sweep the Hunterhorns and kill any and every darkspawn he could find. He was ready to descend into the Deep Roads, hunt their nests and destroy them. But the senior Wardens who had joined him and who had counseled him had held him back – much to his frustration at the time – and showed him what being a Grey Warden was truly about. It was not about slaughtering darkspawn. It was about vigilance, about patience, about strength in wisdom rather than solely in strength of arms. They had kept him safe, kept him alive. 

They had forged him into the Warden he was today, a Warden who had lived long enough to reach his Calling.

Halvas took up his shield and set it across his knees, picking up his dirty rag and pouring a little of the metal polish into it. The old shield was as beaten up and scarred as his face, but while he was certainly not winning any beauty contests nowadays, the least he could do for the old guard that had kept him safe all these years was to make it look as nice as it could, despite its condition.

The shield was a mark of pride for him. It was an emblem to those young Wardens, an icon that spoke of the duty they had forsworn, a symbol of strength for any who laid eyes upon it. The many scratches and dings in its face told the story of what being a Warden meant, to stand before the enemy and never falter, never surrender, to shield the nations of Thedas from the darkspawn and never break. As he wiped its face, scrubbing off the darkspawn filth from the steel and shining it back into the beacon that it was, he pondered what might become of it when he was gone. Should he carry it with him to his final reckoning, or should he bequeath it to another, someone who would understand and uphold the legacy it had written on his arm?

He set the thought aside for now. Those were dark thoughts, and Lavendel was dark enough without pondering such weighty questions.

“Have you seen Ivon?” Halvas asked. “Missed him at breakfast. We’ve got a patrol at dusk and I haven’t seen him. Usually he’s down at the forge with a bottle bothering Clara, but she hasn’t seen him today either, which is odd.”

“Haven’t seen him,” Greta said. “I’ll keep an eye out though.”

That didn’t sit well with him, especially as he could feel the pulling in the back of his mind. His patrol was growing near and it was almost as if the blighted tree could sense the hour and knew that he was coming. The drumming in the distance could almost prickle the skin on the back of his neck.

He could feel an unease in the taint today, strange as all things with this blight were. While normally the darkspawn and the blight felt uniform, a single collective made up of the drones and the corruption that sustained them, since coming to Lavendel it had felt like there were several competing conversations, overlapping and fighting one another. Sometimes they almost seemed to align in harmony, while other times they intersected and clashed with each other so much that it could almost elicit pain to try to listen in to it. While a Warden could tune in to the consciousness of the darkspawn, to track their movements or trace them back to their nest or broodmother, trying that in the wetlands seemed to lead nowhere. You could follow one thread and find it leading to nowhere significant, or to lose the trail midway along while following it only to feel another path pulsing strongly in a wildly different direction, only for it to suddenly and inexplicably disappear.

One constant Halvas had felt was the tree, always thrumming, always beckoning, always pulling toward the blighted grove. But even then, Greta had not felt it at all, while Ivon could barely tear himself away from it.

The only other constant in his life now was the quiet music, sweet but distant, never going away but growing a little louder and more prominent every day. Even as he wiped his shield, he found his arm moving in rhythm with it, the swish swish of the rag following the ups and downs of the song, even when he recognized it and tried to stop, he could only delay it for a time before he fell back into its ebb.

And the question, now rising to the forefront of his mind – where was Ivon?

Chapter Text

Five

“Wardens coming in! We’ve got wounded!”

The commotion was coming from the south gate and the glade. When Halvas had first heard the shouting and heard the horn from the wall, he had run over, sword in hand, expecting an attack. Instead, Augustin and his men had opened the way for a group of Wardens who were stumbling in.

“What happened?” Augustin asked as they limped in.

At their lead was the new recruit Julius, his blue shirt stained with black blood and his face showing fresh scratches. He was helping to carry another man, whose arm was wrapped over his shoulder and who carried a deep gash in his abdomen. Halvas recognized the man, that was Beckett and he was covered in blood, most of it looking like his own. His face was ashen and sagging. Along with them were four other Wardens in varying states of injury. One of the men had his helm smashed in on the left side, the metal dented so deeply that he couldn’t get the thing off of his head. He was lucky to still be conscious after taking a blow from whatever had been strong enough to do that.

“They went out secretly before dawn to seek vengeance on the darkspawn for Weisshaupt,” the former mayor said, his voice gruff and tired from the effort of carrying his comrade back. “I saw them skulking around the camp and followed them out. Good that I did, because they bit off a hell of a lot more than they could chew. Helped cut them a way off the old swamp road and made it into a ruin, but then the blight swallowed the entry and had trapped us there between the darkspawn and the black water. We were stuck there ‘til Rook came through and cut us a way out, Maker bless him.”

Flynn the healer was there and so was Ilona, who on top of serving as quartermaster was also the medic for the order. She had the rank and split the injured, sending the more lightly wounded with the young healer while she had some of the others carry Beckett back toward her camp.

As they broke apart, Halvas stepped in and grabbed Julius by the arm.

“Who’s idea was that?” he asked harshly.

“Beckett, I think, Joiner,” the mayor said. “I overheard him with the others. Couldn’t cope with the fact that he lived at Weisshaupt and the others died. Felt he needed to prove himself, to pay back the darkspawn for what they did. Nearly got him and the others killed. If I hadn’t followed them, Maker, I don’t want to think what might have happened.”

Beckett wasn’t a hothead like Thorne. He came from a good family in eastern Orlais and had served in the Orlesian army during the Civil War ten years back. He earned his way up to captain, had his own company of men to look after. He might have continued to serve and advance, except for the problem that he had been fighting on the wrong side of the succession crisis. When Grand Duke Gaspard had lost his head, Beckett had lost his commission when the empress purged the army of his former commanders. With his command stripped from him, he had joined with the Inquisition to keep up the fight in his homeland.

It was in the Inquisition where he had met with the Wardens and had ultimately decided to take his oaths. They had sent him north to the Anderfels and Halvas had the honor of joining him. He had come with two others from Orlais. All three had made it, but Beckett was the only one assigned to stay at Weisshaupt, the others were sent abroad to the Free Marches. He was still young, but he had served well. The others called him “Captain,” and they trusted his instinct in the field.

With the gate shut and no danger behind them, Halvas sheathed his sword and stomped back through town, his boots splashing in the water in the streets as he headed back toward the east gate. Ilona had cleared out one of the nearby lean-tos and was working on her patient who was lying on the ground. Beckett was groaning loudly as Ilona cleaned and inspected his wounds and bandaged him up. Halvas sat in his position atop the wall, eyes turned toward the lean-to and not the caves, until finally Ilona emerged from under the roof, her hands and arms stained red from her labor.

She exchanged some words with her assistant who ran off on some errand, wiped her brow with the mostly clean forearm on her left arm, and then walked off, presumably to clean herself up, leaving her patient alone. When she had gone, Halvas got up and quickly strode over, glancing left and right to make sure he wasn’t followed.

Beckett’s midsection was wrapped and he was lying on his back, his hands folded over his abdomen and his eyes closed. His mouth was caught in a grimace, lips quivering as he tried to bear the pain. Ilona had stitched up a wide gash across the right side of his face, one that would leave a nasty scar when it healed, a reminder of the day he almost died while out doing something reckless.

Halvas stepped over him, feet straddling the young Warden, as he bent and grabbed Beckett’s shirt at the breast, clenching it tightly as he crouched down, shaking the man awake. Beckett’s face twisted in pain and his eyes shot out, filled with fear.

“What were you thinking?” Halvas demanded, his anger flaring as he gave the young man a shake. “You trying to get yourself killed?”

“Whetstone, I–”

Halvas didn’t wait for him, giving him another shake that caused him to grimace once more. “You could have got yourself killed! You could have got the others killed! What possessed you to do something so stupid?”

Beckett didn’t even try to explain himself now, recognizing that Halvas wasn’t going to hear him even if he tried. Instead he started weeping, which only made Halvas shake him again and shout at him to stop. He couldn’t, though, as he gibbered, as Halvas throttled him, shaking him back and forth by the hold on his shirt as if he was trying to rattle some sense back into his head.

“Halvas! What are you doing?” Ilona’s voice was a shout behind him, and he felt her hand on his shoulder pulling him back. He let go of Beckett, the younger man flopping back to the threadbare mat, wailing in both pain and woe. Halvas stood up and backed off as Ilona pulled him away and back outside.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked, now chiding him. Elona was one of the few elves left. She had grown up in the alienage in Denerim. She was just a girl when the plague hit during the Fifth Blight, and she was one of dozens of elves who were rounded up by Tevinter mages who came to Ferelden promising a cure but had only instead been a front for a slaving operation. She was taken north to Tevinter as a child and had lived in bondage for seven years after being purchased by an alchemist in Vyrantium.

She had been freed when Tevinter officially denounced the illicit scheme as a diplomatic show of faith to the statesmen of the reconstructed Ferelden – more due to their interest in re-establishing legitimate trade with Denerim than any actual regret for absconding with a bunch of city elves – and identified those elves from Denerim who had been listed on the slave manifests. Once freed, she had done legitimate work for pitiable wages as a Liberati at an alienage hospice, where she had treated a wounded Warden returning from a Deep Roads sortie. She had been impressed with Ilona’s work and offered her a chance at a new life, one that came with great purpose at the cost of great sacrifice.

“Forgive me, healer,” Halvas said, snapping himself out of his own wrath. The music in his head swelled up, pleased almost as he gave into his animalistic rage.  He lifted his hands before his chest as a sign that he had calmed himself. “I… I was reminded of dark times from my own past. I lost control of myself. I have no excuse for my behavior.”

Ilona glared disapprovingly, but then sighed and waved it off. She looked exhausted, as all the Wardens in Lavendel did. Her face was drawn, her eyes heavy and ringed in dark circles. She had treated many casualties from Weisshaupt, and she had closed the eyes on too many of them before sending them to pyre.

“These are hard times, for all of us, as hard on the mind as the body,” she said, speaking not just for the Wardens she served, but no doubt for herself too. “You of all people should know better.”

“Apologies,” Halvas said, bowing his head shamefully. “Beckett, he is one that I joined. They… I think of them like my children, sometimes, for both the good and ill.”

“Then talk to him, Elfhorn,” Ilona said. “He is suffering, as are many of our young Wardens. They look up to you. They need you more than ever for guidance, in the face of this defeat. You need to be strong, stronger than them, for them.”

With that, Ilona returned to her duties, again leaving him alone. Halvas considered going back to his post at the east wall, but his gaze was drawn back toward the open lean-to, and the wounded Warden laying on its floor. She was right. He had seen victory and defeat in equal measure. He had watched Wardens die during their joining. He had suffered losses in the Deep Roads, lost friends to claw and tooth and wicked blade. Some of these Wardens, the young ones, had never had to face the harsh reality of their service yet. And to suffer Weisshaupt as their first, they might never see such a defeat again for the rest of their lives.

Halvas stepped back under the sloped roof and looked down at Beckett, curled on his mat. He was still weeping quietly. Halvas sat down at his side, hanging his forearms over bent knees.

“I know why you did what you did,” Halvas started, staring straight ahead, at nothing.

“Long ago, back when I was still with my clan, some of the hunters and I would wander out into the mountains, looking for dwarf doors in the stone. One day, in the late autumn, we found one. It was behind some brush – in the spring or summer when things were growing, you never would have seen it, it would be hidden behind the leaves – and it was just barely cracked open. The rock had split and the door was open just enough that you could slide through. I convinced the others that we should go inside, to see what we could find.”

Galas would have followed him anywhere if he asked. He had just gotten his vallaslin and was happy to take on any sortie outside of the camp, hoping that he’d get the opportunity to prove himself as more than just the son of a father who had abandoned his clan in favor of the life of a sellsword, a drunken one, at that.

Turion didn’t want anything to do with dwarves, but any well-placed insult to his manhood could bend him to do anything. When Halvas had called him a sapsucker and suggested he run back to camp to lap up the Keeper’s nectar, he fell in line.

Fini knew it was a bad idea and tried to convince them to go home, but her attempt was half-hearted at best because she was also hoping that Halvas would choose to bond with her. She mistook his frequent presence around her as a sign that a pledge was forthcoming, when in reality he was far more interested in her younger sister Siria as soon as she passed her trials and got her vallaslin.

Valend, who was the oldest and the best of them with sword and bow, only agreed to come when Halvas declared he was going even if no one else did, and he came to try to make sure his young clanmate didn’t get himself killed. No matter how hard he tried, Halvas could not figure out how to break his guard when they sparred.

“It was a topside smuggler’s tunnel, short and narrow and roughly dug out, but it led all the way into an old thaig. When we got to the end of the tunnel, the secret door was still shut, but there were hand holds to slide it open.”

Fini had nearly begged at that point for them to turn back and Turion agreed. Halvas ignored them both while he and Galas grabbed the door and pulled it open. They crept inside, finding themselves in the back of a closet filled with musty dwarf clothes, but that led out into a lavish bedchamber. The bed was not made up, the blankets were pulled back as if someone had gotten up and not bothered to fix them.

“We found ourselves in some dwarf house, some noble, judging by all the gold that was laid into everything – the walls, the stone-hewn furniture, the doors. We wandered around for probably an hour, looking at everything, stuffing shiny trinkets in our pockets, going from room to room.

“The place was frozen in time. It looked like everything had been dropped suddenly, left in a hurry. That should have been a sign to me that this wasn’t a place to linger, but I was barely nineteen years, young and stupid and convinced I was invincible. That was, until one of my companions opened another door, not realizing that it was the front door of the estate, that opened onto the street. And, outside, on the long-abandoned streets of this forgotten thaig, was a band of darkspawn.”

His blood had run cold when he saw Galas stumbled backward, his hands clutching around the black arrow that was protruding from his chest. He didn’t even say anything, just turned, shocked as the wet blood bloomed through the front of his shirt and then collapsed on the carpet, a plume of dust rising around him as his body fell heavy and hard against the floor.

Halvas ran for the door, to try to shut it and bar it, but he was too far away and the genlocks got to the entry first. They poured into the house, snarling, trampling over the dead elf in a frenzy at the scent of elves and blood. Before he knew it, he was on his heels, backpedaling as he shot his bow at the twisted, corrupted dwarf-sized darkspawn.

Turion turned and ran, but got turned around and trapped himself in a side room. He tried to fight his way out but the genlocks overwhelmed him. One cut his legs out from under him as another jumped on top and tore his throat out with jagged, rotted teeth.

When the darkspawn got close, Halvas had drawn his sword and tried to fight them off. He remembered the first blow he checked with the blade, how much strength was behind it as he parried the strike aside and cut the monster down, sprayed in black blood.

Valend jumped to his side and for a moment it looked like they might fight them off together. They were pushing the genlocks back together, while Fini feathered the two that had felled Turion. But then Valend took an arrow to his left shoulder, then a genlock axe caught him in the right thigh and he went down to a knee. The next stroke took his head clean off his shoulders. It rolled away, frozen eyes and mouth gazing at Halvas as it rolled onto a cheek facing him.

He turned and ran, then, grabbing Fini by the wrist as they bolted back toward the secret passage with the darkspawn hot on their heels. In his fear, he sprinted past her, leaving her behind even as she called out to him to wait. He hit the narrow doorway in the closet first and wedged in. When he turned back to look, Fini was trying to crawl into the tunnel. She almost made it, before black and gray hands grabbed her and ripped her backward into the darkness.

Her terrified screams reverberated through the dead house as the darkspawn killed her, as Halvas ignored the heavy stone door – too heavy for him to close alone – and sprinted up the tunnel as fast he could. He scraped himself badly as he slipped out the narrow crack back into the hills, then tripped and rolled down the slope, slashing himself on every hardy plant and every stone on the mountainside.

He kept running, looking back often to see if the darkspawn were chasing him. When he saw none and when the sun dipped behind the horizon, covering the mountains in darkness, he finally stopped to catch his breath, coughing and sobbing and vomiting. He scratched his fingers across his bare arms, trying to flake off all of the dried black darkspawn blood that was caked on him.

He slipped into a narrow crevice and stayed away all night with his bow in his hands, his eyes frantically darting around looking for any movement in the darkness.

When the sun finally came up, he gathered his bearings and went as quickly as he could, exhausted and starved, back to the Dalish camp, the only one of five to return.

“I was the only one who survived,” Halvas continued his story to Beckett. “But I was sick, from the taint. Fever. Excruciating pain. It felt like my blood was boiling. The Keeper sent out runners to seek out the Grey Wardens, in a desperate hope that they could help me. Two days later, one came and he told me that he might be able to save my life, but that if he did, it belonged to the Wardens after that. He told me that, if I survived, I’d be changed forever. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. ”

Warden Darron was an Ander, old, gray-haired and gray-bearded, a mountain of a man with a severe face but a kindness in his eyes. Halvas was too weak, so Darron placed the cup to his lips for him and tipped it. He kept pouring, even when Halvas started to gag and he felt like his throat was on fire, as the black drink ran in streams out of the corners of his mouth as he choked and coughed it back up. He felt his throat closing as he suffocated, every muscle tensing and screaming in agony, his eyes bulging and feeling like they might pop like overripe berries in his skull, until he could take it no more and fell into darkness.

He awoke the next day, still weak, still in pain, but alive. 

The Warden said he would recover, but that his life was now forfeit to the Grey Wardens. The Keeper agreed and thanked him for his services. The next day, after Halvas had eaten, gathered what gear the clan would send with him, and said his farewells, he left the Hunterhorn Mountains in tow of his new master.

“I couldn’t understand why I was the only one who made it out of that thaig. All I wanted to do was take the Warden back to that tunnel, to go back and kill every genlock we could find,” Halvas said. “I could feel this new strength in my arms and there was so much rage, so much hate burning in my heart, and I was ready to turn it back on the darkspawn. To hurt them, like they hurt me. But Warden Darron wouldn’t listen and refused to take me.”

He had called the senior Warden shem as well as every other curse and insult he could think of in both the tongues of the elves and men. He accused him of being a coward, a weakling, an old man past his prime. Darron had finally grown tired of his mouth and drew his sword and offered a challenge – land a strike and he would turn back, back to the secret tunnel and the genlocks that had killed his friends.

Halvas flung himself wildly at his joiner, his sword flailing, swinging recklessly with all of his hate, all of his pain. Darron had barely had to move to check the blows. His heavy left fist followed, striking Halvas in the jaw and driving him into the ground. He blinked away stars, spat blood, and scraped back to his feet, howling as he attacked again. Darron’s fist connected with his face again, in nearly the same spot. Halvas staggered on his feet and the senior Warden wrenched the sword out of his hand, drove a fist into his stomach, doubling him over, then struck him behind the shoulders with the pommel on his heavy blade.

When Halvas regained consciousness, Darron had set a camp right where he had fallen in the dirt, waiting. As Halvas sat up, tasting blood on his tongue and grimacing at the swollen knot that now made up the right side of his face, the old Warden had handed his sword back to him and offered him food and water, and asked whether he was ready to listen, ready to serve, ready to learn, ready to survive, or if he wanted to go again.

Halvas made the rest of the trip to Weisshaupt in silence.

“Darkspawn don’t feel. You can kill dozens, hundreds, thousands even, like I have in my life, and it doesn’t make any difference to them. Slaughtering the darkspawn doesn’t answer those questions.”

There was a moment of quiet, punctuated only by the labored breathing of Beckett and the occasional sniffle as the tears rolled, but slowed, down the sides of his face.

“I’m sorry, Whetstone,” Beckett finally said.

“Think no more of it,” Halvas said, humbled and calmed by the memory of his own recklessness. He touched the right side of his face, remembering the sting of Warden Darron’s mailed gauntlet and feeling the ridges and crevices of the scars he had accumulated there since in his years of battling the darkspawn. This would be the day that Beckett came to truly understand his purpose, and he would emerge a better Warden on the other side of it, as Halvas had in his youth. 

“No one was killed, and we should be thankful for that. There are too few of us now to be reckless. Trust in your companions, and trust in yourself. You are here today because you are strong enough to have made it. Believe in that, and draw upon that strength. We will all need it in these harrowing days ahead.”

“I will, Whetstone,” Beckett said.

Halvas tapped him lightly on the shoulder reassuringly and then stood. “Rest now. Recover your strength.”

“Whetstone,” Beckett said weakly from the ground, lifting his hand up to stop him before he went. “There’s one other thing. Ivon, he was with us, but he broke away from our group and wasn’t with us when we were ambushed. I don’t know where he went, or if he made it out.”

“I’ll look for him,” Halvas promised with a nod, then walked away.

He knew exactly where his friend and companion had gone.

Chapter Text

Six

The former mayor was sitting on a felled log with his sword across his lap, sharpening the blade.

Halvas liked that the man had an appreciation for keeping his gear in order. That was a good sign for a new recruit, especially for one who hadn’t come from a background as a soldier, mercenary, bandit or cutthroat. As the mayor of a small waterside trading post on the outskirts of Arlathan, he was much more used to managing docks, directing cargo, overseeing a market and trying to keep the peace between the mostly human inhabitants of his town and the many Dalish who occupied the forest.

Rook had sent Julius to the Wardens, but it was unclear whether it was as a punishment or a chance at atonement. The Joining chalice had answered the question, when the man awoke on the ground after drinking from it, alive. There were many mysteries in the world Halvas would never fully understand, but over his many years entrusted with initiating new Wardens, he had come to trust in the judgment of the cup. He couldn’t always see the minds or the hearts of those he handed that poisoned drink to, but it could, and it knew. He had seen strong, brave warriors fall to its test and seen those he thought would never survive, like Julius, come out the other end.

“Joiner,” he said as he looked up from his sword. A small cookpot was bubbling behind him. There were other Wardens about but none with him. He was new to the order, and even without Weisshaupt he had not had the time to build strong bonds with any of the others yet. That wasn’t helped by his demeanor, dark and contemplative, still very obviously struggling to process the choices he had made that had led him to this point.

The people in Lavendel seemed to like him, however, even if he didn’t engage much. Whenever the man came across any bit of gold, he would find the first person he could and give it all away, passing it out of his purse quickly as if the very touch of the metal on his fingers burned him. He had adopted a self-imposed and strict vow of poverty, to the point that he shunned and looked at gold with utter disgust. After what he had done to his village, the deceitful deal he had struck with the gods in exchange for wealth, Halvas could understand him.

“You saved those men’s lives today,” Halvas said, cutting straight to the point of his visit.

“Couldn’t watch someone make a choice they’d regret,” the mayor answered, brushing the praise aside.

“Still, it needs to be said,” Halvas said with an approving nod.

“How’s Beckett?” Julius asked.

“His physical wounds will heal,” Halvas said. His mental scars, however, only time would tell.

“That’s good,” Julius said, lifting his sword close to his face to inspect the edge in the dim. “I wish I could have done more, but I’m still piss-poor excuse for a Warden with this thing.”

“Recognizing that you have more to learn is the first step toward improving,” Halvas said, imparting another line of his learned wisdom. If it was Greta, she might roll her eyes at hearing it for the thousandth time. “Seek out Kalli, up by the fort. She will train you right.”

He would have offered to do it himself, to take the new Warden under his wing and train him for half a year in the field, but he knew he didn’t have that kind of time left.

“I’ll do that, Joiner,” he said, placing the sword back on his lap and working an area he wasn’t fully pleased with.

“Beckett told me there was another who left town with them, Ivon, the dwarf. Short beard, big hammer. Did you see him?” Halvas asked, pivoting to the other point of his visit.

“No, Joiner, there was no one like that with the others.”

“As I thought,” Halvas said, confirming his suspicions about exactly where Ivon had gone. That Ivon had left before dawn and still hadn’t returned was concerning. Halvas wasn’t worried about him having been killed by darkspawn, he was too experienced and too strong a fighter to be overwhelmed by the rabble present in the marshes, even if another ogre had somehow come to the grove. That wasn’t the type of danger that worried him.

“You’ve had a trying morning, but could I interest you in a patrol? To the corrupted grove, and back. Less than an hour,” he offered.

“Not to sound ungrateful for the opportunity, but I’m not much of a fighter,” Julius answered.

“I can handle any darkspawn we might run across,” Halvas said, dispelling that concern. “But I need a second set of eyes and someone with a sharp mind,” in case I begin to lose myself under the shadow of the blighted tree, he thought, but didn’t say.

“If you think I can help, then I am at your disposal, Joiner,” Julius agreed.

“Take some time. Eat whatever it is bubbling in your pot and regather your strength. Seek me out at the east gate when you’re ready and we’ll set out.”

“This place… it’s horrible.”

Julius craned his neck upward, looking at the thick tendrils of blight that wormed over the cliffs and snaked up the trees, choking the life out of them. No doubt what he was seeing was not so different compared to what happened to his home, when he had struck that cursed deal with Ghilan’nain.

The grove was unusually abandoned. There were no darkspawn lurking about in the black pools today. Halvas reached out with his blightsense to feel for them – he didn’t trust it as wholly as he once did due to the strangeness of this new blight, which broke old, established rules wantonly – but received no return. He sheathed his sword and lowered his arm, bringing his steel shield to his side.

“Why would anyone want to come here?” Julius asked as he edged forward, cautiously, his sword still drawn out in front of him as if the arms of blight would suddenly come to life and wrap around him.

The sentinel tree in the middle of the grove answered in Halvas’ head, a steady, heavy drumming that vibrated against his consciousness.

“Do you feel anything from that tree, the big one?” Halvas asked, pointing.

“Like what?” Julius asked, which pretty much answered his question.

“Nevermind,” Halvas dismissed. “Stay alert. Keep your eyes open. Look for any sign of Ivon.”

“You’re sure he came here?” Julius asked.

“Yes,” he answered without elaborating, as he strode down into the grove, his feet sloshing into the flooded water.

It was eerie how calm and quiet the grove was today. Thorne had returned to Lavendel after Halvas had spoken to Julius but before they set out. Thorne, Davrin and his companions had swept the wetlands, clearing out dozens of darkspawn, according to their report.

The Dalish woman from Arlathan had investigated and purged a demon that had taken refuge at the bottom of the well at the old farmland. The Nevarran death mage had reported back about the curse at the abandoned manor – not a curse, but also a demon that had lured greedy treasure seekers to their doom. Thorne and his companions had burst a massive blight boil in the flooded lowlands past the grove and defeated an ogre there. And the Inquisition scout had tracked the trail of Lavendel’s healer and Flynn’s teacher, who had been missing and was, unfortunately, found dead in the cliffs.

Rook and his people were gone nearly as quickly as they had come, leaving Lavendel and the Wardens to fend for themselves once more. Thankfully, he hadn’t stirred up anything while he was out cavorting around the marsh, playing hero. What, exactly, he had come looking for, still wasn’t clear, but Commander Evka and her companion seemed pleased when he left, slipping back through the eluvian at the rear of the fort.

As Halvas looked around, what Rook hadn’t done was eliminate any of the blight. He might have cleared out darkspawn, but neither he nor any other Warden had yet figured out how to get rid of the twisting arms of rot that had webbed across the land. Nor had the darkspawn stopped regenerating, or whatever it was they were doing, that brought them back to the wetlands anew each day. No one had figured that one out either yet, and their numbers were too few to post round-the-clock surveillance on the hotspots where the darkspawn seemed to like to congregate. Their first priority was to protect Lavendel, and that required their swords and shields remain close to the town.

They had sent out pleas for assistance to the other nations of Thedas, but it would be weeks before any aid could arrive. And, if they had heard correctly from reports from Thorne, the blight wasn’t isolated to the north. The south – Ferelden and Orlais and the Free Marches – was under threat too. 

The Wardens had strongholds there, Vigil’s Keep in Amaranthine was strong and their forward forts in Ostagar were well staffed nowadays. The Inquisition had not sent the Wardens of Orlais into exile following their missteps during the Breach Crisis a decade ago, but the false calling of the ancient darkspawn Corypheus and his machinations had cost them much of their strength. The Wardens had rebuilt, but what they had lost in experienced men was replaced by young blades. The Free Marches were arguably the best off, but the Wardens there covered too much ground and the independent city states offered little in way of support outside of tall walls for Wardens to find brief respite within.

Most of their strength had been recalled to Weisshaupt anyway – a move that seemed reasonable when the First Warden had made it under the shadow of a threat of a new Blight – but one that had proven fatal as he had concentrated much of their power into one place where it had been overwhelmed and destroyed. No one living could have fathomed the destruction that Ghilan’nain had unleashed on Weisshaupt. In hindsight, another path would have been better, but any reasonable leader would have made the same call when the signs of Blight were showing in the north.

“Those are… bodies,” Julius muttered with some horror as he grew closer to the blighted tree, noticing the emaciated limbs and bombs that clung to the trunk of the tree, lashed to the tree and held in place with long ropes of black blight. Halvas had observed the same the first time he saw it, wondering at why the blight would do such a thing, and whether the tree was feeding off the death of the victims it had claimed. Like so many things with this new blight, he had no answers.

“Keep your distance,” Halvas advised. The tree had been no threat before when he and Ivon had come here – it was trying to ensnare them willingly, and not by force – but he wasn’t sure how it might act around a rookie Warden and the last thing he needed was one of theirs getting grabbed and strangled by the blight. 

Julius took the advice without hesitation and headed toward the cliffs, avoiding the black water and the blighted trees in favor of searching around the slime-slickened rocks. He kept his sword out and in his hand, walking slowly, almost half crouched, his eyes sharp and alert as he surveyed the area. Halvas spared him one look to ensure that he was alone and safe, and when convinced that he would be fine on his own for a moment, he trudged through the murky water toward the great tree.

As he grew closer, the tree seemed to notice, as the thrumming across his consciousness seemed to grow more intense. He could almost feel a warmth in the air, a calmness, and soothing. The branches of the dead tree seemed to stretch out like long fingers looking to scoop him up, embrace him and pull him close, where he would be safe and secure. The tails of blight that hung from the branches swayed like hanging willows, and the balls of blight in the boughs seemed almost like plump, juicy fruit. He felt like he could sit a while and rest under its long, powerful arms, and be at peace.

Halvas shook his head, tossing the illusion away, as if it were a pastel-colored screen that someone had pulled across his eyes. He stepped sharply back, his boots splashing the water, as he separated himself from the sphere of influence of the tree. The sound in his head grew suddenly discordant, a sharp spike that jammed inside his temples as if he was being stabbed from the inside out as he recoiled from the tree. It snapped at him like a serpent, calm and watchful but startled by a sudden movement as it lashed out in self defense. He brought a hand to the right side of his face, his fingers feeling for some sort of wound, but finding nothing.

He continued to back away, taking a wider circle away from the tree as he headed toward the stone platform, the place where Ivon always liked to sit when they came to the grove. As he grew closer, he paused for a moment, not seeing the flat, stone outcrop like a table where the dwarf always sat. Instead, the blight was bulging more widely from the wall and it looked like a fresh tumor of pinkish-orange flesh had swallowed the stone. Halvas quickly glanced around, looking at the rest of the blight and trying to remember how it looked the day before and the day before that. As far as he could remember, the blight wasn’t encroaching any further, except in this one place. As he grew closer to where the stone used to be, he stopped suddenly.

Next to the new bulb of glowing, pulsing flesh, was a large, dwarven hammer.

He stepped closer and picked it up by the haft, noticing the worn blue wrap. The head of the hammer was still caked in dried black blood, having been recently used to crush darkspawn. He turned it over, looking at the warrior’s crest of House Raed, a warrior caste house of Orzammar, who generations ago had an errant son leave topside with his true love, stolen from her father to a place where they never would follow.

Without a doubt, it was Ivon’s hammer.

Halvas looked at the dimly glowing lump of blight and he could feel it across his blightsense and hear it in his ears, pulsing like a heartbeat. He could feel the sense of calm once again emanating off the tree, a peace, a restfulness that seemed to penetrate him to his core, that touched the blackness in his blood and accepted it as its own. The music in his head swelled, not so distant and not so quiet, peaceful and beautiful.

Beautiful. That was the word Ivon had used to describe the tree. Halvas understood it now as he considered it again, closing his eyes as he listened to that music, as he focused his senses against the thump of the heartbeat in his head, until he could almost feel his body match its slow, relaxed speed. He could feel the blighted tree reaching out to him and, within it, he could feel another sensation.

Halvas reached his hand down until it touched the sac of flesh on the stone tablet where Ivon always chose to sit. It was warm, not so unlike a person’s flesh, still soft and alive, not cold and dead and rotted like a darkspawn. His fingers recoiled at the feeling, too real, too familiar, but the call across his senses forced him to return. He touched the flesh again, pushing, applying more pressure until his fingers pierced through the outer shell of flesh. It was slimy and bulbous, warm and wet, as he pushed further, fingers moving as much as they could, exploring, feeling for whatever was inside. He kept going until his entire hand had been swallowed by the blighted bulb and it began to take in his forearm. When he was nearly down to his elbow, the tips of his fingers touched something hard and cold. The stone table.

Halvas wrenched his arm, keeping his eyes closed, keeping his mind focused on the song, on the sensation, on the small bit of irregularity he could feel there, one discordant note, like a notch in a wheel that made it bump every time it revolved back to the ground. He stretched his fingers, feeling, reaching, searching for what he didn’t know. And then, his hand brushed against something else, something that wasn’t flat stone.

His hand twisted as he reached for it, running over it with his fingers until he could get a hold around it. Halvas clutched his fingers, locking onto the mystery item, the out-of-place note that he could hear in the song. As he grasped it, he pulled his arm, sliding it out of the slimy clump of flesh. As his hand emerged – the hole where it had come out closing itself as if there had not been a Warden’s arm plunged into it just a second earlier – he held his delved treasure up to his face.

The thin silver chain dangled with the small silver amulet hanging at the bottom, a small locket with a face of glass, and inside, a few drops of black darkspawn blood. The Warden’s Oath. Every Warden wore one. Those who survived never took them off willingly. Those who failed their Joining had them placed around their neck as they went to their pyre, honored equally for their sacrifice and the price that they paid in an instant, compared to their brethren who paid it more slowly.

Halvas recognized the amulets well, as he carried several empty ones in the pouch upon his belt with his other Joining supplies. He looked at the amulet, finding no other distinguishing marks upon it other than that it was a legitimate Warden’s Oath pendant. Finding it, on the stone seat where Ivon would sit, finding it within a fresh bulb of blight, and finding it next to Ivon’s hammer resting on the ground, left little doubt in his mind now.

Ivon was gone. He had succumbed to the taint and was claimed by the great tree that had called to him so strongly. As Halvas looked at the dangling amulet before him, he knew that this was the end Ivon had chosen, that he chose it willingly, and that he had gone in peace. His Calling was now complete. He had chosen his way, as all Wardens must.

The tree seemed to shiver at the recognition, its blighted tendrils waving slightly in the wind, whispering inside his head, calling for him to join too.

“What’s that you have there?” Julius asked, as he approached from behind.

Halvas palmed the amulet and tucked it away into one of his pockets.

“It’s what we came to find,” Halvas said.

“Your friend–”

“Has been called home,” Halvas confirmed. It was the taint that had called him, but Halvas hoped that he now went to the halls of his ancestors, back to the Stone, and to the mighty dwarves who would be proud of the life he had given in service to the Grey Wardens and to protecting this world of theirs. “Come, we should head back.”

Ivon had met his end, but he had done it on his terms. He had defended Weisshaupt, slaughtered darkspawn in the wetlands and drifted away in the way he wanted. The time that he had, he had used well.

Perhaps there was something beautiful in that.

Chapter Text

Seven

Halvas ascended the stone steps of the old fort, to answer the summons.

As he went, he noticed there were several other Wardens coming in too, including many of the veterans that they had left. As the Wardens funneled in, they gathered around the makeshift command center that had been set up in the rear of the fort. The table was covered in papers, tools and glass jars filled with black and bulging clumps of blight, some of which sat dormant and others that seemed to pulsate and slither against the glass.

As Halvas got near, he could hear them in his head, three different jars all making three different sounds. One was steady and pulsing, not so unlike the tree in the blighted grove. Another was sharp and jagged, panicked, like when the Wardens stirred up a darkspawn nest and they all went on alert. The last was barely there, just a slight tremor, low and vibrating, almost hidden, like a snake laying dormant in the brush waiting to strike its prey. He disliked them immensely.

Commander Evka was waving the Wardens in. Halvas looked around and noticed that her companion, the Orlesian elf Antoine, was nowhere to be found. The jars and the scattered research notes on the table were his, but where he had gotten off to at this hour, Halvas couldn't say.

Halvas stepped into the small semi-circle forming around Evka. Some of the Wardens who had come up were not there. The group that was around him was nothing but senior Wardens. There was Tomasz, Sasha and Vaughn, their forward commanders. Augustin had been called, but not the other gate commanders – Rhodri and Greta – who were less senior than Gramps.

Evka had also summoned Harris, whom the Wardens called "Guts," because the man always seemed to be complaining about the food but also never seemed to turn down a meal when it was offered to him no matter how much he griped about it. His latest complaints had been that their rations had mostly been restricted to bread, hard cheese and salted meat.

Lastly, they were joined by Thea, whom the Wardens called the Scythe, because of the way she hewed through darkspawn as if they were wheat. Of the Wardens who had survived Weisshaupt, Halvas could not think of one who had seen more battles – not just skirmishes with darkspawn bands here or there but real battles facing swarms of hundreds – than her. When there was a known nest that needed to be cleared, the Wardens called upon the Scythe to clear the field.

"What I say here doesn't leave this huddle, is that clear?" Evka started, which boded ill for the rest of the conversation. As the senior Wardens nodded their assent, she continued. "Our presence here in Lavendel is not by accident. There's a reason why this town was selected as a gathering point if the worst should ever happen at Weisshaupt. And now necessity dictates that you learn why.

"Rook and Davrin have been tracking an unusual darkspawn called the Gloom Howler. It's an emissary, as far as we can tell, but one who speaks and one who appears to act independently of the horde, the archdemons and the blighted elven gods. At first, I thought she was maybe one of the unchained darkspawn like those encountered in Ferelden after the Fifth Blight, but reports from Warden Davrin have cast doubt on that. Like so many things with this Blight, this Gloom Howler appears entirely new, a radical agent, a kind we have not encountered before.

"The Gloom Howler attacked a training facility in the high Anders, where Davrin was stationed before joining with Rook, slew several Wardens and stole some sensitive items from us," Evka explained. "And now, it's appeared here, in the wetlands, which is why I've called you here.

"This Gloom Howler attacked and penetrated a Warden stronghold on the far side of the wastes, called The Cauldron. When we first arrived, I sortied out to this stronghold to check on it. The walls and heavy gates were secure, and the blight had not taken root there yet when we first arrived. That's changed in the time since. The blight overtook the fortress and cracked it open, allowing the darkspawn to get inside. Rook and his companions were able to dislodge them and chase off the Gloom Howler, but it's now imperative that we keep the Cauldron protected, no matter the cost."

"What's so important about this place?" asked Vaughn. "Why haven't we heard of it before? And what happened to its garrison?"

"It didn't have one and that's by design, as to not draw attention to it," Evka said. "As far as anyone knows, it's just another old, abandoned Warden fort, a relic of a Blight centuries past. But what it actually is – and why we need to protect it now – is because it's the Warden's most important vault outside of Weisshaupt."

"What are we talking, here?" asked Rhodri. "Weapons? Armor? Records? Treasure?"

"Blighted and dangerous relics recovered from the Deep Roads and darkspawn, that could do serious damage if they get loose," Evka said. "But, even more pressing than that, are the tombs."

"What kind of tombs?" asked Vaughn, interrupting again.

"Archdemon tombs," Halvas said, puzzling out the mystery. While the Wardens revered their glorious dead and the relics honoring the heroes of past Blights were put up in impressive crypts, old swords, armors and personal effects of their greatest warriors were not worth dying over, especially in the wake of the decimation they had suffered at Weisshaupt.

"Yes," Evka said, with a slight nod. "As well as the final resting place of the griffons, all those slain and lost during the Fourth Blight. But, as Steelshield has deduced, it's the archdemon bones that must be protected."

Archdemon blood was the critical catalyst for the Joining ritual. Without it, a person could drink as many gallons of darkspawn blood and lyrium they wanted but none would ever survive. The drop of archdemon blood added to the alchemical mixture is what activated it, what somehow allowed a person to make the transformation into a Grey Warden, to survive the taint and become part of the darkspawn collective. Halvas could not say how the men and women battling the First Blight in ancient times had discovered it and come to co-opt the power of the taint among their own, but preservation of the archdemon's carcass in the aftermath of victory of the Blight was of paramount importance.

The location of the remains of the archdemons was one of the highest secrets of the order. While some might assume the Wardens would maintain the cache of something so vital within the bowels of Weisshaupt, its largest and most well-defended fortress in Thedas, anyone who knew the Grey Wardens, their caution, their vigilance, and the threat of Blight that might emerge in any corner of the world knew that the order would not be so foolish as to place all their strength in just one location. It only made sense that it would be divided and hidden, so that even amid the most unthinkable circumstances – like the fall of Weisshaupt – that all hope would not be lost. The Wardens, as they had during every Blight no matter how fierce and how grim, could always regroup, regather their strength and strike out against the darkspawn again.

Lavendel was nowhere, a small blip on a map lying in the distance from Weisshaupt. Its obscurity made it an ideal location for such a vault, and, as Evka had said, by not stationing a garrison to protect it, it allowed it to hide in plain sight. As long as it remained secured against any upstart scavengers, it would draw little notice and protect itself via apathy.

"Shit," Sasha said under her breath.

"Yeah," Vaughn agreed, shaking his head.

"What does this Gloom Howler want with archdemon blood?" Rhodri asked.

"We don't know," Evka answered.

"Shit," Rhodri said, echoing Sasha's sentiment.

"What we do know is that we can't let the darkspawn get inside the Cauldron again. Not a single hurlock, not the Gloom Howler, and especially not Ghilan'nain," Evka said. "We can't sit back and hide any more.

"We need to extend our patrols immediately and we need to more aggressively sweep any dangerous darkspawn lingering around the area," Evka said to her forward commanders.

"We'll have to draft in more men," Tomasz said. "We'll have to put the young Wardens out there."

"Has to be done," Sasha said, her fingers fiddling with the knobs at the ends of the daggers on her belt. "Have the seniors lead and put the freshies under them. Only choice."

"It'll stretch us thin," Tomasz said, chewing his lip. "That's going to tire our forces and leave Lavendel hanging in the breeze if something happens."

"The town is relatively safe," Augustin chimed in. "The darkspawn have kept their distance. Kalli is trying to train a militia for a worst-case scenario. The townsfolk aren't soldiers, but they'll stand to defend their home, if it comes to it."

"Again, this doesn't leave this group," Evka said, lowering her voice. "But the Cauldron is now our top priority. If it's attacked, we must defend it, at any cost. Even if it means abandoning the town and its people."

There was a moment of silence as that thought sunk in. It was harsh, but it was the right decision, Halvas knew. He didn't want to fathom what a monster like Ghilan'nain might be able to do with the bones and ichor of a fallen archdemon. The Blight was bad enough, and the wild possibility that she might somehow be able to resurrect a fallen dragon or otherwise twist its remains into some new monstrosity was too terrible to consider. The Wardens would protect Lavendal if they could, but the lives of a few dozen peasants in the face of the threat of the Blight was no calculation at all, even as distasteful as it might feel to say it aloud. In death, sacrifice.

"Shit," Sasha said again, her fingers now rapidly fiddling with the daggers at her belt as she tried to vent her anxiety.

"We need to garrison the Cauldron," Evka said. "Steelshield. Guts. Scythe. I need the three of you to lead. The others I've called up, waiting outside, they'll be with you."

"How many?" Thea asked.

"Twenty," Evka answered. "More than we can afford, but fewer than I'd like to send. Take whoever you want, just not my gate commanders. If the Cauldron comes under attack and it's more than you can handle, sound every horn you have and I'll empty Lavendel to come to your aid."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Sasha said optimistically, although her face carried a look that betrayed that hope.

"Agreed," Augustin said with a heavy sigh.

"I've sent letters to our allies in Nevarra and Tevinter calling for reinforcements, but anyone who was close was already mustered at Weisshaupt when it fell," Evka said. "So we're on our own. We cannot afford to fail again. Any questions?"

There was silence around the huddle, a ring of dark faces and gloomy expressions as they faced the task ahead of them. Was this how the Wardens felt during the old Blights, when the darkspawn swallowed entire nations, pushing back the free forces of Thedas into a corner, when it looked like the end was upon them? Even when the situation looked its grimmest, however, the Wardens always found the strength and resolve to regroup and keep up the fight. Some day, historians would tell the story of the Sixth Blight and their actions now would dictate whether those records told of the fall of Lavendel and the collapse of the Anderfels, or whether they would speak of the Warden resistance that held in this place against the encroaching blight.

When no one spoke, Evka dismissed them and the senior Wardens dispersed back to their duty. Halvas stepped aside, joined by his co-captains.

Thea was dark-skinned like him, from somewhere in the north – he couldn't rightly remember where, exactly – with thick black hair pulled back into a bushy tail at the back of her head. She had a severe expression and a face notched with about as many scars as Halvas' own, telling the tale of many years in battle. Halvas had seen her excel with any weapon placed in her hand and she cut through the battlefield like a bloody whirlwind.

Harris was lighter skinned and from the south, Orlesian by blood but Marcher by upbringing. His long brown hair was also pulled back behind his head, matched by a bushy beard out in front. Harris was a stalwart defender, tucked safely inside his heavy plate and with a strong shield, and a good choice for a mission when the Wardens would need to hold the line, to the last, if needed.

That left Halvas, who fell somewhere in between. Not nearly as strong or aggressive an attacker as Scythe, but more aggressive and willing to strike that Guts. He knew that he was also more in tune to his blightsense than the others, more capable of feeling the emotions and the thoughts of the collective, moreso now that he was in the early stages of his Calling, where every sensation seemed to be sharpened to a fine point.

"How do you want to proceed?" Halvas asked as they gathered.

"First, we're all equals here. We'll split the day into thirds. Each one takes the command on their shift. Agreed?" Thea asked first. The other two nodded, although Halvas would have been content to defer to her leadership above them.

"I'll take the night," Halvas said. His elf eyes were sharper than theirs and his blightsense would be more valuable in the dark, when he could feel the darkspawn moving, long before any of them would see them.

"I can do the morning," Harris said.

"Then I have the evening," Thea agreed with a nod. "I'll scout ahead and secure the site. Blackblade, you gather our troops and make sure they're equipped and ready to move. Guts, you're on logistics. Food, water, arrows, and whatever other supplies we'll need."

Harris smirked at the obvious intent of putting him in charge of food. They wouldn't starve, that was for sure, and might even eat a little better than if they remained cooped up in Lavendel.

Halvas was already running a roster in his head, thinking about who would be suited to the job. Beckett would have been a high choice on his list if he hadn't gone out and gotten himself savaged. He now carried a greater respect for Mayor Julius after what he had done to save the others, but the man was too raw to trust in a pitched battle if it came to one. Miriel, Landon and Quincy worked well together, but likewise they were too young. Edwin was a good fighter and Rue was an excellent shot with a bow, but they were both already assigned to patrol routes and keeping the surrounding area clear was nearly as important. He ticked through other names in his head, creating his list.

"Sounds good," Halvas said.

"Yeah," Harris agreed. "We'll join you as soon as we're able."

"In war, victory," Thea said as a conclusion to their short conversation and turned and quickly set off toward the Cauldron, leaving the two men behind. When she was gone, Guts let his shoulders slump.

"Shit," he said. "What a mess."

"Don't lose heart," Halvas said. "One task at a time and we'll continue to advance."

"I don't know about you, Steelshield," Harris said, glancing around to make sure no one else was in earshot, "But I thought it was over at Weisshaupt. When those darkspawn swarmed the fortress and when I heard those three horns… shit, I figured we were all done for."

Three blasts. The Wardens make their last stand.

Those who had corralled into the interior of the fortress had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do but stand their ground and make a glorious last defense, to take down as many darkspawn as possible before being overwhelmed. Halvas had been cut off from the main force on the outskirts of the castle, and when it had become apparent that the battle was lost, he had the opportunity to fight his way to an exit along with the other Wardens who were stuck with him. He had taken command of his wing of the fortress and let his horn blare with two blasts to sound the retreat, calling anyone close to his position. He and the other senior Wardens had been able to secure a gate and cut through enough of the darkspawn and hold it long enough for the younger Wardens to make an escape.

If Rook and the others hadn't been able to make it to the dragon trap, and if the ancient weapon hadn't worked as designed, they might all have perished. Even as the Wardens who were able to beat a retreat made it away, it was a very different situation if there was an archdemon flying overhead, swooping down and picking off any stragglers trying to flee the fortress. Harris had good reason to feel doom. Instead of decimation, it could have been total annihilation.

"Now is our chance to show that the strength of the Wardens isn't so easily snuffed out," Halvas said, trying to keep the sentiment positive. Morale was poor, but it was critical to try to maintain it, as best as possible. A warrior who lost all hope, who could only feel doom and nothing else, was already defeated before the battle began. While Halvas was not so naive to think that blowing a few horns and raising a few banners would unleash a wave of inspiration, if they could hold onto desperate defiance, if pushed, the Wardens would summon whatever they had left and fight their hardest to their very end. If they must fall, they would make it a battle that the histories would remember forever.

"You're right," Harris said with a sigh. "Ignore me. Just tired. And hungry. Salted meat, hard cheese and hard bread. No way for any man to live."

"When we get out of this," Halvas said, clapping him on the shoulder. "First inn we find, meal's on me, as much food and ale as you can hold."

That gave Harris a hearty laugh and he returned the clap onto Halvas' shoulder. "You're too poor to back up that offer, but I'm going to hold you to it. Something to look forward to. Welp, better get to it. I'll see you at the Cauldron."

"At the Cauldron," Halvas agreed with a nod and sent the man off.

As he went, it left Halvas standing in the shadow of the old fort, glancing out at the darkened roofs of Lavendel. They had yet to see the sun and the pall and gloom continued to hang thick over the wetlands, like a winter gray that clung to the sky for weeks at a time. The clouds were so thick and so dark that it looked like it might thunder and lightning and pour rain at any moment, although they had instead just hung low overhead, blocking out the sun. The dim was disheartening, but days of rain would be even worse for the already waterlogged Lavendel.

He ran through the list of Wardens in his head again, continuing to debate who he would conscript for the thankless task of guarding the Cauldron, with little explanation of why they had to go, only the decree that they must. Any good Warden was used to following orders with little reason provided – the order had its secrets and that had to be respected – but it certainly wouldn't help the mood any to be dragged out into the marsh away from what roofs and comforts Lavendel had to offer, even as few as those were.

Halvas' hand dipped into the pouch at his belt, fingers wrapping around the metal chain of the Wardens' Oath in the pocket. His fingers ran across the smooth, rounded edges of the pendant, fingertip touching the small bit of glass that housed the drops of darkspawn blood from Ivon's Joining. Halvas closed his eyes, concentrating on the sound in the back of his head for a minute, listening, knowing that Ivon was a part of it now and wondering, if he listened closely enough, could he hear or feel his old friend in the music? As he clutched the pendant between his fingers and focused, trying to separate the overlapping threads of song, some slow and beautiful, some loud and harsh, some sharp and discordant, the only thing that he could feel was the confused and angry cacophony of the taint.

The blight might be calling him to it, but still, as he listened in to it, what he heard disgusted him.

Halvas let go of the pendant in his pocket and pulled his hand out, opened his eyes, shook his head and threw the sound of the taint out of his skull. He wasn't so far gone as Ivon had been. He wasn't ready to give into the taint and the sickness growing and consuming his mind, his heart, his soul.

Halvas still had time.

Chapter Text

Eight

The marsh was quiet and still, except for the gentle lapping of water as the wind blew across the flooded plains.

It was impossibly dark at night outside of Lavendel. The homes that had once stood on the outskirts and once been filled with farmers or ranchers had all been swallowed by the blight. They had come past the ruined homesteads, tendrils of black blight that snaked along the ground and wrapped the wooden homes like the tentacles of a kraken dragging a ship to the depths of the sea. There were no torches, no lamps, no candles burning anywhere out there.

Behind him, the few torches that they put out in the bailey outside of the entrance to the Cauldron were the only light for miles, and even then the flickering flames seemed nearly consumed by the suffocating dark. Elf eyes were sharper than humans, but under the heavy clouds that blocked any light from moon or stars and the blight that seemed to suck in and kill whatever other light might be there, he was as blind as a deepstalker. He had prowled through caverns in the Deep Roads miles underground that had somehow been lighter than this, either by the slight glow of luminescent mushrooms, by random, tiny flecks of lyrium in the stone, or by the bent rays of light from darkspawn camps miles away. A Warden could almost always find his way even in the darkest holes.

But this, this dark was unnatural. It had to have been an effect of the blight that poisoned the wetlands, because no place outdoors would ever be so thickly black.

Still, Halvas preferred to step outside away from the warmth of the watchfire or the flicker of the torches, and out of the long shadows that the Cauldron cast.

When he had arrived with the twenty Wardens he had selected for their guard duty, Thea had already cleared the area out by herself. There were severed arms of blight that seemed to writhe in the dim, hacked to pieces by her blades and covered with the thick black sludge of darkspawn blood and the melted remains of those she had killed. As the tentacles of blight writhed in the dark, Halvas could almost feel pain in the severed ends of the flailing arms, an unsettling feeling that had quickend his pass across the marsh in order to escape it.They had set a camp outside the main door of the Cauldron, which was shut behind them.

When Harris had arrived hours later with a caravan of supplies in tow, they had set a watch of the sentries and Thea had led her two co-commanders inside the Cauldron to get a feel for its layout and its contents.

The upper level had a collection of strange and dangerous relics, things the Wardens had recovered over the years and locked away for the safety of the rest of Thedas. As he read the placards as he walked past, most scrawled with warnings about the particular item locked within, he wondered to himself why the Wardens hadn’t simply destroyed these things. If they were as dangerous as they purported to be, why save them and run the risk of someone either accidentally or intentionally laying hands on them ever again? That was a question for past First Wardens, left unanswered as he walked past.

The mid-level was chilling as he entered it.

Halvas had crawled through darkspawn pits and dead thaigs filled with long-dead dwarves and the things that ate them during his time as a Warden, but the Cauldron was a completely different type of haunted. As he walked through the mausoleum, piled high to the ceiling with innumerable tombs filled with gryphon bones, he felt nearly sick. The gryphons had once fought alongside the Wardens, bearing them into battle, until they had fallen to the blight, to a sickness that chained throughout their ranks until it brought them to extinction. The room emanated pain, pain that Halvas could feel through the taint, echoing through the poisoned bones of the beasts that lay in the boxes tucked into the walls.

He rushed out of the room and he wasn’t the only one, as his co-commanders spent equally as little time under the presence of those tainted remains.

Afterward they came to the vaults deepers within, the thick metal doors etched with the dates that marked the end of each blight. 3:25 Towers. 5:24 Exalted. 9:31 Dragon. There were remains from the third, fourth and fifth blights here, but nothing earlier. He wondered, as he looked at the secure doors, still closed and still barred to protect their contents, whether there was anything left from those initial Blights, or where they might be hidden.

The Cauldron was much more expansive than it looked from the outside, but it was built solid and stalwart with no apparent entrance except the front gate. And although the snaking blight had made its way around the marshes and up the exterior wall, it hadn’t managed to penetrate inside. Although Commander Evka reported that the Gloom Howler and darkspawn had made it inside, there appeared to be no trace left of them. Whatever Thorne and his allies had done to clear them out had been effective, as there were no lingering patches of corruption or swelling, glowing boils that so often popped up and gave rise to the new darkspawn.

Thea, Harris and he all agreed, the best and safest course of action was to close the front door, barricade it and allow no one to enter. Every morning, Thea agreed to do a quick sweep inside to make sure that no blight or darkspawn had managed to creep inside, an offer which the two men agreed to without hesitation. If Halvas never had to set foot inside the Cauldron’s vaults ever again, he would go to his Calling at peace.

The impenetrably dark and quiet marshlands were unsettling in their own way, but if he had to choose between the shadow cast over nature or the shadows kept contained within the Cauldron, he would choose this every day.

He closed his eyes and focused his mind internally, reaching out with his blightsense to feel what he couldn’t see. As he calmed himself and cleared his head of all other conscious thoughts, he could feel the undercurrent of the taint humming in his head. He could feel the blight all around him, feel its expansive hold as it gripped around Lavendel. But outside of its stretching presence, all else appeared to be calm. He could sense no darkspawn nearby, and any that might be farther off were quiet, for the moment. He felt no sensations of alarm or fury, no pulses and spikes in the taint that would alert the hive of an attack.

This blight remained strange though and as he listened more he could feel the overlapping strands of the taint. From a quick or distant listen, the blight here in the wetlands felt singular and coherent. But when he really focused and sharpened his mind, he could hear that it was not one voice as it had always been, but multiple separate threads woven together. There were those that seemed to tie together, to weave themselves into one stronger strain, while there were others that were offbeat, dissonant and discordant, working against or out of phase with the main line.

Even when in the Deep Roads and running across different tribes of darkspawn, spawned from different broods, they all shared the same collective consciousness with each other and with the Wardens. A darkspawn from Ferelden could feel and hear a darkspawn from Tevinter, if they ever happened to cross paths with one another. True, there were times when the darkspawn might battle each other in the Deep Roads, fighting over food or territory or even over matters of “honor,” as foreign as that concept might sound to blighted monsters. But they were a singular unit, a single species, bound together by the common link of the taint within them.

Whatever Ghilan’nain had unleashed, however, was foreign and hostile. As he had discussed with the other elder Wardens, these darkspawn, despite being “new” to them felt old, like the sensation a Warden might get when treading through a thaig that had been desolated centuries ago. Even without knowing the ins and outs of dwarven architecture, a Warden could always tell, always feel the age of a place underground when it was touched by blight. The taint, the corruption, it held what could be called a memory in it, an imprint of itself that it left stained on whatever it touched.

Ivon had talked about the dwarves and their “stone sense,” how some dwarves and especially gifted ones could commune with the rock in a way that didn’t sound so unlike the way Wardens connected to the taint. The dwarves could look at a wall of stone in their Deep Roads and know where the lyrium lay buried in it in thick, flowing veins. They could walk in a foreign place and know it, even if they had never been there before, as if they shared some deeper connection to the earth than elves or men. Granted, not all dwarves possessed such skills and it was almost unheard of in any dwarf who lived topside for any period of time. But those ancient houses, those well-connected to the stone especially in the Mining Caste, they still maintained that link.

The darkspawn that they fought now didn’t share that same link. Their imprint was old, as if they had been plucked out of time generations ago, as if from a separate line of evolution from the modern darkspawn. Were these new darkspawn what the Wardens battled during the First Blight, or were they even older than that, some initial experiment, some first creation by the foul goddess who had tinkered and tweaked and improved upon their design? In battle, these new darkspawn were weak, weaker than those spawned by the broodmothers in the Deep Roads. They lacked the cunning and furor of the modern darkspawn. They were mindless drones, only capable of charging forward, as if unable to truly think for themselves.

Halvas pushed past the discord of the blight to what lay even deeper in the foundation of the noise – that drumming, that music, that calling and command of the taint itself. A year ago it would have been completely imperceptible to him, but the emergence of Ghilan’nain had flipped a lever within his head, had taken the corruption from its slow and steady and forgettable advancement and put it into drive inside of him. The first time he had heard it had been almost by accident, but once he heard it that first time, he could never forget it. It was there, always, the undercurrent in everything else he saw or heard or felt, coursing through him as his heart beat in his chest and pushed his blackened blood throughout his body.

He could now feel something more, a deeper connection to the darkspawn and the blight. It was a familiarity, a warmth, a welcoming, a comforting peace almost. When he listened and focused, it almost felt as if there were words buried in the melody, spoken as if they were too distant and too quiet to be heard, but a murmur that he knew was there even if it couldn’t yet understand it. What it was, what it wanted, what it called him to do, he couldn’t attest to himself, although he knew what he had been told by other Wardens and the stories of callings. It was an invitation, not to death, not to poisoning by the corruption, but to join them, whoever them might be. He had always assumed that them were the darkspawn, that a Warden might fall so far to the taint that they would be indistinguishable from any hurlock or shriek, that they would lose their mind to the will of the collective and fall into step alongside their brethren, marching to the command of the Old Gods.

Now, Halvas wasn’t so sure that interpretation was wholly correct, or, at least, not wholly complete. When he had heard the booming voice through the clouds of blight around Weisshaupt, when he had heard Ghilan’nain alternating between taunting the Wardens, attempting to break their will, or inviting them to join her, he now felt as if he recognized the call. The Wardens thought the darkspawn answered to the call of the Old Gods and to the archdemons they spawned as. But at Weisshaupt, Razikale did not command the darkspawn and the blight that fell upon it. No, the archdemon was not the leader, it was only the most powerful servant of Ghilan’nain herself.

So were the darkspawn and the Wardens linked to the archdemons or the Old Gods, or were those merely misinterpretations of their true master, Ghilan’nain, who held her twisted monstrosities tightly on leashes made of blight? Was she the one calling him, the music in his head, and the whisper that lay just beyond the edge of his hearing?

Halvas’ fingers rose to his face as he traced the lines of vallaslin embedded in his flesh, his fingertips sweeping across the curving lines up representing the horns of the halla. The Dalish revered Ghilan’nain as the creator, as the goddess who made the brilliantly horned, snow-white, majestic halla who served as the guides and equals of the Dalish clans. But could a goddess who created something so beautiful, so calm and regal, also have created something so vile and wicked as the darkspawn?

And, the bigger question, how had the Dalish gotten everything so wrong?

There was a significant gap between a goddess who created and one who corrupted. How could the elves not have known that, or, at least, how could they have forgotten something so important? If Fen’Harel had imprisoned the Evanuris because they had fallen to the lure of the blight, how could the elves not remember such a basic and fundamental fact? What had happened to them in the eons since, to think upon their enslavers as their saviors?

The thought had sundered his belief to its core. If the Evanuris were not benevolent, but wicked, then it begged the question of whether the Forgotten Ones – who the Dalish taught their children were the evil enemies of the Creators – were actually good? Logic would dictate that if the Evanuris were the opposite of what the Dalish said they were, then their enemy must also be the opposite of their description too.

But then there was Fen’Harel. The stories said that Fen’Harel was an enemy to both the Evanuris and the Forgotten Ones, and that he had succeeded in sealing both away. If the Dread Wolf opposed Elgar’nan and the pantheon and claimed righteousness in his cause, would that not suggest that the Forgotten Ones were equally as contemptible to draw his ire?

Halvas took his hand from his face and instead dropped it to the hilt of his sword at his side. He ran his fingers along the grip of the blade and the pommel at its bottom as he pushed the questions out of his head. He had lived the life of a warrior, not of a philosopher. What he knew and understood was the darkspawn, how they worked and how to defeat them. Pondering on their nature, even if he were able to elucidate some truth of their being, did not change the fact that his sword and his axe were the most effective tools to destroy them. While understanding the truth behind their creation might provide some greater insight in how to stop them, Halvas knew he lacked adequate information to solve the puzzle.

All he had to go on were second-hand stories he had heard trickling out from Thorne and his allies, the truth of what he had seen and experienced himself at Weisshaupt, and the dubious words of Ghilan’nain herself as she projected herself into the sky above the fortress and sought to break their will.

All that he knew for sure was that Ghilan’nain commanded the blight, and that the stories he had learned about her eminence while among the Dalish were wrong. The foundational years of his life, the culture that the Dalish had instilled within him, was constructed of its own errors. He had been with the Wardens now for longer than he had been among the Dalish. What the Wardens taught and believed was defense against the blight, and nothing that had happened in these harrowing few weeks past had shaken the foundational truth of that. Even if they now knew that the blight had a different master than they once believed, that did not change their devotion to seek it out and destroy it wherever it might emerge.

Halvas opened his eyes and pushed the sound and sensation of the blight out of his head. He looked out across the black landscape before him, knowing that the blight was out there strangling the landscape. Somewhere, past the shadows and the darkness, the darkspawn and their goddess awaited. The Wardens would defeat them now as they always had before, even if he did not live to see the day that victorious stroke fell upon them.

He would gladly die before succumbing to its corruption, one way or another. Whatever might happen to his being after that, whether he would go to some peaceful, eternal afterlife; whether he would be forever chained to the darkness of the blight he had willing imbibed; or whether he would simply end, that death was its own conclusion and there was nothing beyond it; he would sooner than not find out and go to it with acceptance. Regardless of whatever outcome might befall him, he would go to it with the knowledge and surety in his heart that his short life walking the lands of Thedas meant something, that he had used his time to serve a greater good, to suffer and sacrifice so that others might live to enjoy peace and prosperity that he chose to forego for himself.

Halvas exhaled and began to turn away, to head away from the deep dark and back into the camp, but as he did, he suddenly felt a pressure across his sixth sense. His hand immediately dropped to his sword, baring the blade as he turned back toward the marsh, his eyes useless but his blightsense suddenly aflame. It was distant, but growing closer. He turned toward the east, where he could feel the presence, feel the pressure and the pull of something tainted. It was not another Warden and it was no normal darkspawn, he could tell as he tracked it through the black. Whatever it was was large and moving quickly, growing closer faster and faster. Its presence screamed across the taint, bellowing and beckoning to anything near that could feel it.

The feeling was oppressive, heavy and growing heavier as it grew closer. When it felt as if it was crushing the air out of his lungs, that was the first moment when he could hear it on the wind, not just the sound of it in the taint but the actual sound of it growing close. There were great gusts of wind, the sound of water being disturbed, a whistling, humming as it buzzed overhead. Then there was the powerful beat of leather, a growling and rumbling of breath in a long, powerful neck. 

Halvas crouched down as the shadow passed overhead, feeling the air move as the dragon buzzed low over the Cauldron. It passed as quickly as it came on, huge body bending slightly to its right side as he could see the underside, illuminated barely by the light from within the fortress, as it banked slightly north.

A few seconds later, there was a crash, the sound of the dragon landing, and a rumble across the ground as the force of its body rocked earth below it. He closed his eyes and opened his ears. The sound was not far away, maybe a few minutes away by foot across the marshes, slightly to the north. He listened for the sounds of water but heard none. Instead, he heard the scraping of talons and the clunking of heavy legs. It sounded like blades being scraped across whetstones, a scratching and shrieking as the rock was struck, cracking under the stress of the weight.

Halvas opened his eyes. He knew where the dragon had landed. It was the old watchtower he had seen on the maps. In the day, when the faint rays of light penetrated the clouds, you could see the grey outline of it in the distance, sitting on a hill and jutting up toward the gray sky.

He continued to listen, searching for the sound of the dragon to take back off again. But once the scratching of claws and the rustling of the body had faded, there was silence again. The dragon had gone to the watchtower and landed there. But it had not lifted off again. He waited, listening, but there was nothing.

A few minutes later, Thea came wandering out of the light in the camps and came to his side.

“You felt that?” she asked, an obvious question.

“Yes,” Halvas said. “A dragon. It didn’t feel like an archdemon, but it was sickened with blight, of that I have no doubt.”

“Where is it?” Thea asked.

“At the old watchtower to the north, I think,” Halvas said. “It’s impossible to tell in this darkness, but I heard it land and I have not heard it take off again.”

“If it is nesting, that will be a problem,” Thea said.

If a dragon had taken up residence so near the Cauldron and so near Lavendel, that was bad. But a blighted dragon taking up residence close was even worse. If it was twisted in the blight, if it fed on the taint, it could rest and absorb power from the black marshes. If they let it lie, it would grow in strength and if or when it chose to leave, would be a serious threat.

“Didn’t Thorne and his Veilguard wound one of the dragons?” Halvas asked, recalling the chatter around the camp.

“Yes, in Treviso,” Thea said. “The other that attacked Minrathous, the city defenders were able to do little against it.”

“If it is that dragon from Treviso, come to lick its wounds, if we strike quickly, we might be able to overcome it,” Halvas said.

“It’s risky,” Thea said, but didn’t outright disagree. “But we don’t know anything at this point.”

“Agreed,” Halvas said. “When dawn breaks, I will scout the north tower, to see what we are dealing with.”

“It’s too dangerous to go alone,” Thea said. “And the darkspawn are thicker to the north. Harris and I will stay behind to safeguard the Cauldron. But take everyone else. You may need them.”

Halvas didn’t like the idea of pulling all of their strength away from the fortress to investigate. There were many darkspawn afield, true, but what if the arrival of this dragon was a feint, a distraction, meant to pull them away from the Cauldron? No, he was giving them too much credit. If Thea were staying behind, there was no horde that was capable of overcoming her. And if this was some scheme by Ghilan’nain and she brought the full force of the blight behind her, whether there were two Wardens at the fortress or twenty, it wouldn’t matter.

“So be it,” he agreed.

“I will take your watch,” Thea said. “Recover your strength. You may need it all, come morning.”

Chapter Text

Nine

Although it was morning, the sun barely penetrated the thick clouds that refused to move from over the marshes.

Granted, it was significantly brighter than at night. Halvas could see the land in front of him and could see the other Wardens at his side, which was an improvement over the suffocating darkness. His eyes darted left and right, scouting the dead landscape and looking for darkspawn. It was mostly quiet, except for the splash of the putrid water and the humming of the blight tendrils that snaked over the land. Whether that was an audible noise others could hear or if it was only in his head, he couldn’t be sure and this wasn’t the time or place for asking.

Halvas moved slowly behind his shield with his axe in his hand. The other Wardens fanned out behind him in a wide wedge to cover as much ground as possible as they swept toward the old watchtower. When he wasn’t scanning the immediate area in front of him, his eyes kept darting upward to the tower, looking for any signs of movement.

Everything was quiet. To the eye, the tower looked abandoned. But to his blightsense, he could feel the presence there, old and powerful, as steady and constant as breathing or a heartbeat. He turned his head to check to make sure the other Wardens were still with him and in formation, wondering as his gaze came across them if they were able to feel what he was feeling. Thea had both felt it and heard it and when Harris had risen in the morning and was sitting next to the cookfire frying some bacon he had managed to procure from somewhere, he too had asked what the sensation was.

As they reached the stone stairs up toward the watchtower, having not encountered any darkspawn on the way toward it, Halvas held up his fist to halt the group behind him. His hand quickly worked, directing the Wardens, setting up the archers around the entrance of the tower on the high ground and stationing the fighters behind cover. He motioned for two of the heavy infantry with their large, broad shields to follow him as he set across the rotted wooden walkway to the entrance to the tower.

The air was cold and heavy with the foul stench of the blight, like a thick fume rolling out of the entryway. The wooden boards creaked and groaned under his feet, making him wince as he tried to approach slowly, tucked behind his shield with his axe light in his hand. He stopped before crossing under the arch of the tower gate, pressing himself against the frosted, blight-slickened stones. He shut his eyes, listening with both his ears and his blightsense.

He could hear loud, heavy breathing, the in and out coinciding perfectly with the pulsing of the blight that thumped in the back of his skull. It was calm, and Halvas hoped to keep it that way. He reopened his eyes, reset his fingers along the haft of his axe and then slowly curled around the edge of the stone gate and inside the tower.

Time and neglect had hollowed out the tower. Where once there were steps circling up toward the parapets at the pinnacle, rain and wind and rot had collapsed the stairs. The stairs going down were in even worse condition, both degraded but also crushed as the main stone floor had caved in and crashed down at some point in the past. Just a few feet from the entry, the stones stopped suddenly and dropped into a black chasm beneath. Halvas scooted toward the precipice and peeked over the edge, peering down. The tower went underground much farther than it went up into the sky, and the bottom was so far below he couldn’t see it. The drop disappeared into dark, obscuring the bottom.

What he could see were veins of frost creeping up the walls. He could feel the bitter cold that erupted upward through the column of the hollow tower every time he heard a breath. The cold air carried with it the stink of decay, of rot and corruption. And the sound reverberated in the tube of stone, the groaning, growling, whistling breath of the creature amplified enough to vibrate the floor under his feet.

“Damn it, ” Halvas thought to himself as he surveyed the area again. There was no way to see the bottom. There was no way that he could see to safely climb down to the bottom. And, even if there was, there would be no room to maneuver for anyone, making it impossible to fight.

The only way to attack the creature that lay in wait below would have been to drop something on top of it, but there would be no reasonable way to get anything capable of damaging a dragon inside to let gravity slam upon the unsuspecting, sleeping foe below.

Halvas stepped back from the edge, craning his neck up and looking at the upper level of the tower again. There was nothing there. No stairs. No roof. No way to get up to the top and no way, even if someone did free-climb the exterior, to hold an attack position. It would have been better if the thing had just fully collapsed, leaving a pile of rubble, than continuing to halfway stand, where now all it was good for was making the perfect fortress for a dragon.

This was another problem the Wardens and Lavendel didn’t need.

As Halvas turned to leave, as his boot pressed down, the stone crumbled beneath his foot and he had to leap forward as his right leg sank and threatened to drag him down into a freefall. He quickly stumbled forward, away from the edge and turned, freezing in place. There was a moment of quiet, followed by a loud thump and the crackle of small stones hitting the bottom of the tower.

He held his breath, listening. The tower remained quiet. But the air grew still, the cold and the stench of blight suddenly disappearing. Then there was a hard jabbing in the back of his head, like a knife being slammed into the base of his skull, a spike of anger and alarm suddenly screaming across the taint.

“Get out!” Halvas yelled, abandoning all pretense of stealth.

It was too late. In an instant later, the entire tower rumbled both from the roar emanating from the deep and the quaking of the dragon waking from below, jumping up from the underground. Before Halvas even had time to consider, its forelegs stretched over the broken edge of the tower, long, sharp talons reaching out to grip the ledge. One of the Wardens with him was too slow to react as the great curled claw of the dragon slammed him down, pinning him underneath the foot. The man screamed as he was crushed, the hooked talon ripping through his steel armor as if it was barely there. The other Warden bolted for the exit as Halvas lurched forward, tight behind his shield and swung his axe, the blade striking the scaled foot of the dragon. The steel bounced back, unable to break the hard dragonscale, although he had only made the strike in the hope it would lift the foot. It did, but only for a second as it slammed it back down before the Warden underneath could extricate himself. The metal armor crunched and the flesh squished, spraying blood out as the man was smashed into paste underneath.

Halvas shuffled his feet backward as the dragon’s head emerged from the darkness, black, sick eye peering over the edge and spotting him. The dragon bent its maw upward, letting loose another deafening roar as it spilled icy breath into the sky.

Halvas turned and bolted, under the stone arch, feet slamming across the worn walkway.

“Go! Go! Go!” he shouted as he ran and wheeled his arm around, his axe swinging as he motioned for them to move.

The dragon burst from the top of the tower, black and blue wings stretching out into the air as it rose out of the stone column and found the gray sky once more. It turned its body, righting itself as its wings flapped down, the powerful gusts blowing over the Wardens as it held its position in the air.

The Wardens were beating a full retreat, scurrying down the hill as fast as they could. Halvas stopped at the end of the bridge and planted his feet, ducking behind his shield as he banged the axe against the face of his shining steel kite.

“Blighted wyrm!” he called out, hoping to draw its attention as the others retreated. “Come and taste the steel of a Grey Warden!”

The dragon considered him for a moment, its dull, black eyes peering down, but then looked at the scurrying Wardens scattering across the rocky hills and spotted much easier prey. It gave one more hard beat of its wings and lurched forward, soaring over the hill, as it flew toward the others.

Halvas turned as the dragon glided overhead and his hand quickly dropped to his hip for his horn. He pulled the marpelwood to his lips, inhaled and blew a single, deep, bellowing blast. Stand and fight, the horn blared.

At the blast of the horn, the Wardens stopped, drawing weapons and shields, and turned back toward the dragon. The beast swooped down out of the air, crashing down on top of one of them, crushing the Warden underneath as its claws scraped into the earth, sowing it with black Warden blood oozing between its talons. Halvas pushed himself down the hill to join the fight as arrows and spells flew, the Wardens circling the dragon, cautiously attacking it from multiple angles as it spun and tried to pick them apart.

Halvas entered the flat as the dragon spun, whipping its heavy tail around. He ducked under it and followed its passage by swinging his axe, gashing the scales. As the dragon felt him there, it lifted its back leg and kicked out. Halvas pulled his shield across his body to absorb the impact, which pushed him back, dragging his boots across the ground. The dragon lunged forward, a fast move that belied its great size, its jaws snapping around the arm of another Warden, the crunch of its teeth as it sheared metal and snapped the arm away at the shoulder as the Warden fell, clutching to the severed joint.

Halvas charged in again, his axe hacking into the dragon’s flank before it shoved down against the ground, a hard beat of its wings creating an oppressive downburst of air that bent his knees as it lifted into the sky. The dragon elevated into the clouds, soaring off to the east before circling back and opening its maw, a ball of swirling cold forming in its jaws.

“Take cover!” Halvas shouted out and the Wardens dove out of the way, behind rocks or the dead remains of trees as the dragon skimmed the ground, belching frost over the battlefield. Halvas spun behind a stone, crouching low and pushing his shoulder against the rock as he could feel the burst of cold over the top of his head, chilling his skin as veins of frost spread across the terrain like lightning bolts cracking through a stormy sky. The dragon crashed down, its landing punctuated by a woman’s scream as another Warden fell beneath its might.

Halvas spun out from his cover and charged the dragon, banging his axe against the flat of his shield to try to draw its attention again. This time it worked as the dragon spun, its black and sick eyes staring him down as it lunged, jaws snapping. Halvas spun to the side, striking the side of the dragon’s head with his axe as its neck jerked back. It stepped forward, lifting its great clawed foot and it struck down. Halvas covered himself with his kite, the screech of dragon claws down the steel face throwing sparks up in his face as he held against the impact.

A ball of fire ripped into the left flank of the dragon from one of the Warden mages, pulling its attention away as Halvas lowered to a knee, catching his breath after holding against the dragon’s strike. The Wardens were still swirling around it but their attacks were landing like little more than fly bites. He glanced around and spotted Warden corpses littering the ground, at least three at a cursory glance.

They weren’t going to overcome this dragon, that was clear, but they also couldn’t retreat and let it fly off to ravage Lavendel or wherever else. That left little choice – either drive it back to its nest or die trying. Halvas swallowed, focusing his thought inward as he dug deeper into his reserves, touching the sleeping taint inside his blood and awakening it within him.

He could feel its strength suddenly coursing through him, hot and painful, like flames burning him from the inside out, as he filled his body with the power of his tainted blood. He could taste iron on his tongue as his vision and hearing sharpened, as his muscles twitched. He could feel his black blood rushing through him, hear it flowing through his head as it pounded through his temples, banging like drums as it reverberated through his skull in a sudden pounding ache.

Behind it all, the sound flared, the pulsing, thrumming, drumming of the blight growing instantly louder in his head, the shrieking, tearing, frantic noises of overlapping strands of taint screaming soundlessly in his ears. Halvas staggered on his feet, disoriented, the noise enough to drive him mad if he let it as he sharpened his focus to cut through the noise. He narrowed his eyes on the dragon ahead as he let his burning blood fuel his rage, setting his target and letting the animalistic drive of the darkspawn within carry him forward.

Halvas darted in again, his steps quickened by the renewed strength in his legs as he roared, drawing his shoulder back as his arm wheeled, driving the axe down into the tail of the dragon with a force double his normal might. The scale underneath gave way, cracking and shattered as the blade bit through, causing the dragon to roar and react. It whirled, its legs slashing out as it did so, although Halvas could see the move coming before it happened, feeling it, as he lifted his shield and rolled, deflecting passing claws as he came face to face with the beast again.

The dragon almost seemed to hesitate as it beheld him again, seeing something different than it had just a moment before. Halvas saw the dragon differently in that single moment too, as if he could see past the corruption that clung to the dragon like mud and moss clung to stones in the damp forest. He could see pain in the dragon’s eyes, a noble beast tainted and twisted, enslaved against its will, but unable to break free from the black chains that encircled and pierced it. It was corrupted, inseparable from the blight now, little different from Halvas himself since the day he put that black chalice to his lips and drank.

The moment was shattered as the dragon stretched forward with its open jaws, looking to snap him in two. Halvas shuffled back, just out of reach before he lunged in, leading with his shield as he struck the front teeth before him, ringing his steel shield as it slammed against the sword-like fangs. The dragon roared and withdrew, then crouched to set its body as it leaned forward and sprayed a jet out cold out before it in a tight beam. Halvas rolled under as the ice swept to the right, watching it sweep the terrain before he rolled back in the other direction as the ice passed overhead again. He regained his feet and charged while the dragon was still belching frost, driving his axe into the foreclaw of the dragon, causing it to recoil.

The dragon jumped into the air again, swirling up into the sky as bolts of fire from one of the mages followed it up, exploding harmlessly off thick scales.

“Hold fast!” Halvas called out in the temporary respite, his voice underpinned by a snarl that crawled up his throat from the flames in his lungs as the power of blood boiled inside of him. His eyes tracked the dragon as it circled, staring down at the Wardens as it cried out, voice bellowing across the low-hanging clouds, no doubt echoing miles away across the Anders.

The sound of the taint in his head was furious and loud, but within it he could hear one thread of the music more clearly the others, a low and panicked note that twanged through him and across his blightsense, like a slightly out-of-tune string on a bass, trembling and off and sounding nearly ready to break. As he followed the dragon with his eyes, he focused his senses on that one frequency in his head, pushing the others aside as he listened to it, isolating it from all others.

And then, he connected to it, recognizing it as the feeling echoed through his black blood.

The dragon. 

He could feel its blight, could sense its emotion, its confusion and rage and pain.

And, within it, there was one feeling that pulsed across his consciousness, a throbbing pain that echoed across the taint, drawing his eyes toward the dragon’s back right leg. As it circled overhead, he could see the way that it hung just a little lower, the claws looser and the leg slightly extended compared to the others. To any normal observer, the difference would be imperceptible, but as Halvas felt the link to the dragon, he couldn’t now see anything but it. Pain.

“The back right leg!” Halvas called out to the Wardens. “The back right leg is injured! Focus your attacks there!”

The Wardens who were left shouted their assent back as Halvas craned his neck up, digging deeper into the taint inside of him and pushing the power to the surface until it rolled off him like a black flame. He lifted his shield, pounding the face of it again with the flat of his axe, steel ringing against steel in concert to the pulsing of the dragon’s blighted heart and the pulsing pain he felt, challenging it to attack. The dragon circled, its eyes piercing down on him as it dove, diving as it curled its body under, reaching with its claws to try to grab him.

Halvas shuffled back, fending off one foot with a hard strike from his shield and sending another back as his axe clanged against razored nails. The dragon slammed down, trying to use its weight to crush him but he rolled out to the side before he was flattened. He slipped his axe back into the loop at his belt, changing hands with his shield as he reached across to his other hip and drew his sword, his thumb brushing across the rune in the crossguard to ignite the steel in flame. Halvas waved the flaming sword ahead of him, keeping the dragon’s attention on him as he threw a series of strikes not meant to do any damage but only to hold its attention as the other Wardens went to work. The dragon snarled and snapped at him as one of the heavy warriors charged in with his two-handed axe, drawing back as he twirled and swung with all his might, the blade slamming into the back right leg of the dragon.

The beast roared in pain and spun, its claws and tails whipping out in every direction to clear the Wardens away. The warrior who had got the shot in couldn’t get out in time as claws raked his chest, driving him to the ground where the dragon quickly followed, jaws snapping down as it tore the torso and crunched the warrior in two. Magical lightning crackled as it raked across the dragon’s left flank, forcing the dragon to turn and sweep out for the mage. It charged ahead, the mage diving for cover as a sphere of frost slammed and shattered against the spot where she was standing a moment before.

A rogue cut in, low to the ground, nearly dragging his daggers across the stone as he darted in, slashing against the open wound his comrade had opened before his death, acid sizzling as the poisoned steel contacted flesh and burned. He rolled dangerously, just underneath the stomach of the dragon as it twisted again to protect its weak spot, barely extricating himself out the other side as he sprinted for cover.

Halvas took the opportunity to slash with his flaming sword into the dragon’s neck, drawing its head and attention back toward him. The dragon snapped, missing, as it roared again, raising its head to the sky and belching ice and rot like a fountain above them, globs of cold and blight smashed down like bombs ejected out of a volcano. Halvas raised his shield over his head, deflecting a glob of black bile as it sprayed around in a choking stink. Another strike landed on the other side he couldn’t see as the dragon screeched and crumpled, its weight falling as its rear leg collapsed, unable to hold it up.

“Now! Attack! Hit it with everything you have!” Halvas bellowed, sensing the panic jolting across his blightsense as the staggered dragon reeled, crying out in agony as it tried to recover itself.

The Wardens swarmed, blades and arrows and magic spells striking from every direction as the dragon flailed on the ground, trying to regain itself on its wounded leg. Halvas darted up under the dragon’s throat, slashing at the hardened scales at the neck, embers bursting around him as the blazing blade crashed down over and over, leaving scratches and burns as the dragon writhed from the multi-directional assault.

Its weight rolled, the dragon’s girth pushing onto its left side and the two good legs on that side as its tail slammed down into the ground. With help from its uninjured front right leg, it pushed against the stone and thrust itself into the sky, screeching as it went, flying back off to the north and toward the watchtower. Halvas watched as it crashed heavily against the top of the falling stone tower, collapsing more of the bricks, before it stuck its head into the open top and slithered down inside, disappearing back into the hole underground.

Halvas fell to a knee, swallowing hard as he shut his eyes and clenched his jaw, quelling his blood as he suppressed the taint within him, dousing the rage and fury that bubbled through him. The sounds of the blight in his head screamed in protest, the corruption latching on as it tried to take hold of him. Halvas bit, drawing blood in his own mouth as it dribbled between his lips and down his chin in a dark glob as he lost his hold on his sword, clutching his hand to his heart as daggers of pain gripped his body. It felt like all of his muscles were tearing as taint that had engorged them receded  as if he were being slashed apart by shards of broken glass bouncing around  in his veins.

Indulging so deeply in the power of the taint was a double-edged sword, a source of strength but one that exacted a toll, both physical and mental as a Warden gave himself over to the monster within. Unchaining that beast, even temporarily, always carried the threat of it running roughshod and taking control, ravaging whatever lay in its way. His fingers contracted, nails scratching against his armor as if he hoped to pluck through the leather and steel and pull his black heart out of his chest to spare it from the pain.

And then, it extinguished all at once, so sharp and sudden that it felt like all his breath was being sucked out of him, like he was suddenly drowning. He coughed, his lungs sucking back in the cold, damp, stinking marsh air. Black blood bubbled up over his lips like vomit as he leaned forward and retched a pile of foulness onto the stone before him. Halvas teetered forward, catching himself on a palm before he fell face first, his chest heaving as he tried to steady himself, regain his breath and calm himself. A black froth of spit and blood ran out of his mouth, foaming.

He shut his eyes, the music of the blight powerful in his head, pulling him, ensnaring him, calling him to it. The sound was so clear, so close, so beautiful. It called to him to give in, to surrender to it, to join it, like so many of his brothers had. Like Ivon had, just days before.

His arm trembled underneath him as it held up his weight and he loosed his shield from his other arm, driving his other palm to the ground as he fell to all fours like a beast. Halvas squeezed his eyes tight, gritted his teeth as he drew in ragged, angry breaths, the air hissing between his teeth as he fought the sensation.

No, I’m not ready. Not yet. I have more to do.

The taint disagreed, a spike of pain flaring in him as the chords of music cut inside his ears, digging like hooks to drag him back to the abyss. His fingers curled, scratching the dirt as he shook his head, growling to himself as he wrapped his mind around that nugget of being nested in there, surrounded by an ever-growing fog of black corruption. 

He was a Warden. He was an elf. He was a man.

He was not a darkspawn. He was not a beast. He was not giving in.

He was not the plaything of some corrupted goddess.

The fury of the taint receded, pulling away from the hardened walls of his consciousness, although as it went it felt almost mocking, confident and amused at his continuing defiance. Time meant nothing to the blight. If it didn’t get him today, it would get him tomorrow or the next day or the next. 

He would succumb, he would fall, he would be claimed, eventually, like all Wardens.

The emptiness left by the taint as it calmed inside of him, leaving only him in its wake, was unsettling.

“Steelshield,” one of the Wardens said as they came over, crouching at his side, the voice laced with concern. It was the mage girl, the one who had been spraying lightning and barely dodged the blast of cold fired at her.

“I’m all right,” Halvas said without moving, licking his lips to brush aside the last of the bloody froth. It tasted of metal and rot. “How many did we lose?”

The Warden hesitated, swallowing. “I don’t know. Ten, maybe?”

Damn it, Halvas thought, swallowing the bitter taste of a crippling loss on top of the foulness of his own blood and corruption. They were losses the Wardens couldn’t afford, losses incurred on his lead.

“Gather the survivors and return to the Cauldron,” he ordered. “I will follow shortly.”

“And what of the dead?” she asked.

Halvas grimaced, his head twisting in pain as his hands curled into fists underneath him. He knew what must be done.

“We can’t risk another attack,” Halvas said. “Leave the bodies.”

The failure was bitter in his mouth as the Warden mage rose, called out to her brothers and sisters in arms, and retreated toward the Cauldron, leaving Halvas on his hands and knees, momentarily too weak to rise, too weak in the face of the blight that surrounded him.