Chapter 3 - "Victory..."

The night by the fire, with its orange tongues stretching over their heads, was uneventful. No worse or better than the forest. On the one hand, no bloodsuckers, on the other hand, the military camp didn't fall completely asleep. The dreams left Morrigan feeling elusively unease, but without a trace of specificity.

Looking around, the first thing the girl found was Duncan's figure. The man sat in the same place as yesterday. The Grey Guardian watched with a blank face as the fire feasted greedily on some fresh logs. Sensing movement, the warrior nodded briefly. And Morrigan, with a strange curiosity and trying not to make any noise, was able to study the features of a man who held a decidedly unusual position. Even if he did not occupy the highest positions in the hierarchy of the world or even the country. At such moments, the Commander maintained a striking distance. Or he wore such an expression that it was impossible to read his emotions and thoughts.

Less than ten minutes later, the other two participants in the ritual arrived. Strictly separated from each other. After greeting them both with a similar nod, Duncan immediately took the bull by the horns.

— I assume there are at least two people here who have a question. How did the war council go? Since you have to face the consequences anyway, I see no point in hiding it. And there's no such thing as military secrecy. A horde of about a thousand is approaching from the north. Primitively equipped. They won't reach Ostagar until this evening. The king is confident that the timing is a coincidence. Your interlocutor and... some others in His Majesty's entourage doubt it. In one respect, the King is sadly and undoubtedly right. There are few ways for an army to avoid battle these days. Especially if attacked from the north. For a number of reasons, the worst-case scenario has come to pass.

Morrigan crossed her legs, leaned forward and, with her hands on her knees, asked the simplest of essential questions.

— Why?

Duncan raised his eyebrows in surprise, but answered.

— It was thought that a wave of spawn scattered across the area was moving from south to north. And that the bulk of this horde was within Corcari as of yesterday morning. So the king's warlord, Logain Mac Tir, proposed taking Ostagar as a stronghold. At first there was no objection to this tactic. But now there is some doubt as to whether we have chosen the battlefield...

Alistair furrowed his brow and interrupted the Senior with a cautious remark, trying not to raise his voice.

— How can one expect the spawn of such sophisticated, cunning tactics? Long-range planning months in advance?

With a sigh, the old Grey Guardian shook his head negatively and continued.

— There are no clear answers to these questions. The creatures of darkness are mostly predators, unafraid of death and pain. The Alphas are leaders, cunning in their own way. But no more so than an old, experienced beast that has managed to outlive every young rival over the long winters. Emissaries are... Something else. There is an intelligence within them, capable of painfully twisted but effective schemes. But to plan far ahead... On this scale of time and distance... Cooperation. This is something new. It's hard to believe when the rules suddenly change and nothing is what it seems from now on. It is in the nature of humans and elves to cling to the familiar until the very end. But if the years have taught us anything, it's that there were no rules to begin with. It pays to prepare for the worst. And when you stumble upon the unexpected, it means that there is room for the imagination to grow. Back to the question of Felandaris... At first, the petty squabbles with the Southern Borders spawn didn't seem to attract much attention. Except for us. Then there was an outbreak of violence in the south-east, which gave the king the idea of a military campaign. In the hills of Southron, certain monsters had destroyed the village of Wintiver. This is near the southern border of the Bresilian Forest. The Templars still insist that the unknown malefactor is responsible. After that, all was quiet. Suddenly, news came from the Western Hills. An epidemic that began in the village of Southmere. Amber Fury. As we now know, Mora's destructive influence was responsible for the outbreak. Then came word from Gallagher Wolf. The lands of the Earl of the Western Hills had been invaded by numerous bands of darkness spawn. With this in mind, and in accordance with His Majesty's wishes, Logain devised a strategy to quickly crush the spawns. On the way to Ostagar, the army fought three major skirmishes that seemed to result in the complete defeat of the invading vanguard from the Western Hills. The three battles perfectly confirmed the king's warlord's assessment of the animal nature of the invasion. All that remained was to occupy the fortress. Play the role of bait. Wait for the core of the Horde to concentrate and defeat them. The rest of the events were in line with the general view of the situation. We had been trained to believe that if the enemy stayed in the rear, they were not equipped wild animals. That was all. Based on the idea that the army could always retreat to the Imperial Route and on to Latering, we traded mobility for the reinforcement of the ancient walls. That's why the direction of the main attack from the north is bad. That's where the camp is most heavily defended. We cannot retreat south to Korkari. Retreating towards Ferelden is dangerous in the middle of the forests or on the Tract.

With a smile, Morrigan couldn't help to show her own assessment of the quality of the company's planning.

— So the glorious northerners have been fooled by the mindless spawn?

Alistair cast an exasperated glance at the girl, trying to parry the remark with one of his own.

— It's easy to criticise when you take no responsibility yourself.

— Oh, what a change. Like a flag in the wind. Weren't you careless a day ago about the folly of the idea of going out in the open against the enemy?

Alistair was about to dismiss the sorceress' words, but stumbled under the elf's questioning gaze and replied angrily.

— You know a lot... I have. I haven't changed my mind. Of course, I'm a mediocre warlord, especially compared to the occupation hero Orlei. But the idea is simple. We shouldn't have gone into the wilderness to meet an enemy like that, where we're on equal footing. As cynical as it sounds, we should have met the Horde in Lothering. Or further north. Evacuate the inhabitants first, of course. We'd have roads, rivers, supplies, settlements and forts on our side. Even the militia.

The girl raised an eyebrow demonstratively and clapped her hands a few times.

— The brain is hidden behind a thick bone. But it's good camouflage.

— Look who's talking.

— You will probably never know the answer to that question.

Alim, who had watched the argument in silence, turned to Duncan and questioned his chosen strategy.

— Is our guest right? Has the warlord been outwitted?

Duncan shook his head negatively and turned his gaze back to the flames.

— If only events were as simple as they sound. Right or wrong. Win or lose. Logain MacTeer considered himself a great strategist. Quite rightly, I might add. And not used to taking advice from the obscure, dark-haired Grey Guardian. But like many in the past, the warlord had underestimated the enemy, and instilled his own confidence in the king and his retinue. I don't dabble much in politics. For reasons unknown to me, the relationship between the warlord and the king is strained to the breaking point. This spurs Logain on, forcing him to act more confident and aggressive than ever before. Just when it is least appropriate. But it's a big mistake to think the man is hardened or a fool. It is only through the reports of the last few days that Mr Logain has caught a glimpse of what is to come and realised the mistake he has made. Without my own knowledge, I could never have reached the same conclusions based on such scant facts. At the war council, the commander urged me to set aside my optimism and take a pragmatic view of things. Start withdrawing the army to the northwest, to Redcliffe. Immediately. That very night. The king lifted the warlord with a laugh, leaving Logain to choose between pride and good judgement. For a man in his position to swallow his pride and admit a mistake deserves respect. Mine certainly is. I supported his conclusions. However... His Majesty set out last night to break Mr Logain's back completely. The King has agreed to a reasonable withdrawal, but only on one condition. As winter approaches, the regrouping and resupply of troops will blow a hole in the treasury, forcing the final battle, wherever it may be, to be postponed until spring. The Horde will inevitably grow stronger. And reinforcements from Orlais will be needed to ensure victory. And this stepping stone for the warlord proved too high. I cannot judge who has lost.

Alim shook his head in disappointment, but said nothing. Instead, Alistair asked a question.

— How will the battle be fought?

— A battle, yes... What have we got in the end? A third of the army, led by the king, will meet the enemy here. Elite units and Grey Guards down by the walls, archers and ballistics up here. Two thirds, including cavalry, mages and other units, will retreat to the north-west in the afternoon, lurking for a rear attack in the middle of the battle.

Morrigan tilted her head sideways and said with doubt in her voice.

— It stinks. Why would the king want to get involved? What profit does it promise?

Duncan shrugged.

— Talked myself out of it. It was no use. Admittedly... I don't know. I don't know the king well enough to understand the motives behind such behaviour. Pride, heroism, stupidity, cold calculation? Who knows?

The next question came again from the blonde, who looked strangely uncomfortable as the discussion touched directly on the king's qualities.

— How does a warlord know when it is time to attack?

Duncan turned to the Ishal Tower and pointed with his hand.

— Today, wood and oil will be piled on the open ground near the top. The only thing left to do is to light the fire at the right moment, when the enemy is drawn into the melee. And you will do that, Alistair.

The blonde nodded at first without much of a reaction, and only then did he jump up and try to object.

— But... I... Why? Because...

— It's simple. You are now the youngest Grey Guardian. You have your whole life ahead of you, while many of us have barely a year left. Yes, that's right, don't interrupt. Someone has to carry on. Someone fresh, open to new things, clean. At least from the sins of the past, if not the present. You have to survive and keep the contracts. The Tower of Ishal is the perfect opportunity. Doesn't sound very noble, in a local way. What kind of hero is ordered to simply survive? But I assure you, this may be the most heroic task of Alistair's life. To die at the hands of the enemy is easy. To live on... But you'll understand. Afterwards. It may take years — but it will come.

Alistair tried to object anyway, but as soon as he opened his mouth Duncan made a negative movement with his head.

— This is not a matter for discussion. It is an order. Alim — wants you to go with him. This is a request. Think of it as balancing the odds — there are ten times as many grey guards.

The elf allowed himself a brief grin, but nodded in agreement. The Grey Commander then turned to Morrigan, who immediately snorted.

— "You want to babysit, sprinkle the sweet spice of 'safest place on the battlefield'. I don't think so. The situation is simpler — your Heir's word keeps me safe until the end of the show. And since I rely on it, I should stay within blade's reach before I disappear into the woods.

— So it's a deal. Tip — eat, sleep. If you can find someone else to go to, or where. After lunch pick up the contracts and go to the tower. It's a high climb.

Clapping the men on the shoulders and nodding to Morrigan, the old Grey Guardian slowly went about his business, leaving the trio in grim silence. No one wanted to talk... And there was nothing to say.

* * *

Apart from the massive base, which had its own ascent of three or four dozen steps, the Ishala Tower consisted of four spacious storeys. The wide spans of the single staircase connecting the levels suggested either a span or a purpose for carrying bulky loads. The top floor was once reached by narrow stone steps from the middle of the third floor. One of the few impractical things about this masterpiece of engineering that has not survived the ages. Soldiers carrying firewood upstairs replaced the wreckage of Imperial architecture with a primitive, sturdily constructed ladder.

The fourth floor was an impressive place. Astonishingly high. With an astonishing view. Strikingly uncomfortable in bad weather. In fact, it was an open platform above which rested, on four thick columns, the dome of a heavy hemisphere with a narrow, greenish spire. From there, an intricate geometric pattern of the same thickly patinated copper swirled across the roof. The pattern then descended to each of the columns. In a sharp spiral, strips of metal as thick as an arm's length disappeared into the stone walls of the tower. Nothing but the columns bounded the place. Only a rough stone floor with four grooves for water, followed by a precipice. In the centre, to the left of the square hole in the floor, were dozens of bundles of chopped firewood, jars of oil and a firebrand. There was enough of everything to give the firebug a headache trying to find shelter from the fire.

And the view... The combined height of Ostagar above the lowlands and the tower above the stronghold gave a feeling close to the emotions of birds. And it certainly allowed you to brag to your friends in the pub — "and I was under the clouds".

As Duncan had advised, the trio set off for the tower around four o'clock in the afternoon, carrying a week's supply of army pemmican to be on the safe side. Only Alistair was a little short of breath after the climb. At the warrior's surprised look, the elf shrugged and cut him off.

— Life in a tower higher than this.

And Morrigan added.

— Yes, and you're the only one wearing armour.

The girl immediately positioned herself behind a pillar facing the plains. Fearlessly dangling her feet over the edge, the sorceress leaned back and covered her eyes. With a wary glance at the girl, Alim occupied the adjacent pillar, but sat down inside. And Alistair, dropping his belongings and carefully checking the future fire, began to wander around, surveying the surroundings on each of the four sides.

After an hour or an hour and a half of idleness, the camp below came to life. The tents began to disappear in an orderly fashion, things poured into the wagons, people lined up in rectangles of three. Soon there was an organised exodus towards the forest. But while some were leaving, others were dragging ballistas from the south walls to the north walls and dragging spare logs to the fence.

After watching the mass of people for a while, Morrigan suddenly turned to the dozing elf.

— Who is the one whose place you have chosen?

Alim opened his eyes, turned to face the northern horizon, and watched the languid movement of the clouds in silence for a while. After a quarter of an hour, having finally come to an inner agreement, the elf replied.

— Sister.

To the sorceress' slight surprise, despite the waltzing pace of the exchange, Alistair did not lose the general thrust of the conversation. Immediately after the answer, a man's muffled curse could be heard from across the courtyard.

— I didn't know that relatives were allowed to live together in the circle nowadays. The reference thought, as in the past, that was the only outcome.

With a sniffle, the mage shivered and replied, not without sadness in his voice.

— It's the same as always. We are... Extraordinary.

— That's how... And them?

— Wondering what might have got Duncan's attention?

— Exactly.

Alim frowned and thought for a few minutes before formulating a coherent answer.

— I think... it's a matter of talent. Sister is surprisingly easy with spells that project runic designs onto the surface. I can only assume that, with Duncan's knowledge, it would give her a huge tactical advantage in battle.

Nodding, Morrigan looked at the sun rolling towards the horizon and closed her eyes...

* * *

A hand reached out to gently shake the girl's shoulder. But a moment before it touched her, her yellow eyes fluttered open to meet the elf's bewildered gaze.

— Look.

Morrigan turned her gaze from the man to the view, drowning in the gathering darkness. Hundreds, thousands of torches clearly outlined a mass of enemy fire concentrated at the edge of the forest. It was immediately apparent that the distribution of the lights was not chaotic. There was an order to the movement, and the ranks that had already formed looked too obviously like the orders of an organised army to believe that it was a coincidence.

Standing three paces to the right, Alistair expressed a thought that had crossed the minds of those present in different ways.

— Not the horde. The army. Whoever's behind this has managed to exploit every weakness of ours to their own advantage. And it's not just the organisation. Look to the right.

The man's hand points to the right flank. From the east, along the cliffs that separated Korkari from the lowlands, a new column was approaching. The lights flickered and disappeared for long periods because of the abundance of trees. Still, unbeknownst to anyone, the reinforcements looked comparable to the forces that had already arrived. The situation looked grim.

With a voice trembling with excitement, Alim drew everyone's attention to himself.

— This is it.

And indeed, the first formation of the enemy, holding its line, emerged from the forest. The creatures threw their torches at their feet and rolled slowly but inexorably in a single line towards the fence. Four paces later, a second formation emerged from the forest and the pattern was repeated. A third, a fourth. The line of fire behind them obscured the details of their advance, turning them into one sinister mass, lit from behind by a crimson glow. Though the creatures' clothing was not uniform, it did not seem to follow the same pattern. Mismatched weapons, patchy armour. But the atmosphere, the eerie orderliness, the unconventional silence was overwhelming.

Suddenly, like an element of nature, the roar of drums began to grow from the side of the fortress. The unmistakable, menacing, uneven rumble of the drums, against their will, stirred the heartbeat, warmed the blood. Without warning, the uneven rhythm was broken by the piercing, clear call of the trumpets. Then the commanders' shouts mingled with the creaking and clicking of ballistic missiles, and the chorus of battle cries from the soldiers lined up outside the palisade. The spears came down.

Ballistic rounds tore through dozens of creatures from the first and second ranks, but the distance between the advancing lines minimised their effectiveness.

A deafening roar came from the forest, drowning out all other sounds of battle for a moment. A scattered formation of half a hundred ogres emerged from beneath the canopy of vegetation. They were met by drums, now beating in a steady rhythm, and a volley of archers. The arrows from the high walls flew in an arc towards their target, turning into a shower of death, shooting a harvest forty paces in front of the formation of the human army. Once again, the damage was less than expected.

Then the ranks fell. The first line of spawn, thinned by ballistae and archers, was cut down by spears at once. The momentary triumph was marked by the victorious roar of soldiers on the battle line. But the three who watched the battle from above were in no hurry to celebrate. The forest was spitting out enemy formations, rank after rank, as if there were more than enough torches to go around. The thought struck each of them like a painful sting.

— What an abyss...

— Admittedly, it's tricky.

— In half an hour, the army's position will be overrun. Faster if the spawn keeps coming. Alistair, I don't think this is about tactics anymore, it's about survival. Light it.

The blonde agreed with a grim look and quickly made his way over the few steps that separated him from the firewood. Throwing three jars of oil into the pile at once, the man picked up the firebrand and generously sprinkled the result with sparks. The flames came on easily, with a greedy crackle, surging with bright tongues towards the dome, generously sharing waves of heat. Within a minute, the heat near the wood became unbearable. Blinded by the light, Alistair turned to the figures staring intently into the darkness to the northwest and asked.

— Well? Well what?

Minute after minute passed to the sound of battle. The human army took almost no casualties and sowed death, triumphing louder and louder. But the ogre formation almost reached the lances and... Suddenly, another line of spawn emerged from the forest, not advancing like the others. Instead, the forest creatures appeared armed with simple-looking but massive bows. The horns of each were a quarter of the spawn's height. With an effort that could be heard even from the tower, a hail of black arrows shot in a curve towards the human positions. They crashed through the dense mass of humanity, piercing light shields and armour like parchment. And then, as spears shattered and flesh crumpled, the ogres burst into the front rank of the army. Two men tall and weighing as much as a horse, the creatures ignored wounds and pain. The killing machines threw, smashed and destroyed everything around them with their last breath.

— Where's the reinforcements?

Alistair's voice was filled with an undercurrent of fear mixed with desperation, his eyes darting between the battle and the forest. Alim remained focused, silent. And Morrigan, leaning back against the pillar, waved her hand to the northeast and said.

— There it is. What are you looking at? There will be reinforcements here. But not on our side.

— The moment is not for...

The blonde was interrupted by the grim tone of the elf.

— She's right, Alistair. Let's face it. There are no reinforcements and there won't be any.

Meanwhile, a second formation of archers emerged from the forest, immediately filling the air with a fresh cloud of arrows, and Alim continued.

— If you look at it cynically, without emotion... it's a debacle. Reinforcements might have changed the picture of the battle. But the cost... I think Logain is withdrawing his troops at these moments, hurrying to get as far away as possible. Before it's all over. A warlord holds two thirds of his army in his hands. A fighting army. And even though it's late, he will use your idea.

Clutching his chain mail in anger until the metal creaked, Alistair opened his mouth to object, but could only utter an impotent groan. Morrigan, strangely distant at the sight, glanced at him and added.

— It is a trap. Again and again, the northerners walk into the trap with a look of cleverness. They think, they think. But don't pay attention. In my opinion, Logain always checks where he's putting his foot. Maybe... There's a bit of emotion involved. There's a dispute between your leader and the warlord, and revenge is a small thing.

Turning to the girl, the elf crouched down and asked slyly.

— What do you see?

The ogres' attack had stalled. The Grey Guards, known for their uninhibited fighting style and a king in shining armour, were showing the soldiers by example that the ogres were mortal. Despite the havoc they'd wreaked, the huge bodies soon collapsed beneath the men's feet. Retreating behind the safety fence, the Ferelden army closed in once more, while the ballistas and archers on the walls poured their fire further into the forest, mercilessly massacring the spawn in three thick lines of archers.

— Wait. And the pit, a brave saviour waiting. You believed the enemy to be few in number. You have been deceived. You look down and say to yourselves, "If only the whole army were here, then...". Why do you not even think of averting your eyes again? The enemy is waiting. And if the others do not come…

— Then we will be crushed without mercy.

— Well said.

— But you are calm.

— Am I? Do you have to blink more often to show fear, like a warrior sweating intensely over us?

Alim wanted to object. But he was distracted by a growing sound coming from the forest. A growl. Deep, angry, crushing. Not deafening, but evenly spread over the battle. It vibrated in his chest. When the sound stopped, something rumbled in the base of the tower. The elf's face instantly went white, the sorceress looked puzzled in response, and he muttered.

— Slabs. That's the sound of slabs falling. Every few years, a few idiot combat mages turn up, experimenting with fireballs in confined spaces.

— Look!

Both turned at Alistair's call to see the chaos. Below them, the tower doors swung open and a wave of spawn swept out, attacking the archers and ballistic calculators caught off guard. Fighting also broke out near the southern exit of the gorge. About three dozen wide-open Garloks, wearing light armour and muzzles wrapped in rags, emerged from the forest. The formation raised their arms to the sky at once, dark purple flames swirling around them. With barely perceptible whistling and humming, the rapidly forming boiling blobs drew glowing arcs, tumbling among the men and unfolding into short-lived fireballs. The heat burned their lungs, ignited wood, clothing and flesh. The orderly rhythm of battle sank into a sea of cries of pain and screams. The drums faded and the ranks of the king's army collapsed, finally mingling with the enemy.

Alim pointed to what was happening and muttered a single word.

— This is...

Glancing frantically at the speechless elf, Alistair turned to the fire, shielding his eyes from the light.

— Can you push the wood down?

The mage looked at the blonde as if he were mad, but Morrigan understood the gist of the question immediately.

— Is this heroic, warrior? What's in it for us?

The Grey Guardian let out a barely contained snarl of impotent rage through clenched teeth, and replied with the first sentence he could think of.

— We'll extend the deal for as long as it takes. My word.

— Stupid. But yours did. Alim, go around the forest, use a repelling wave spell. A pile, like an enemy — and push it away.

Nodding, the elf took the staff from the ground, circled the fire and began to do as instructed. The warrior and the sorceress moved apart, out of the way of the flaming mass. The only thing Alistair could do was to scoop up the two remaining containers of oil from the ground. A faintly visible barrier, familiar from the night's battle, soon appeared around Alim. It looked more ephemeral than the last one. But this time, the mage was not accompanied by a green firefly that had been summoned beforehand. The elf exhaled twice, tensing visibly, and... the crumbling pile of wood slid to the edge of the pad. It took three impulses for the pile to tumble over the edge and onto the steps in front of the tower. With visibly trembling hands and sweat-soaked feet, the mage staggered to the nearest column, pulled an opaque vial from his belt pocket and dropped it into his mouth.

Not wasting a second, Alistair darted to the edge and with great force tossed the jars of oil over the edge. The ensuing noise of rising flames and angry barking was reflected in a vengeful smile on the blonde's face.

— Great plan, and the execution is wonderful. As I said — revenge is petty. Now the exit from the tower is blocked by flames for the time being. Where will the enemies run to?

Spitting, the blond man drew his blade from its scabbard, picked up his shield from the ground and jumped down to the third floor.

— Purposefully... Alim?

The elf, still pale but already firmly on his feet, nodded and waved his hand to indicate that unconsciousness was not part of the plan either way.

Sliding down the extension ladder, they both found Alistair in a fighting stance at the passageway. And they heard the stomping of the rising creatures. The battle had come to them.

The girl gave the elf a quick command over her shoulder.

— Protect yourself.

Then Morrigan stepped up to Alistair, touched the blade slowly so he wouldn't snatch it away, and spoke a simple incantation. The metal instantly cooled to the smooth surface, as if it had just been taken out of the biting cold. The warrior accepted the help with a discreet nod of thanks. Alim, wrapped in the magical and spiritual protection that shimmered around the elf's body, tried to make one last dark joke.

— I have heard tales of the legendary witch Korkari in the camp. They said she had a knack for bringing down lightning on the heads of her enemies. Perhaps we were lucky enough to be in the same company.

The sorceress was about to agree. But frozen mid-sentence, she felt a twinge of uncertainty. Quickly jogging her memory, she realised — the sequence of lightning manipulation spells was gone, feeding her paranoia at the wrong time. The memories of learning this magic seemed intact. But the spell itself... It was as if every hour of study had been wasted. The question was, what else had been lost besides those hours of forgetfulness? Finally, with an uncertain nod to Alim's words, the sorceress prepared to face her enemies.

A minute and a half later, the first three Garloks appeared on the ground floor. In their rusty, uncleaned chainmail and long, jagged blades, they showed great climbing speed and were off to the top of the stairs. A pulse of Alim's incantation knocked the most impatient of the trio back down the stairs. The crunch of bones and the thud of bodies rolling down the stairs began the fight.

Morrigan clenched her fist and hissed through gritted teeth.

— Tua vita mea este.

Something elusive, like a trail of water, slithered towards Garlock. And then the blade sank into the girl's stomach, pulling her back a step and causing her to utter an unintelligible cry of pain. Despite the elf's cry of rage, Alistair's mind was on his own opponent. Garlok was far more dangerous in close combat than Genlock. Especially since he had both weapons and armour. The blond man took long seconds to find the right moment to strike back, his shield barely able to parry and manoeuvre. Using the high position to his advantage, the man suddenly ducked and lunged forward from a sitting position. Right underneath another lunge. A shield blow to the stomach and a stab to the thigh knocked his opponent off balance, allowing him to lift after the first and clatter away.

Turning to the other, the man witnessed an unnatural scene. The Morrigan, grinning eerily, sat on the blade, holding the head of the spawn in her free hand and whispering softly, almost softly, to the man from above.

— Frius. Tenachi.

The flesh surrounding the distorted skull immediately froze under the girl's fingers. Releasing the sword, Garlock's body fell gently to the steps. Gently, but without haste, the sorceress removed the enemy weapon from his abdominal cavity and tossed it aside. The men watched in horror as the wound healed before their eyes with a faint trickle of blood.

— There is no need to kill it. It will serve as a source of life force.

The five Genlocks reached the third floor next. The man with the light bow sent an arrow up, aiming for Alistair as the only one in sight with a weapon. The blond man leapt to his right, slamming into the wall and narrowly missing the target. The arrow was fired upwards, hitting the only one in sight of the weapon, bouncing to the right, the blond man slamming into the wall, narrowly avoiding a hit.

Keeping his opponents between his own body and the archer, Alistair spun, knocking back the short blade of one and thrusting the other at the third, who was propped up behind him. Taking full advantage of the staff's length and element of surprise, the Morrigan managed to stab the hesitant Genlock in the eye. The third blow disoriented him, and the second was a swift kick to the head. The third blow still sent the disoriented creature crashing to the stairs. And the girl, not distracted by the busy blonde, slipped out of the gunman's dangerous line of sight. Once in relative safety, the Morrigan cast the same spell on the stunned Genlock that she had used on Garlock.

Before Alistair could get the first creature of darkness between him and the second Genlock, the man was struck twice on the jaw with the hilt in a close fight. Getting into position and knocking the enemy's blade aside with enough force, the blond man sent both Genlocks rolling with a kick of his boot. Spitting blood as he went, Alistair also ran backwards to avoid being hit by arrows.

— Our time is running out.

The warrior, breathing heavily, checked the grip on the blade and nodded, squinting.

— It's getting dark.

There was a clattering sound on the stairs and two Garloks came running up with an archer behind them. Alistair and the sorceress stepped aside at the same time, making it harder for their enemies to pick a target. Henlock, however, had a different reckoning with his bow and immediately took aim at the struggling elf. Abandoning her thoughts, the sorceress unleashed her next spell in a loud voice.

— Somnia dirae tenebrae, animum furanthe.

A wave of translucent darkness spread from the female figure across the room and vanished in an instant. But the result was beyond expectation. The three opponents froze and then began to behave irrationally. The enemy archer began to swat away the danger that only he could see. One Garlock stiffened, the other began to retreat until he tripped over the lying bodies and rolled down the stairs. Wasting no precious time, Alistair drove his blade into one man's neck, stunned the other with a blow from his shield, then stabbed him to death on the floor.

— Can't... ugh, don't think about it. Hide... Do you have any tricks up your sleeve now, like in the fight the other night?

Frowning in the blonde's direction and for the first time openly showing signs of fatigue, Morrigan replied briefly.

— Honesty will ruin you.

— The warning is overdue.

From below came the multiple stomping of no less than two or three dozen feet. Among them were the heavy footsteps of an ogre who could easily fit across the wide span.

— Time to keep your word, warrior. Stand and hold for as long as you can, but no less than a minute. Don't turn around.

— Is there a plan...?

— I have an idea. Whether it will cost me my life, I will soon find out.

— Well. Sounds better than 'about to die'.

Alistair went back up the stairs and concentrated. After tracking the blonde with a keen eye, Morrigan turned to the elf, using what little strength she had left to stay conscious. Closing her eyes, the sorceress summoned the particular form of spell she had learned directly from her mother. A strange, intertwining chain of runes twisted within her body. To the power of the blood that flowed through her veins, and to the flesh that made up the girl's essence. The normally calm, though complex, spell — this time it wriggled as if it were alive, demanding extra attention and control. Something in it seemed broken, wrong. But there was no time to check the formula, rune by rune, from beginning to end. The girl's flesh swam like red-hot wax, swelling and tumbling and changing at an accelerating rate before the eyes of a fiercely pale mage. Her face hardened, her eyes and lips ripped from her face. The mouth filled with needle-sharp teeth. Her hair was pulled back into her body. And there the change had just begun.

The first sounds of battle could be heard behind him, where Alistair, with the last of his strength, diligently imagined a full squad blocking the ascent to the third floor. But the elf's wide-open eyes were focused only on the metamorphosis taking place before him. The girl's shoulders slumped to the side with a distinct crunch of connective tissue and a crack of bone. Her clothes had stretched and burst at the seams, peeling off her body like the skin of a snake. Finally, the broad shoulders of the slender, elongated body, now only remotely feminine, split with a snap into two more pairs of black clawed hands.

The creature exhaled from its mouth, showing no sign of pain or discomfort, and froze before muttering a muffled hiss.

— Strange. But there's no time for that.

One hand deftly grasped the staff and the bundle of personal belongings. The other two raked the paralysed elf, who could offer no serious resistance. The creature fled with a low whistle.

Meanwhile, Alistair, under the strain of finishing off a third enemy in a row and miraculously escaping without a single wound, took a three-second breather. The Genloks jumped down, giving the Ogre a head start, allowing him to deal with the obstacle more quickly. Taking advantage of the pause, the man turned around... Only to see the wreckage of Daveth's clothes and... emptiness. His eyes flickered to the ceiling. The extension ladder seemed to be in place. The puzzle in his tired, overloaded brain did not add up, and Alistair just let out a slight chuckle.

— Said it would ruin honesty... What a joke... Still, it's a shame.

* * *

The sounds of battle faded. And in the tower. And in the stronghold. And in the surrounding lands. The night sheltered the dead, but there was no peace.

Atop the fourth floor dome of the tallest building in the south of Thedas, where no conscious being had entered in ages, stood a naked female figure, dark curls fluttering freely in the wind. Squinting yellow eyes watched the organised work of the creatures of darkness. The darkly moving mass was reminiscent of scavengers pouncing on their prey. But the result was much closer to the workings of an organised anthill. Bodies, regardless of affiliation, were roughly stripped of their armour and piled onto moving wagons pulled by Genlocks. The wounded were mercilessly dispatched. Other similar wagons were loaded indiscriminately with armour and weapons. The plunder slowly but surely disappeared beneath the dark canopy of the forest to the east. It seemed that by morning, the battlefield would be completely empty. And no one would know it. Almost no one...

Alim lay there, his hands tied around the spire with his own belt. Even the elf's will could not withstand the mana drain. During the violent shaking, emotional and physical, as Morrigan climbed the dome with him in her arms, the man fainted. But perhaps it was for the best. The girl had accumulated too many subjects to ponder in the silence of the night. A new one had been added to the growing list of oddities. The original plan had included a clause to use the remaining mana to turn into a spider and escape on the tower's dome. With that result, the men's fate remained unenviable. Instead, the familiar spell gave the body an unfamiliar shape. Equally dexterous, but endowed with greater physical strength. Morrigan had no intention of surviving on her own. Under the new circumstances, the girl immediately made the decision to save Alim. Alistair... The sorceress honestly admitted — the man was a source of concern and irritation to her. With common sense, it could not have been otherwise. The blond man had a prejudice against wizards, had an unknown connection to the Templars, had his own agenda, acted as he thought and thought no more. And the spawn should have been captured to complete the conversion. Still, the loss of the warrior was inexplicably irritating...

Tired, Morrigan sat down and closed her eyes. She barely had enough mana left to cast another spell. Had she been an experienced southerner, trained to survive alone in Corkari, exhaustion would have lulled her into a dreamlike slumber, like an elf without distinction. The source of a mage's power is also a curse.

Pulling her hair back from her forehead, she slowly unpacked the bundle of her own clothes. The thought crossed her mind — it would be the height of stupidity to be routinely cold...

* * *

— Creator, dragons and primordial elements... How am I supposed to feel that ledge with my foot?

Alim sprawled on the edge of the fourth-floor roof, spewing his excess adrenaline at Morrigan in surprisingly uncharacteristic flowery phrases. She was already standing at the edge of the roof, arms crossed under her chest. There was a look of slight impatience on her face. Having lowered herself through a thick band of copper that wrapped around the stones and retrieved the staff that the elf had brought down, she now tried to instruct the wizard in the correct procedure. But the man had obviously never descended from a tall tree in his life, and had no experience of walking upright.

— Let me get this straight. Brave Alim has two choices. Either he can become fodder for the owl when hunger and the sun overcome him. Or he can trust a wise companion and slide down. At least the flight will be short. He who agreed to die after the battle now complains ridiculously.

— But why don't you turn back into that creature and take me down again?

After pausing at the sound of the man's tense grunt, the girl replied, not hiding a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

— The spell has been behaving strangely. Until I find out why, I'd rather not waste it.

Sweating and concentrating only on the rough surface near his nose, the elf slowly crawled down to the pillar and then lower. When he reached the ground, Alim stepped quietly away from the edge and lay down gently on the stone floor.

— Are you grey?

— What's...? Silly. But I can climb anything now. And I'm warm.

— We shall see. I fear that from now on the vertical ascent will bring back memories of that painful experience. Although waking up on the roof of the tower at dawn may be just as unforgettable. Speaking of which. Why do you think the spawn didn't follow?

Looking down, Morrigan tweaked her tongue.

— There are three reasons. I've encountered the creatures of darkness many times, and I've always noticed one remarkable fact. They either look under their feet or straight ahead. They rely more on hearing and smell than on sight. They do not raise their heads even when birds of prey call and the sound of their wings fills the sky. And what did our enemy see? Fleeing upwards. But when they rise, they meet a void. Complex conclusions require a ringleader. Or, as Duncan describes it, a messenger. And there was a moment of distraction.

Alim sat up and nodded sadly.

— Yes. Sounds logical. But you know... Don't take it as a complaint, as ingratitude for a rescue. But the way you mentioned Alistair's sacrifice at the end... I don't know. A little frightening?

The girl flinched for a moment, not wanting to sort out her own feelings, and pushed back.

— I just listed the reasons in order of importance. I am not happy with my choice. Let us not ask idle questions. As you can see, neither your staff nor your supplies are there. We must go to the camp and search for survivors.

— You're right. But... Just so there are no misunderstandings between us. The transformation that took place... The Abyss — it was truly strange, even in light of recent events. No — scary! Not the kind of thing that conjured up associations. Not something a wizard would want to think about. If you want to talk about it...

— Not until we've had a thorough discussion about your sister. Let's go.

At the mention of his sister, the elf chose to remain silent.

No bodies were found on the third floor. Just a few drops of frozen blood by the stairwell, giving no clue as to the nature of the blond man's last moments. Morrigan left the scene unattended. But she gave her companion a few minutes to look around.

Tracks of the spawn entering the tower could be seen from the steps of the last staircase. There was a huge, gaping darkness in the centre of the main hall. The slabs that had fallen inwards at the cracks showed how much force had been used. Each one was at least a metre thick. In addition, the excavation itself had broken through the masonry of massive blocks that formed the base of the tower.

The partners froze at the failure, and Alim couldn't help but share his thoughts.

— This had happened before. When the only inhabitants of the fortress were birds and rodents. A month's work?

— Perseverance. Determination. Prudence. This is what we can deduce from what we have seen. This is the nature of the power that the present Mohr leads.

Leaving the contents of the tunnel concealed by the darkness, the girl and the mage stepped out into the sunlight, the dark thoughts far from their minds. Thanks to the night's 'clean-up', of which Morrigan had told the elf so succinctly during his adaptation on the roof, the stench of blood and open entrails was barely detectable in the cooling breeze. Much stronger was the smell of smoke and dewy fireplaces. A cursory glance around revealed that the Horde had taken nothing but food, equipment and melee weapons. Ballistas looked hopelessly broken, tents torn, personal belongings scattered. The sight of an empty, ruined camp, shrouded in silence, seemed surreal. Especially when, at the sight of conspicuous places, the memory conjured up images of a day gone by.

As Alim surveyed the camp from the bridge over the gorge, he was the first to identify and silently point out the location of the command centre, the king's tent and the remains of the supply wagons. To Morrigan, the view from above looked like a jumble of pieces of cloth of different sizes and colours. Acknowledging her companion's superiority, the girl nodded appreciatively. As she stepped away from the edge, however, she frowned at the realisation of her helplessness regarding the purpose of the colours and the heraldry of the northerners.

The ladders and ramps built by the army had made the descent into the ravine at the southern end of the fortress quite comfortable. But now... Broken engineering structures littered the far older remains in a pitiful way, sharing a common fate with these. It took an hour of clear time to exit through the eastern gate and descend into the gorge through a natural throat.

The image of the pogrom below set a strange, contemplative tone. The personal belongings suggested owners who would never pick them up again. About people's characters, habits, preferences and weaknesses. Apart from a general lack of food, another striking feature of the ruined camp was a complete disregard for values. Here and there, the eye would dart to objects that were either functional or expensive. Things of no importance that people would not leave behind even if they were robbed. But to the spawn, they had no value whatsoever.

The wagons proved as useless to the girl and the elf as the soldiers' tents. As Alim circled the empty, battered wagons, Morrigan scowled at them from a different angle. Witnessing firsthand the orchestrated work of the Horde, Morrigan frowned at the still-functioning wheels and axles of the wagons. They remained intact. Clearly, the answer to the question that had been nagging at her could be crucial to understanding the enemy's behaviour. But no hypothesis came to the girl's mind that did not immediately collapse under the weight of its own absurdity.

— Uninhabited.

Coming back to reality at the mage's words, Morrigan nodded and pointed in the direction of the royal tent.

— There is one last chance to try it.

At the ornate remains of a large tent, trotting across the abandoned battlefield, the pair were greeted by expensive carpets, broken roasters, folding chairs, a table and scattered candles. The only movement was the fluttering of scraps of cloth in the wind. It was easy to imagine what the decor had looked like before the looters had desecrated it. A cosy study. At night, with shadows hiding the walls of the tent, it must have been as if you were still sitting in your own castle or manor. And the war was just a bad dream.

Unfortunately, there were no supplies left here either. Even the king's chests, clearly not meant for storing food, had been methodically torn open by the enemy. Absently, Morrigan approached the bulkiest of the three and began poring over the jumbled boxes of scrolls and rectangles of parchment. Alim, meanwhile, scrutinised the delicately handcrafted map of southern Ferelden that had been discarded and trampled on the ground, and expressed his uneasy thoughts.

— While Duncan and I were catching up with the slow-moving army to the south, the Commander took every opportunity to tell another story about the traditions of the Grey Guardians, the sea or the creatures of darkness.

At the mention of "tradition" his voice trembled, either with anger or excitement. But the elf continued as before.

— One story was about the distant past. The time of the first and second Mores, when the Guardians had succeeded in capturing intelligent creatures. I suppose... it was about Emissaries. They'd been held in the dungeons of Weishaupt for years. And once, one of the creatures was taught a language. At that time... It must have been Tevene. One way or another. During the interrogation, the spawn managed to learn a few facts about their intentions, their goals. They turned out to be quite simple. The creatures aren't interested in conquering land, in valuables. Not interested in increasing their numbers. They don't even need victory as a concept that we've invented. Their only motivation is to scorch the surface at all costs. After all, the creature deceived its own guards and, after killing many, nearly escaped. Such an ending casts a shadow over the outcome of the interrogations. But there is something to it...

With a thoughtful glance at the man, Morrigan returned her attention to the documents she had studied during the monologue.

— What has been said is a story from days gone by. Don't take it too seriously. There's a more recent account of events here.

The girl shook the pile of papers. The material was expensive and only used for business correspondence of the wealthy or high ranking. Judging by the embossing and density of the paper, this was more of the latter. Biting her lip, the girl scanned the text for a second or third time, and voiced the contents.

— Correspondence between the late King of Ferelden and the... Empress?

Alim raised his eyebrows in mild surprise and clarified.

— Orlay? Her Highness Selina?

Nodding, Morrigan sighed and lowered her papers to look over the horizon.

— There are no direct titles. And in the subtleties of correspondence my skill is modest. But the meaning is carelessly concealed with a mist of words. A woman's hand gives clues deliberately, with finesse. A man's hand... confuses the clues. No evidence, just letters. But when the desire is there, as one wishes, it is not difficult to interpret. Does the king have a consort?

— Her Majesty Queen Anora. Mac Teer.

— The daughter of a warlord?

— Yes...

Rounding her mouth, Morrigan made a soft "uh-oh" sound and nodded. She folded the papers three times and placed them in her pocket.

— The papers speak of the design of the Union. A military one. The king is desperate. But they can easily be interpreted as evidence of intrigue, ambition and intent bordering on treason.

— And so... you keep the papers?

With a simple nod, the girl looked around and added.

— Look for coins. Unlike the spawns — we know the value of money.

— I'm not going to argue about morality...

— Then don't.

Alim grinned grimly, but began his search with a sad expression on his face. The man's emotions could be read like an open book. Though the mage did not argue with his partner's conclusions, the situation disgusted him. Crossing what should have been a state of inevitability did not bring joy at his newfound freedom, but rather doubt as to what might follow this first tiny step into the unknown.

In the end, I managed to get a bag of silver. Twenty-two silver coins, according to Morrigan's meticulous count. The lack of gold sovereigns was somewhat surprising, but no one should look a gift horse in the mouth. She had also taken a broad, graceful, palm-sized hunting knife from the bottom of the chest.

When they had finished sifting through the remains of the camp, the sorceress suggested that they find a place at the mouth of the gorge. So that the rock would protect them from the wind. She answered the obvious question of the wizard, who was looking at the north-western horizon with pensive eyes.

— To wait for the night. I intend to pass the time in my sleep. There's no game before the forest. And hunger, when one is asleep, is not a problem.

— Yes... My question is just that — why wait? Here!

— There are two main reasons. Firstly, the spawn are said to come from the darkness for a reason. And also dwellers of the paths of the deep. But darkness is darkness. We'll be seen in the fields or the woods on our way to the path. We speak of the threat of trickery from patrols sent back by the Horde. Who knows what's waiting just beyond the edge of the forest. Second... We must hurry, of course. These lands will remain empty for a day, maybe two at the most. That's why I'll take the Tract. At least until sunrise.

As they approached the cliff, Alim turned and tried to object.

— Before sunrise. But...

— Think about it — who is on the track ahead of us?

— A retreating army.

— A mass of infantry and convoys. You said earlier that the army had to catch up on foot. When you and Duncan were marching together.

— Yes. We caught up with the units at the crossing between Latering and Ostagar.

— Not bad for two travellers. I don't assume we'll be any slower. Now another question. Who's capable of catching up with an army now? As far as who's got a firm grip on the reins.

Sitting on the advanced canvas of the next tent, leaning against the ancient stones, the man sighed. The grim look suggested that the mage had been caught — what exactly was the girl hinting at?

— Spies. Defectors. Malefactors. Yeah, I get it. Shoot first, deal later. Makes sense from a warlord's point of view.

— There is no greater curse in the eyes of the damned than to witness their black deeds. So we will travel along the Tract for the night, then descend into the forest and travel through the hollows to Lothering. That way we can avoid unnecessary attention. And hopefully we'll be able to stay ahead of the spawn. But most importantly, out of reach of those terrible bows.

— I agree. Their arrows are death.

— I'm going to bed. The night's ahead. Save your questions for later.