Chapter 18 - "At the Doorstep"

Tristan sums up dryly:

— The bell is ringing for us. They must have seen us coming into the bay. It's alarming.

Just beyond the broken perimeter, which in many places only marked the boundary of the settlement, were three irregular lanes, more or less straight, winding between similar houses, barns and backyards, filled with the branches of modest gardens jutting into the gloomy sky. Leafless and silent, they resembled the dark bones of once living creatures. The alleys ran down to the bay itself, eventually converging at a wide intersection with the main road. The one that circled the bay in a semicircle along the shore was not visible from here because of the buildings. Aside from the modest cul-de-sacs and those downhill alleys, the single street served as the axis of the settlement, with the bridge to Fortress Island, the mill, the docks and the Temple strung like pearls on a string. As Morrigan stared at the row of lifeless buildings on the outskirts of the city, she asked a question, though her thoughts were focused on finding a warm and safe place for Leliana:

— What's troubling?

— How shall I put it? I thought by now the harbour would be devastated by the dead. And since they can't get into the fortress, the possessed would have scattered in search of new victims. The sightings and the ringing mean there are still organised inhabitants. Except there are no patrols in sight. Is the edge of the settlement too dangerous? No need for them? The windows haven't been boarded up in a hurry. A job well done. Whatever happens here, there's the luxury of a predictable respite. And yet the houses on the outskirts are deserted, so the threat is not gone. Is this the behaviour of the Walking Dead horde?

The older Templar hums grimly and answers dryly:

— Not at all.

— So someone is not only «creating» the «walkers», but also holding the reins of control. By the way, you can see it from here — the bridge to the fortress has been raised. What is there to fear if the village is holding on?

Bethany licked her lips, which wasn't a good idea in the cold, but the girl was too nervous to worry about such details.

— What are we waiting for? This desolate place is more frightening than a wild coast in the middle of nowhere. And since you say it's on the edge of the village...

The Seeker raised a hand, offering the girl silence, and voiced his own thoughts:

— I don't think we have anything to be afraid of... right now.

The man stuttered oddly at the end of his sentence, then turned sharply and stared at the slopes of the gentle hills that surrounded the bay. He glanced at Morrigan, then said thoughtfully:

— It's easy to hide on these slopes.

The girl looked back as well, then crossed a pair of golden eyes with steel grey ones.

— Of course. There are lots of trees and rocks. Although on this side of the hills, the trees are mostly birch and aspen, which have already shed their leaves. But fresh snow is an excellent protector. Local eyes can easily spot a movement in the white, or the recent track of a fox.

— What if the snow falls on you?

— Then...

She turned her eyes back to the slopes, then glanced at her friend hanging from the Templar. Tristan was cursing softly in Orlean, but only Morrigan could make out anything, and she didn't get the gist of it.

— According to the Church's census two years ago, there were about eight hundred souls here. And in thirty or forty years, every one of them will end up in the ground. It's not the custom in Ferelden to burn the dead. About two dozen bodies a year. It's cold most of the year, so it takes about five years for all the flesh to come off the bones. I've never heard of lower demons being able to move a collapsed bone. At least not when there's no Mortalitasi around. So... a curse on our heads.

Morrigan clenched her fists and slowly made up her mind, keeping her eyes on the snow-covered slopes where the only source of movement was a faint breeze:

— Is it because there are up to a hundred possessed corpses lurking in the snow?

— Perhaps more, if the last few years have been hard.

The Seeker deftly pulled a memorably narrow stiletto from his robes and stabbed it into the centre of his left palm. Clenching his fist, the man closed his eyes and waited for the ruby drop to fall. As before, in those moments when the blood flowed steadily down to the muddy snow beneath her feet, it seemed to Morrigan that at the very edge of her field of vision, something subtly twitched and slid between the trees in the distance. But as soon as she turned her head, it was clear that the harsh landscape was still. The snow turned a pale scarlet, and Tristan exhaled:

— The abyss... They're everywhere.

Bethany was the first to react:

— What?! Who?

Suddenly, from the roof of a nearby building, came an unfamiliar male voice that combined both fear and determination:

— Are there wizards among you?

Morrigan, Tristan and Bethany turned sharply as the Templars continued to peer down the slopes, leaving the mages to deal with the new danger. On the roof of one of the houses opposite the guests, an archer stood on half-bent legs. He was a middle-aged man with close-cropped black hair and a beard tucked under his chin. He wore a dirty, warm woollen caftan and had an arrow resting on the bowstring, still pointing downwards. Eyes were fixed on the two quivers over his shoulder, one containing only four arrows and the other hanging from his belt: a forged firebrand, a corded flint and a piece of broken hemp rope. The man's eyes darted nervously from the group of strangers to the surrounding hillsides and back again.

The action unfolded slowly but steadily. First the fresh snow moved in one place, then in another, then in dozens of places along the next slope. Tristan cut in commandingly:

— To the Temple!

Immediately an arrow hit the ground at the leader's boot. The archer said clearly and quickly, already drawing a second arrow and pulling the bowstring at half strength:

— Don't move! The creatures are only looking for those with talent. They don't care about the others if you don't interfere. If they move, there's a mage among you. You'll bring the horde to the innocent if you go any further. I'm sorry. You'll have to stay here.

-Tua vita mea este!

The cry came as soon as the archer finished the sentence, and the sorceress was already out of her seat. A barely perceptible ribbon of refracted air shot forward and upward, missing the arrow by a hair's breadth. Without trying to dodge, the girl threw up her right hand, palm outstretched to cover her heart and forearm to cover her eyes. The broad point easily penetrated the hand, slicing through her clothing and slicing through her left breast. With a hiss of pain and anger, the sorceress twisted in place, extinguishing the force of the shot and breaking the shaft as she went. Tearing the arrow from her flesh and throwing it away, the girl leapt to grab the low overhang of the roof. With a jerk of her bent legs, Morrigan's next move was to use her arms to push her body up, so that in one fell swoop she was on the roof in one piece. A surprised murmur of profanity echoed above the sorceress, followed by the slap of feet on wet snow behind her. She rolled once more and ducked, ducking like a beast as she lunged forward, crushing the shingles with her soles. A third arrow, fired at point-blank range, pierced the sorceress» ear, giving her barely enough time to tilt her head and rest it on her left arm. The maiden's shoulder slammed into the pale archer. Morrigan had no intention of engaging in hand-to-hand combat. There was no time for that. Using the mass and inertia of her movement, she simply rolled down the slope with the archer, paying little attention to the new bruises, the edges of shards digging into her sides, and the crunch of breaking arrows. A short flight, and with a thud they both crashed into the shallow snow.

Morrigan was the first to roll to the side, immediately turning to face her enemy on all fours. The man, clearly not in good shape, struggled in the cold mud, trying in vain to pull himself up. Tristan was the first to run around the corner of the building and into the alley. He drew his short sword as he rounded a bend, sending a wave of white spray into the air. Without slowing, the Seeker plunged the toe of his boot into his enemy's stomach. The rest of the group appeared.

With a gasp, Tristan spat out a terse question:

— Did the dead only exterminate those with talent?

The archer jerked his head in what could be interpreted as agreement. Tristan grimaced and turned to the dark-haired sorceress, then to the Templars standing nearby:

— A trap. Snares set for anyone who comes to take the bait.

When she was sure the wound on her palm had healed, Morrigan stopped the spell. Sneaking a glance at her frightened pupil, she considered the death of the hiding guard an unseemly cruelty. The sorceress knew she didn't care about the man's life. And at the Seeker's conclusion, the girl said irritably:

— Assumptions don't change the point.

The eldest Templar followed with a clarification:

— Orders?

Bethany gave Morrigan a startled look as the first sounds of the dead approached from the hillside. What at first had looked like dark white specks among the black trees were now visible. The grotesque bodies matched the nightmares. The slowest were practically fleshless, others were «fresher». But regardless of the degree of decomposition, all the corpses looked desiccated, dark and covered with fallen leaves. The creatures made no sound and moved with an inexorable, frighteningly steady persistence. The creatures began with slow steps, then quickened and gradually changed to a monotonous run.

The Seeker furrowed his brow and curtly asked his captive a new question:

— Who is in charge of the survivors?

The man coughed and, with a startled glance towards the hillside, hurried to answer:

— My Lord Tegan. The Earl's brother.

— Splendid... My master archer and I will negotiate with the lord. I have a very convincing case for him and the rest of his men to meet the Horde. I'll find out about the fortress as well.

Morrigan clenched her fists and interjected angrily:

— Just you?

— Just us. Along with Tralin, who carries your mate. And for that to work, you'll have to be the bait.

Bethany stepped forward to intervene, but Morrigan stopped her with a gesture. The eldest of the warlocks willed the boiling rage away, and she said with artificial calm:

— Oh, good. Your hand-picked Templars don't ask questions, I see. But I'm not blind. Both in the circle and here, your abilities are nothing but blood magic. So you're not lacking in «talent» either.

Tristan grimaced and looked at the approaching monsters. The nearest were no more than a hundred and fifty paces away.

— Not a good time. See, your knowledge of blood magic is shallow. To say the least. The Pact opens the door to certain abilities, regardless of talent. Do it...

— And if I don't?

The Seeker did not hesitate with an answer as cold and sharp as a whip:

— Two wizards would do well to thin out a mindless mob. And such a demonstration will reassure the locals that victory is within their grasp. A chance. But you're talking about saving your hide, aren't you? My hide is at stake too, so here are the facts. Killing a mage through the phylactery is no problem for me. Distance is not an issue. Then your «apprentice» is just ballast. Try to survive. Or die.

The man didn't even wait for an answer, but lifted the struggling archer with a jerk and pushed him in the right direction. Tralin came running after him, Leliana on his shoulder. The warrior's face was clearly relieved that he was leaving. Morrigan turned to Bethany, gritting her teeth and speaking to no one in particular:

— Choices and consequences...

The sorceress focused her attention on her apprentice, feeling the metallic taste of the girl's panic on her tongue. Morrgian grabbed her shoulder and shook her mercilessly.

— Look at me! Worry about that later. Stay close. Watch your mana. Make sure you hit. Watch your back.

The dark gold of his eyes leapt to the exposed blade of the older Templeman who remained nearby. The man clenched his jaw and nodded. There was a cold fatalism about the man, as if he had already realised and accepted his own fate. And it was this willingness to face death without thought or doubt that frightened the Morrigan more than the approaching dead. This way of thinking seemed alien, almost repulsive. At the same time, the first two creatures slid through the pitiful remains of the fence and into the alley.

Showing unusual agility for swollen corpses, the possessed bodies immediately targeted the dark-haired sorceress, blindly selecting only the possessor of the deepest well. The Templar reacted with a speed that demanded respect. A wide step forward, with a seemingly premature swing of his blade from below to above, missing the first corpse by a good half-step. Not forgetting that the creature in front of him was absurdly straight, the warrior continued the upward movement of his sword. In a flash of footwork, the man spun around, turned his back to the enemy for a moment and, without moving from his seat, brought the blade down with all the strength of his hands on the collarbone of the possessed man. The metal crunched through the bone with the sound of kindling and sliced through the flaccid flesh. The fragile vessel may have been strengthened by the will of the lower demon, but it could not withstand the force of the blow, nor the Templemaker's strengthening abilities.

Immediately, the man began to turn backwards, jerking his sword from the falling body to meet the horizontal thrust of the creature as it tried to slip past. The sharp blade effortlessly sliced off the dead man's arms, which had been raised at the last moment, and his head. A few breaths passed and the first two enemies, wrapped in a heartbeat of black holes, collapsed into the soft snow, filling the cold air with a cadaverous stench.

Morrigan nodded respectfully as she struggled to pull the only weapon available from the nearest bundle of stakes.

— The inferior's power is modest. If damaged enough, there is not enough to sustain it. And without a hull, the little creatures can't even show themselves.

Throwing the stake to Bethany, the girl added curtly:

— «Burning weapon.» Light it. Like a spear. Point it at the enemy. Let him stake himself if he attacks.

She drew her weapon as well and looked around. The alley was unremarkable, except for the gnarled hedges, the ruined outskirts and the houses with boarded up windows. Except that near the two nearest huts, a step away from the boarded-up doors, was a closed barrel with a rope on top. It looked out of place. From about Bethany's side came the faint hiss of residual snow clinging to the «weapon». A quickly heated palm flicked it away. Meanwhile, the Morrigan took a step towards the man with a dropped hand:

— Without obligation or ulterior motive.

With these words she touched the metal of the blade with her fingertips. The blade, stained with rotting ichor, was immediately covered in an elegant pattern of frost from hilt to tip.

A new walking corpse of a once moderately well-nourished old woman rose silently from the ground at the edge of the house. As she stared at the dead woman's gaunt and emotionless features, Morrigan couldn't help but wonder at the contradictory feelings she was experiencing. On the one hand, the girl was filled with a strange sadness. For behind the mask of rotting flesh lay a story that had been forgotten, and now the remains of the body had been reduced to a hideous shell to represent the primitive ideas of hunger and hatred. On the other hand, the sorceress was struck by the sickening realisation that there were barely a dozen living people in the whole world who would remember this old woman. And the value of her life was so modest. Even within Erling it was hardly noticeable. Except... Could such a measure be applied to someone who might have been a mother? Beyond the perimeter, the girl's keen eye detected new figures approaching like animals, on all fours, their heads turned at an unnatural angle. To the right and left came the crunching of the surviving hedgerows.

Leaving the outskirts to the Templars, Morrigan waved to Bethany, breathing nervously, and began to retreat to the second line of buildings.

The warrior deftly dodged a straight blow from the creature that had tugged at the image of an old woman. But the man could not finish her with one blow. The monster covered himself clumsily and uselessly with his arm. However, having removed a considerable chunk of dark flesh from the limb along the bone, the blade could not cut it this time. This allowed the others to surround the embattled man. Three burst into the alleyway from the front, rushing towards the waving man. Two paused for a moment on the roofs of the huts, looking blindly from side to side with sunken faces, as if unable to choose a victim, but finally charged the swordsman. If it weren't so threatening, the straightforward movement of the possessed climbing over a stovepipe instead of simply rounding it might have seemed amusing... Complete encirclement forced the Templar to switch from deadly blows to a constant dance of parries and preemptive swings. The snow beneath their feet was quickly turning into a muddy mess, making movement more difficult than ever and each new step risky. The dead had little regard for their own safety, so a finger or even a whole dried-up hand would fly away from the tangle of bodies. But even a casual onlooker would have understood — relying only on his trusty blade, the Templar was delaying the inevitable.

Bethany's scream stung behind her. Morrigan slipped to the right, almost instinctively, before she could even comprehend the warning, pointing the pointed staff backwards. A half-dead body rolled off the nearest roof and impaled itself on the staff like a stake. The remnants of the dead man's flesh were barely able to move. Cleverly catching the «weapon» so that the falling fiend wouldn't break his hand, the girl pulled out the improvised spear and threw it at the creature that had rolled out of the nearest corner. The spear easily penetrated the centre of the male corpse's mass, sending it tumbling into the snow. But it was little more than a brief reprieve. As Bethany stabbed the dead man to death, driving her own smoking stake into his chest again and again, Morrigan turned sharply to another «ally».

The Templar was surrounded by a dozen creatures, circling like a pack of sinister caricatures of human figures. Many threw themselves forward, almost impaling themselves on the blade so that the rest had a chance to sink their crooked fingers and teeth into the malleable flesh. The precarious balance lasted only as long as the man's error or the luck of one of the opponents. Pausing for a heartbeat, the Morrigan cast an oblique glance at her apprentice. She had dealt with the first fiend and, judging by the pile of flaming flesh, had managed to incinerate the dead man struck earlier by the «spear». At the moment, the girl was holding another corpse on a blackened stake that had jumped from the roof. Morrigan suppressed both her surprise and her now misplaced pride and turned her attention back to the warrior. Throwing her hands out in front of her, she spat out a powerful curse:

— Ade te!

As she flexed her fingers, as if clutching something invisible of the most bizarre shape, she immediately felt the loss of a considerable amount of mana.

All the corpses of varying degrees of decomposition surrounding the Templar opened their jaws and collapsed into the snow like puppets whose strings had been cut. In the moment before everything froze, they poured out a deep blackness, as if without volume, and then turned into ordinary corpses. But the warrior was no longer able to draw attention to himself. The man's left hand was disgustingly missing its outermost pair of fingers. His dull face was scratched. And his ragged breathing spoke of overexertion.

The sorceress sucked in the stinking air and blurted out:

— Fifteen, more...

The dead man came out of nowhere from the left and, as Bethany screamed in rage, knocked Morrigan down with a crushing blow to the stomach from a loose fist. Already staggering in the snow, the possessed man tried to claw out the girl's eyes. But a roaring wave of flame washed over the corpse, causing it to burst into flames like a candle. Blinded by the flash, Morrigan pulled her legs up to push the writhing body aside. A wet cough followed, alternating with attempts to keep the few contents of her stomach and bile inside. The girl was jolted from her momentary disorientation by Bethany's fall into the snow. The knucklebone that had attacked from behind, wrapped in the pitiful shreds of flesh that held the decrepit remains together, had been so silent that it had taken both mages by surprise. And now the creature was pressing desperately against the girl's spear, trying to strangle its victim or gnaw at the smoking staff with its well-preserved teeth.

With a lurch, the Morrigan rolled to her knees and writhed, pointing forward:

— Frius. Tenachi...

The creature slowed for a moment, covered in frost, clearly visible from the side. The spell couldn't stop the corpse completely. Nor could it do any damage. It wasn't a matter of a small amount of flesh, but the fact that the corpse had originally moved only because of the will of the «shadow» creature. Pinned to the ground, the girl immediately let go of the «weapon» and wrapped her bare hands around the dead man's skull, burning with heat. With a brief hiss, the corpse's head burst into flames and crumbled beneath her fiery fingers. Tossing the crumbling skeleton aside, Bethany involuntarily let out a small sob of disgust. Scooping up snow, the Morrigan rubbed her face, completely ignoring the cold and the fresh scratches. Gritting her teeth, the sorceress banished any lingering doubts about her apprentice's usefulness in real combat.

A wet, crunching grunt came from where the blade had just cleaved the air. Both girls turned to see the Templar kneeling in the mud. His blade was deep in the chest of the creature lying a step away, possessing the body of the impressively built corpse. Before he fell, the lower demon wrapped his arms around the sword, snatching it from the warrior's weakened hands as he fell. And on top of the Templar, like a giant leech, sat a hideously thin old woman who had almost lost her face. The possessed corpse had just torn a chunk of flesh from the warrior's throat, and the man's life spurted in scarlet jerks from the ghastly wound. Blood bubbled to his lips in time with the last beats of his heart, and behind him a new pair of dead men with incomplete limbs came ravenously up to join the fray. The man's desperate gaze reminded the southern witch that behind a strong wall of faith there is always a primitive fear of death that is released at the last moment. Like a prisoner bursting from beneath the crumbling walls of a dungeon. And then the dark gold reflected the determination of another, and the girl sprang from her seat towards Bethany. Grabbing her by the shoulders, the sorceress dragged her down the alley towards the bay. Three or four wide steps later, the older wizard's hair felt as if something had touched it, and at the same time, everything behind her fell silent. For the next ten paces, all that could be heard was the slap of feet on wet snow, heavy breathing and the soft crackling of Bethany's charcoal-crusted «weapon», the remnants of which she soon tossed aside.

Leaping up to one of the houses with unbroken doors and windows, Morrigan jabbed her elbow into a small window divided into smaller squares of glass. Pulling back the right sleeve of her clothing and wrapping her fist around it, the girl began determinedly kicking and tearing at the remains of the window. At the same time, a fleeting wave of heat... came over her.

Turning on her heels, Morrigan saw limbs flailing, the obviously female form of another dead man embraced in the smoldering flames. Two paces away, Bethany mooed angrily, this time falling face first into the snow. Steam billowed from the sorceress» hands, dipped in the cold chaos. And above the girl, the bones of a half-dead old man swayed like a leaf in the wind. The faint creaking of the tiles above her head suggested that a few dead men were approaching Morrigan herself.

A sobering thought flashed through her mind: if she continued to react only to the situation, it would not be long before the two sorceresses would end up exactly as the Templar had just done. Dropping to her knees and throwing her hands up in the air, the girl spat angrily through clenched teeth:

— Ade te!

As the three bodies, in varying degrees of decomposition as the dead should be, fell to the roof, the sorceress rushed forward. In the girl's mind, she had enough mana left for a few skirmishes. And the flow of the dead would not stop for a long time. But it was worth thinking about what was happening, not just how to survive the next moment.

Morrigan slammed her shoulder into the dead man who was about to grab Bethany by the hair and sink his rotten teeth into her neck.

The behaviour of the Shadow's inferior creatures was like that of a badly organised pack of hounds off the leash. But the sorceress did not believe in the possibility of training such creatures or forcing them to do anything with a single will. In the Tower, the weak obeyed the strong, for in return they received comfortable conditions on this side of the Veil, and the «master» could take away all benefits from the undesirables at a moment's notice. The inferior, placed among the dead, already arrived in the worst possible conditions. Literally nothing could make their situation more disgusting. No amount of threats could force such a horde into submission. The creatures, capable of only the simplest of deductions, would flee from the dominant force into the surrounding forests, becoming a constant threat to the locals and smaller beasts. Just as the Seeker had suspected. Magic, on the other hand... Magic could make the «shadow» creatures obey by placing a «leash» on each of them.

She pulled her apprentice out of the snow and pointed at the rising corpse. Trying to blink, Bethany flashed at the enemy almost blindly, while Morrigan leapt to the nearest hedge and pulled out a new, thicker weapon. She shook her head to shake the snow from her hair and exhaled heavily as she turned away from another corpse that had become a torch:

— More than half spent. That leaves me with, er, three spells.

Nodding, the older of the two caught the staff more comfortably and tossed it briefly:

— And there's nowhere to hide.

Feeling the coming fatigue of «mana depletion» no less, Morrigan focused on one idea. Magic is imperfect. Regardless of the current circumstances, this concept had matured in the sorceress for some time. It seemed to take an incredible amount of effort to create even something trivial out of nothing. But when she thought about this illusion, it seemed to be the opposite. No matter how hard one tried, the result could never be cleansed of inaccuracies and small mistakes. If magic could control the dead at a distance, it could not be flawless. And the girl had seen proof of that with her own eyes. If the archer's words were to be believed, the possessed should leave the others alone. But as soon as anyone began to destroy the vessels of the shadow creatures, the dead would immediately pounce on the source of the new threat. So the concept of «threat» itself had a significant weight that influenced behaviour. According to the sorceress, the possessed defined «threat» simply as anyone who destroyed a vessel in front of others, or fought with at least one of them over previously destroyed vessels. This was seen as a way of drawing the enemy's attention to the Morrigan herself.

Swinging the pole like a battle staff at the lipless face covering the dead man's naked skull, the sorceress sent another enemy leaping over the nearest hedge into the snow. It stumbled with the remains of its teeth and immediately tried to rise, wringing its skinny arms at an angle impossible for a human body. Morrgan noticed that a large percentage of the undead corpses preferred to stay out of sight until the very end, attacking from corners and rooftops. They also avoided the current alleyway, where a pile of crushed vessels remained around the Templar's body near the edge. Without turning to Bethany, Morrigan dropped the word:

— Stay behind me. Watch your back. Save your magic. I'll create a perimeter of corpses to buy time. Then we'll retreat.

As long as mana was plentiful, the thought of a transformation spell did little to disturb her mind. But the closer the mana came to the dangerous threshold, the more the thought turned into an unbearable itch. But the girl did not want to use this magic. Not in front of Bethany. Not in daylight. Not at the risk of being caught by the Seeker or any other random witnesses from the common folk. So Morrigan remembered everything she knew about using a staff as a weapon and whirled in place, whipping the three dead men away with the sticks. The stake from the hedge was not good enough for such use, and it cracked pathetically, threatening to break. But so far only the skulls of the dead had been damaged. But without serious consequences. Lacking the appropriate magic, weapons or Templar powers, the Morrigan could only delay the inevitable, unable to destroy the vessels.

As she felt the «weapon» give way, the Morrigan fluidly changed her movement pattern, like water, from broad sweeps and spins to subtle, stinging lunges that threw the dead off balance. The sound of footsteps behind her made it clear that Bethany sensed something was wrong at once. The older of the wizards threw back:

— No! Let them concentrate on me!

The enemy knew nothing of fear in the usual sense, so the only way to stop the dead was literally to stop them. One minute, two, three... There were five of them, and Morrigan could feel her clothes clinging to her body in spite of the cold, her heavy breathing robbing her of ease of movement and speed, her muscles stiffening and aching from the strain and the pace.

With a sharp rush of air and saliva through her grin and clenched teeth, Morrigan spun her improvised staff at lightning speed and hurled it at the nearest creature. Taking a deep breath, the sorceress performed a backward cartwheel, ignoring the dangerously shaking hands. Once on her feet, the girl screamed angrily, throwing both arms out to meet the charging dead:

— Ade te!

The impulse of the spell struck right in front of the girl, instantly returning all the possessed bodies to a truly dead state. But a quick glance across the rooftops and into the depths of the courtyards showed that the next dead were already approaching. Turning to Bethany, the sorceress waved at the five bodies in the snow:

— That'll buy us a few more moments. Get down!

As she forced her legs to move, Morrigan tried not to show that the frantic and prolonged battle had drained her in so many ways at once. And the fact that Bethany was unable to hide the way she was slowing her pace to keep up only added to the enchantress» anger.

Suddenly, the alley ended at a wide crossroads. Here, like the others, it joined the main road that ran along the bay. A quick glance around revealed new boarded-up houses, just like the ones on the outskirts. There was good reason to think so, for in the middle of the lane the huts stared at the passer-by through dark openings of uncovered windows. But the sound of cracking and rolling shingles distracted him, and he scanned the roofs for any approaching creatures. At the same moment, Bethany tugged at her older friend's shoulder and spat out her rambling guesses in rapid succession:

— Barrels. Fire!

Shaking her head, the young girl gathered her thoughts:

— Dead men hide under the snow in the wet leaves, but each one flares up like dry shavings.

— Moisture is removed by a sluggish influence to keep the vessels from rotting.

— Exactly! The archer had a second quiver, and on his belt a flame and a flint. And barrels! Every boarded-up house had an oak barrel, like for moonshine!

Indeed, the barrels waited silently outside the houses that faced the crossroads from the lanes. Licking her parched lips, Morrigan muttered:

— Fire it up.

Without wasting any precious seconds, Bethany ran as fast as she could to the leftmost barrel and grabbed the rope on the lid with her still hot hands. The rope instantly burst into flames of bright light, nearly scorching the eyelashes of the careless sorceress. She raised her palms in surprise at the remnants of the greasy substance used to impregnate the ropes and hurried on. Morrigan's eyes darted between rooftops and alleyways, trying to catch the first signs of movement as she wondered how the locals intended to use the barrels. The sorceress» knowledge of flames was limited to making fires and what could burn in the woods. As the first silhouettes on all fours appeared on the tiled slopes, the girl had to try hard to keep her thoughts cold and logical. Five of the six barrels were already in flames, but what advantage could they have in a fight with the dead other than light? Especially for an archer... Morrigan blinked and muttered under her breath:

— What if they weren't meant for an archer?

The seven possessed men froze on the roof ridges, staring blankly at the sources of the open flames, and Morrigan felt a pang of realisation. Running to the nearest barrel, its top blazing brightly with palpable heat, the girl pushed it as hard as she could and slammed it against the door of the boarded-up hut. Under the pressure of its contents, the lid bounced off slightly, spraying splatters that continued to burn and sizzle on the snow. With a pungent smell of alcohol, a cloudy, whitish liquid whipped out, and a pale blue flame immediately leapt across its surface. For the first few moments, the flame seemed weak, but it soon rose and licked furiously at the log cabin, the slope of the roof and even the sorceress herself, who instinctively rolled away through the snow. Undaunted by the sickening smell of burnt hair, Morrigan shouted to Bethany:

— Tip it over!

Soon the fire was blazing near every alley, almost cutting off those from the crossroads with a wall. The hot flames blazed with a roar, greedily devouring their own base. Breathing heavily and examining the scorched sleeves of her clothes with burned holes, Bethany squeamishly shook her cooled hands of the greasy soot left by the burning compound applied to the ropes. The only result was to smear it between her fingers. She sighed sadly and said:

— Must be some kind of grease. But they've got a clever idea with the brogue.

— Braga?

The younger wizard nodded.

— Wheat. South Ferelden's main liquor. Carver was better at it, and I... I don't know much about it. The oak barrels must have been raw, usually diluted to reduce the strength and turn the fiery stuff into something bearable.

Morrigan crouched, her gaze fixed on the fiery houses and the dark silhouettes of the dead beyond the Veil of flame and heat. The sorceress grinned and said:

— Once again, the flames save me. Ironic. But without your brilliant insight, our bones would be picking at rotten teeth. And my skills wouldn't have mattered in the end.

— It's not...

— The bare facts don't care about your modesty. They have to be taken as they are. Make no mistake, my pride is seriously wounded by your success. But if the Veil of pride and emotion is allowed to cover your eyes, everything will become blurred and unclear. And besides, I freely admit that I was partly pleased to see you succeed. I wish I knew why.

Bethany's cheeks blushed a little, but she nodded silently, keeping her emotions in check. Morrigan looked around. The open space of the crossroads was big enough for a dozen tents or a festival ground, but now the fresh snow held only the footprints of two wizards. From here it was possible to retreat through the courtyards onto the ice of the bay, or along the road in one of two directions. But for now, the girl saw no point in choosing. After some thought, the Morrigan dropped the word:

— Flames and death, a good place to talk, lest we snap in the face of our foolish retaliation. For example. You keep a lot of things inside you. More than half of which I would not have noticed if Leliana had not poked my nose into her way. The last time I saw your emotions out in the open was when your mother died. It's everyone's choice how to live their life. But there is a bond between us.

The youngest of the mages smiled bitterly, not taking her eyes off the flames:

— Leliana is right, your care is like a strong embrace that holds you tight but hurts. And your words are so sharp that it's strange not to be cut... And yet I don't believe that the only thing you care about is my usefulness.

— You don't believe that? Or don't you want to believe it? I have no doubt, but I don't quite have a grasp of it. But that's not the point.

— Probably... To tell you the truth, I just don't want to appear weak in your eyes. I mean, you are...

— Abyss...

Bethany perked up at the harsh expression and looked back at her older friend. Massaging her eyes wearily with her hand, she wrinkled her nose before answering:

— You and Leliana. You both looked into the crooked mirrors and decided to follow the example of what you saw. There you are. You see before you a cold, determined sorceress who takes risks without a trace of fear. But the truth is, I'm often too distant. I'm not really in touch with my own body and my own pain. So sometimes I don't feel fear. And I weigh risks with prejudice. All the words about your purpose in my presence had meaning and weight. On the one hand, I can hardly understand the value of a stranger's life. On the other hand, logic dictates that a cold-blooded killer has few choices in society. So I make every decision with you in mind. This makes it doubly pointless to see my own distorted reflection.

There was a moment of silence, filled with the crackling of wood and tiles beginning to crack from the heat. The figures of the dead disappeared behind the Veil of fire. Either they were hidden by the haze and smoke, or the possessed had left. When Bethany finally pulled herself together, she spoke quietly:

— I'm afraid if I relax. I'll fall apart at the wrong time. You know, sometimes I have nightmares. And then there are the thoughts. They take me to strange places, looping between recent events, as if to punish me for once again pointing out my weakness, helplessness and stupidity. But not when you're around. And it's not because of any false sense of security. Or any other such fleeting foolishness.... I'm sorry. It's about the unbearably attractive possibility of going with the flow, of not having to set the goal, of not having to make choices, of not having to make difficult decisions. To be responsible for every step. When the going gets tough, you get used to it in an instant, and the faster you get used to it, the more trust you have.

Morrigan shook her head, openly surprised:

— I never thought of that. Thanks for the lesson. Speaking of which. The bell has gone silent.

Bethany nodded and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a trail of soot on her face.

— The flames in the alleys were almost gone too. Wind from the lake. The fire will spread, but...

The older sorceress shook her head negatively.

— No. These possessed don't like fire. I bet none of them would even try to get between burning buildings. But this isn't the only way down to the bay.

Morrigan rose to her feet and pointed to the steeper slope that served as the natural boundary of the settlement to her right. There, the stone bones of the surrounding hills protruded clearly from the earth and snow, framed by moss and dry grass. The slope was not impregnable, and in warm weather there must have been people who could easily climb up and down it, weaving between the sparse trees and boulders. Looking closer, Bethany could easily make out dozens of dark figures walking down the slope towards the settlement.

— Abyss...

The minutes ticked by indifferently as the Morrigan's keen eye calculated how many of them would be left before the wave of the dead swept into the crossroads. It wasn't many. And with that calculation came a growing confidence that it was better to test the Seeker's threats now than to take their chances with a few dozen possessed creatures. It was then that an eye, alert to every movement, caught sight of the first figures emerging from the direction of the Temple. The sorceress touched her apprentice's shoulder and pointed with her hand.

A strange group jogged away from the Temple. Most of them were burly men with grey hair down to the first whiskers on their cheeks. Each was armed with either an axe from the backyard shed or the heavier weapon of a woodsman. Rectangular shutters with carved designs were taped to their left arms for protection. There were a few women with spears in the crowd, as well as the Seeker and a man following him whose fresh stubble showed that, unlike the others, he had been shaved a week ago. All frowning faces and hard looks, in sharp contrast to the image of the brave «saviours».

The two wizards were quickly surrounded. Cautious attention to the Seeker, impatience and restrained anger at the slanted glances at the fire and the two strangers clearly responsible for what had happened. Tristan immediately approached the Morrigan, wearily commenting on what was happening:

— Here come the reinforcements. Now I'm doubly surprised at your survivability and, er, the amount of collateral damage. This fire won't make my job any easier.

The sorceress opened her mouth to hurl a barrage of «poison» at the Seeker's face, but then slowly closed her lips. After giving herself a few seconds to think and weigh the alternatives, the girl decided that aiming spears of words full of empty anger and sarcasm at the man would only be humiliating. Holding the Seeker's gaze, Morrigan set herself a goal: to wait for the moment when the insults and teasing would be matched by the strength to carry out her own threats. Tristan sighed and shook his head irritably, sensing a hint of hidden thoughts on her face. The man who had come with him, different from the others in that he did not have much of a beard, asked with undisguised anger in his voice:

— We're here at your request. So? This was the plan? To burn Redcliffe to the ground?

— Bann Tegan, don't overreact. Fire was your plan. The fact that the sorceresses came up with it doesn't change anything. And you're only here because you agree with the arguments...

— You know very well what arguments «convinced me». The fire was an emergency. The last one. Winter brings death as mercilessly as those dead men. But winter doesn't care if you're a wizard or a fisherman. And the dead only want the blood of these two destroyers. We'll be without homes and provisions if the fire spreads...

Clearly summoning all her courage, Bethany interrupted Tegan in a low voice:

— But the wind off the lake...

More than one pair of stinging glances stared at the girl simultaneously, silencing her. Morrigan snorted contemptuously, but before anyone else could intervene, Tristan cut her off harshly:

— Pull yourself together, Bann. I don't care what you're going through. I don't care about the feelings of anyone here, for reasons that are completely irrelevant, from finding a victim to take out their bitterness and rage on, to feeling sorry for the junk burning in these flames. The Red Fortress had been built as a shelter, to hold the inhabitants of several surrounding settlements if necessary, and to survive at least a month of siege. But once the gates were slammed shut, you chose to ignore that possibility. You may not be a bad man, but you have mellowed from living within the boundaries set by Lord Eamon. As such, your concern for the common natives of this place is at least half hypocrisy. Only two sorceresses thrown into battle could... What's the score, Morrigan?

The sorceress cringed at the open mention of her own name in a crowd of strangers and replied dryly:

— About three dozen.

The words elicited a murmur of surprise, causing the commoners to look at the two maidens in a new light. Whatever the Seeker's open aggression and rudeness might have achieved, the man had at least succeeded in shifting the mood of the crowd away from tension and discontent. Morrigan also noticed, not without surprise, that the expressions on the faces of the strangers were sympathetic to her. It was not superficial narcissism or the satisfaction of recognition, though the girl did not rule that out. She felt that the emotion ran deeper than that. It was hard for the sorceress to find the right words, but the need to imprint it in the memory of others fit the situation quite well. And Morrigan readily admitted that this thirst had perhaps been a silent companion to her actions for a long time, only now manifesting itself more vividly than usual. Back in the present, the girl smiled faintly as Bann Tegan seemed little moved by the words. The lack of reaction suggested that the man was no stranger to the abilities of mages. But more than that, Bann's first conversation with Tristan now cast a deep shadow over the two men's entire communication. The sorceress had no difficulty believing this explanation. Meanwhile, after an expressive pause, the Seeker spoke more quietly:

— A?..

— Dead.

— Unfortunate and expected..... So. The main thing is to use what you have, not to wait for a miracle. Predicting the intentions of miracles is a thankless task. In a minute or two, the desecrated remains of your ancestors, acquaintances and loved ones will spill out here. And we will cleanse you of the vile invaders. That's how it will be.

Tristan's short and clear plan was surprisingly coherent, leaving Morrigan with a mixed feeling. Either the Seeker was taking in everything the environment threw at him, juggling ideas masterfully, using the smallest detail to his advantage. Or he knew much more in advance than he was showing. In any case, the girl thought there was a lot to learn here. Each of the men who came in had a narrow-necked ceramic bottle, typical of the locals, hanging from his belt. Only the fragile vessels were often wrapped in a tourniquet for strength, to cushion an accidental fall or blow. Now they hung by a short cord as they were. Each contained the same raw brogue as the last few barrels. After making sure that Morrigan and Bethany were not on the verge of passing out from exhaustion, Tristan began to give instructions.

The men lined up in two rows, the second half a block away from the first. The Morrigan found this arrangement vaguely familiar. Any man knocked out of the front row was replaced by two men at once, capable of both fighting off the enemy and dragging a wounded man from under attack to the rear. The downside of such an advantage was the need for coordination. The slightest hiccup and there was chaos.

The two sorceresses, the Seeker and the scowling Bann lined up next, both with drawn swords. Bethany was placed in the middle of the line. On command, the girl was to be brought forward. Tristan left the older men and women behind, firmly pointing out that there could easily be dead men walking around the fire on the left slope. Or, more likely, those who had patiently crept to the rear through the courtyards facing the water. But most of the enemy was now expected to come from the west, given the inability of the inferior to resist when the prey was right in front of them. As on the outskirts, if there was no cover nearby and a direct route was the shortest, they would charge headlong.

Just before that, the lone whirr of a hawk could be heard in the grey sky. The bird of prey was evidently surprised by the abundance of the fallen, which might have attracted its own dinner. The dead poured from the road into the fortress in uneven masses and at varying speeds. Three, then five, one, and many more. Smaller than an organised pack, but more dangerous than the tower beasts.

On the other side, the men with axes didn't look much like militia. They were simply hard workers who had grown up in a harsh land and were not used to giving in to personal fears. Morrigan could see the presence of the Breath of Death in the grim, quiet calm of the «unwilling warriors», which had more than once chattered its rotten teeth in the men's faces. So the throwing of the bottles on the wave came without a hitch and in an almost military manner. Then came the smashing of pottery against the dead or under the feet of the creatures, and the cry of the Seeker:

— Burn!

The shouldered figures immediately turned sideways, forming a passageway. And Bethany, biting her lip bloodily and taking a wide step forward, brought down the flaming bolt. A blast of fire immediately enveloped both the snow and the six most hastily possessed. A bonfire erupted out of nowhere, splitting the stream of dead that followed. Dodging the flames at a respectful distance to the left and right, they found themselves on the flanks of the battle formation. Another cry rang out:

— Edge! Stay back!

The young sorceress was immediately pushed back to her place without ceremony. The five on each edge took four steps back, pushing in a slightly disorganised fashion. The straight formation curved into an arc. In the next instant, the first of the possessed swooped in and was immediately met with a swing of axes. While the walking dead on the flanks were no more than fingers on a hand, there were at least two men on each flank, hacking away at rotting flesh and bone. But no sooner had the bodies of their enemies touched the snow than a dozen and a half corpses of varying degrees of freshness arrived. Without delay, Tristan rushed to the aid of his own side of the formation, performing a rapid series of graceful and deadly movements. Seemingly able to dodge the straight lunges of the dead, even willing to take a blade to the body to hobble the victim, the Seeker sliced off limbs and heads as if stripped of their bones. Morrigan immediately remembered how the fallen Templar had initially displayed a similar style and skill, albeit a pale shadow in comparison. While the sorceress was distracted, the first man collapsed in the snow on her flank, staining it with scarlet blood from a neck ripped open by the dead man's crooked but unusually strong arms. The man ducked sharply under the first swing, which was too wide. The disappearance of a fighter weighed heavily on the formation and threatened to double their losses. With a sharp sweep of her arms and a growl, the sorceress cut off all thought:

— Ade te!

All the dead on the right flank collapsed into the snow, replaced in an instant by blackness. A dozen men froze in mute astonishment, immediately followed by an unsteady roar of victory. Morrigan smiled and swayed slightly, barely able to blink away the flies that appeared in her eyes.

Triumph was abruptly replaced by a new wave of bodies being forcibly removed from their graves. And at the same time, a cry came from behind, calling for readiness. Just as Tristan had predicted, a dozen of the possessed slipped into the rear... Some managed to get spears on them, but taking advantage of this success, the rest approached at arm's length. The screams of a few women, overwhelmed by the pain of gouged eyes and severed fingers, jolted the Seeker from his seat. Sensing the threat with some animal instinct, the Morrigan grabbed Bethany's arm, pulling the girl to her and away. But Tristan's fierce blow, without any of the caution of an ordinary Templar, caught not only the dead, but the young sorceress as well. Rolling her eyes, she hung in the arms of her older friend, and at the same time all the enemies in the rear collapsed into the cold mud.

Bann Tegan had taken the left flank instead of the Seeker, but the man could not replace him alone. So the price of the leader's manoeuvre to the rear soon became a new fighter. The number of wounded and dying increased by the minute. Within a minute or two, the two lines had been reduced to a single line, desperately trying to fight off the fallen who could not be dragged behind their own backs. It was only Tristan's risky break into the mass of the dead with a second use of the same ability that broke the rush of the possessed and sent half a dozen of them back behind the Veil. After that, the battle settled down, allowing ordinary humans to hack up a few undead. Then, as always happens in the heat of the battle for life, everything came to a sudden halt.

Some fell tiredly to their knees, others immediately bent over their fallen comrades, while a third, leaning forward, stood still, staring into the void. Heavy, hoarse breathing, muffled groans and the sound of a roof suddenly collapsing in the distance. The smell of decay, like an open grave, fresh blood, mud and burnt flesh mixed with smoke. So much for the signs of victory. Carefully holding the emotionless Bethany on her own shoulder and around her waist, Morrigan watched Tristan closely. The man was not superhuman and showed signs of fatigue. But the enchantress» gaze was searching for something else. What was it that made people obey this stranger almost without question? The girl's thoughts raced again in the resulting lull. Obviously, the Church on his shoulder and his rumoured title of Seeker gave him a great advantage over the vast majority. But there was also a role for composure, a habit of making decisions rather than expecting others to do the same, an ability to take risks. Was there a corresponding willingness to take responsibility? For the moment, Morrigan could only guess. The way Tristan spoke to those around him, the way he held himself before them, left no doubt as to who was in charge. Yet the man seemed to deliberately avoid opportunities to distinguish himself on the cheap, preferring to let his wit, his knowledge and his blade speak for him. Respect was readily apparent in the casual glances that survived the battle at the Seeker's tense form as he surveyed the houses unaffected by the fire. And Bann saw it clearly. Tegan's frown, like a doppelganger of the Enchantress, glided similarly between the figures of his elder brother's vassals. Was there a current of grief or irritation at the losses suffered? Morrigan was blind here, and easily spotted it, regretting the absence of Leliana. A slight surprise overcame the girl as, in a few oblique glances at herself, she caught a glimpse of similar emotions, beyond apprehension or fear. Instead of simple and concise conclusions, what she saw led the sorceress» thoughts on a long detour...

After waiting about ten minutes, bandaging everyone who made sense to be saved in the absence of a mage healer, and letting the others go to their final resting place, Tristan turned to see Bann talking quietly to one of the men.

— It's time to go back. It may sound cruel, but the fallen must be put to the flames. It would be better to burn the rest of the bodies. But it is what it is. We don't have much time.

Tegan nodded, reluctantly giving more authority to the Veiled order. And while the rest of the men who had survived were carrying the wounded and picking up the fallen, Tristan, to Morrigan's surprise, offered a shoulder for Bethany. Ignoring the burning gaze of dark golden eyes, the Seeker said softly:

— If you want the rest of us to have a chance of making it to the next dawn alive and victorious, I'm going to need your extraordinary spirit in the ranks in the next few hours.

* * *

Of course, «return to the Temple» sounded easy only in words. The wounded had to be kept warm, a place for the dead had to be found, it had to be decided who would be cremated and how, news had to be given to relatives, some of whom had to be reassured, others comforted. Then there was the «worry» about the fire, which threatened to turn into panic... If one concentrated on one thing, new problems would appear out of nowhere to weigh down anyone willing to bear the burden of leadership. Tristan had removed himself from command on his return, allowing only the occasional brief but pertinent comment. The role had thus fallen back into Tegan's hands. But along with a pile of problems, albeit on crutches, he was greeted by a man who had not yet seen grey hair and who introduced himself as Headman by the name of Murdock. The two of them, with Bann exuding authority and keeping his word to the men and the Headman offering solutions behind his back, dealt with each situation as successfully as they could.

Looking at the survivors, Morrigan estimated that no more than half of the inhabitants had survived. The odds were in favour of the women. And everyone was huddled in the street outside the Temple, in the church building itself, and in the houses nearby. Alleys, courtyards and other loopholes were blocked by barricades of wagons, stones and other hastily made junk. On the roofs, hunters hid behind stovepipes, their eyes capable of watching their prey for long periods of time, sensitive to every movement in the almost black-and-white landscape.

The sorceress took advantage of the delay to find Leliana. The girl had already been examined by several Sisters of Light who knew how to heal without magic. Her fiery curls were spread across the headboard of the bench, and she slept peacefully near the hearth, her face smeared with healing ointment. The women, tired from the number of wounded and the lack of sleep, said that it was not so much the fracture that was to blame as the inflammation that accompanied it. So there was no need for a bandage to hold the jaw in place. Having found Bethany on a nearby wall, Morrigan soon found herself sharing a meal with Tristan, Bann Tegan and a few others who carried considerable weight in the settlement: Sir Pert, the Earl's knight who had lost his right hand, and Mother Hannah, the head of the local church community. The former had once been a broad-shouldered, handsome man with a well-groomed moustache instead of the typical beard, but now his shoulders were slumped, his moustache looked dishevelled and his eyes were deep-set. The Reverend Mother looked better, but she was a woman with a heavy burden of years, and judging by her eyes, what was going on around her was not easy for her.

Instead of getting straight to the point, Bann ignored the Seeker's presence at the table for some time, devoting himself to talking to a well-built, copper-haired maiden, approaching her thirtieth winter, in charge of the only kitchen now working for all the survivors. Then, despite Tegan's persistence, a serious conversation began. Tristan spoke first, to no one's surprise:

— So what do you know about what happened at Earl's Keep?

Bann gave Sir Pert a grim look, and the latter began to answer with a sigh:

— It's more a set of facts than a complete understanding. I'll start from a distance. With why we're in such dire straits. Earl's disease.

— The Church is generally aware of Earl's situation. A strange illness that has turned into unconsciousness. The helplessness of the healers, including the Circle Healer. I see what you're getting at. The absence of the vast majority of the Knights of Redcliffe here, sent across the land in search of a miraculous cure for an unknown ailment and...

Tristan snapped his fingers a little playfully, as if remembering, and the Reverend Mother, gently bowing her head, came to his aid:

— An urn of holy ashes.

Morrigan did not for a moment doubt the Seeker's forgetfulness, preferring to hide a contemptuous grin behind a mug of watered-down moonshine, hinting at the depleted liquor supply caused by known events.

— Yes. Thank you, Reverend Mother. But none of that matters. My question was exactly what happened at the fortress. Why was the bridge raised and the gates closed? What foreshadowed this outcome?

Sir Preet wrinkled his nose at such treatment, and Bann, showing faint satisfaction at having «wiped the feet» of his elder brother's knight with the help of another, readily began to answer questions:

— The events in the fortress and here are connected. The bridge was raised without warning some two dozen days ago. As the Earl's younger brother, I took on some of the duties, as My Lady Isolde spent all her time either at her husband's bedside or with her son. And on that fateful day, I found myself in the harbour. For three days there was a lull. Remarkably, not a single sentry was seen on the walls during those days. Then they all returned to their posts, but... It was as if they were deaf and blind. Before the water froze, a few boats were sent out. To a small harbour in the rocks and under the walls. Shouting, waving the flag. No luck. Then I tried the same trick with a couple of mages. The Circle's healer was also unlucky, as he was outside the walls looking for healing plants. A bright flash went off above the guards» heads. That's when the nightmare began. The local graveyard lies to the west of the settlement, on the crest of a hill, among exposed rock. To keep the beasts out and the water out quickly. A reasonable distance from the living. And closer to the sky and the winds. The next night, two weeks ago, the dead began to rise from their graves. But they didn't come at once, they waited for more. In the end, six dozen creatures attacked the humans at once, no less. At first, the death toll was surprisingly low. But then the initial horror wore off, the people raised their weapons, and the dead became countless. The mages recognised the threat as possessed, though they could not explain how it had happened. And even though the monsters» strange behaviour was obvious from the start, the knights decided to organise a counterattack due to some disagreements. And... Well, that's in the past. Just like our mages. Most of them were simply torn from our ranks by force, others were gifted with talents that no one even suspected. And others. A third were thrown to the wolves. Fortunately, there were few who would do such a thing. So it was not so difficult to determine the fate of such inhabitants in those troubled days. If there were even twice as many... But here we are. With your light hand, which I admit was rather cheaply paid for, we've rid ourselves of an external threat. What's next, Seeker?

Morrigan noted to herself that Tegan was generally quite honest. Well, to the extent that the girl could see behind the man's mask. Some of the remarks, however, were made with clear intent. Tristan blinked tiredly, like a man with a slight headache, and replied:

— Thank you for the details. You've probably been as honest as you could be about Orleans. And now you must cross that line and fill in the remaining gap between the facts I know.

Both Tegan and Preet involuntarily turned to look at Mother Hannah, but she remained aloof, showing no sign of emotion. It was easy to read the quiet accusation in the silence, but Tristan was unaffected by the looks. He waited wearily and patiently, like a predator in ambush. Bann grimaced and dropped the word with obvious discomfort:

— Not everything can be made public.

The Seeker shook his head:

— Of course it can. It's a matter of circumstance. If it were a matter of life and death, you'd be singing sweetly. Think back to our first conversation without witnesses. With a little help from the Morrigan and Bethany, the current threat is no longer on your doorstep. For now. And now you've brought up duty and tradition again. My harsh words are not meant to offend you. Deliberately. But as everyone here knows, you've only been in charge of the Bannorn of Rainsfir for... seven seasons out of the last two dozen-plus, since you took over in the ninth year of the Dragon Age. And more often than not, you have travelled north from Ferelden to the warmth of Ansburg during the long winter months. The hardest and harshest time for the lands between the Frost Mountains and the Great Lake. So let's put aside the bravado and false patriotism. For one thing, the real problem has not been solved. And it could easily lead to further misfortune. Second, you've been here in a certain isolation, which is partly excusable. But it's not just you that suffers from the Walking Dead, it's all of Erling. Remember that and try again.

As Morrigan appreciated the way the more knowledgeable Tristan juggled the facts without mentioning the Church's personal interest in the matter, the clouds seemed to gather around the table. The words hurled at Bann could not help but sting, but they were delivered in such a way that the man could not even hit back without losing face in front of everyone. The others turned pale as they realised what a harvest of death had been reaped over the past few days throughout Erling, which was already on the brink of winter. After a short pause, Tegan gave up. Perhaps it was a Veiled threat or guilt. But the sorceress also allowed for the role of responsibility that arose in the man under the pressure of circumstances. After all, the girl had seen him eagerly take on even unpleasant tasks, such as talking to a heartbroken widow who, in her grief, didn't care about high-minded material, politics or «big» problems. Suddenly Bethany's recent confession came to mind, like a missing piece of the puzzle. The phrase «the unbearable allure of being able to go with the flow...» might have a role to play here too.

— As you wish. There have been a few separate events... Well... First, I should mention a suspicious elf. Name. Berwick. Actually, it's not easy to see elves in our area. The climate is harsh, the people suspicious and often intolerant. And it's dangerous to travel freely in these lands. It is said that the Avvars of the Southwest have long been unwelcome to the pointy-eared. And if you meet a Hasind in the south-east, it's even worse. The reason for the interest in this person was an incident in the tavern on the second day after the bridge to the fortress was raised. Berwick had suddenly dismounted and decided to leave the settlement in a hurry. The tavern keeper had a few questions for his strange guest. Rather caustic and insulting, according to witnesses. Lloyd was always too straightforward, self-righteous, rude and never had warm feelings for elves. «Was» because at the end of the argument, the previously unremarkable elf stabbed the man in cold blood and tried to flee. A few arrows from the quick-footed hunters put an end to the matter. Looking back... Berwick arrived in the village about a month and a half ago as a travelling big-game skinner. He stayed on as a lodger in the tavern. He's been quiet, modest, frugal. But for a free hunter, the amount of money he spent on lodging was, to be honest, quite a lot. And, as you can see, the elf's arrival coincided with the time when the elder brother was stricken with a strange illness.

Tristan tapped the table with a half-bent index finger and nodded. Morrigan immediately worked out in her mind when these events had taken place. It was ten or fifteen days before the Battle of Ostagar. But Ferelden's internal politics and the balance of power in the land were a mystery to the sorceress. She had to wait for Leliana's awakening or the Seeker's clarification. Meanwhile, Bann continued:

— The other point has to do with the Templars. Yes, that's right. The role of the Creator's warriors may be filled mostly by Knights, but the official captain of the absent corps, Harrith, served under the Temple. Two days before the bridge to the fortress was raised, the Templar showed undue concern... I take it the captain said nothing to anyone?

The phrase sounded half as a question, testing the depth of the Seeker's and Mother Hannah's awareness, but the complete lack of response from either prompted Tegan to continue:

— Hmm. Anyway, people said they'd seen the Captain here and there. The Templar became desperate, wandering around like a lone wolf, chasing something he never told anyone about. Finally, that very day, the captain found himself inside the fortress. And no one ever saw him again.

There was another pause, and at the end Tristan interjected:

— That's it?

There was a Veiled disappointment in the question. There was no way to tell from the Seeker's face whether or not he knew something that had not yet come out of Bann's mouth. Tegan glanced at Sir Praeth and shook her head dejectedly before continuing the conversation.

— No... But before we touch upon a delicate subject. You must... I would be most grateful, on behalf of my elder brother, if what we have heard could remain between us for a change, without being spread to the ends of the earth.

Tristan let out a weary sigh, met the Reverend Mother's gaze for a moment, and clarified coolly:

— You do realise that I am under servitude and cannot make personal vows, don't you? They will be broken if more serious obligations compel me to do so.

— Churchman... I cannot say that I understand such things in my heart. A noble man's word is his greatest value.

For the first time in the conversation, Morrigan grinned openly and lowered her voice:

— «The word is the luxury of the rich and free. But I think it is very difficult to gain wealth without compromising freedom. If you are prodded with a stick, you will find that your «word» is not entirely yours either.

Frowning, Tegan shook his head, refusing to accept the sorceress» words.

— So be it. At least promise me that you won't speak of this unless your duty compels you to.

Tristan nodded discreetly in agreement:

— I promise.

— Very well. After the bridge was raised. After the dead appeared. Just before the, er... Knights» counter-attack. My Lady Isolde paid us a visit.

— Whoa. Huh?

Bann sighed heavily, muttering under his breath:

— Eamon's going to skin me.

And then, even louder, the man continued:

— An underground passage leads from the old mill on the west side of the bay, not far from the lift bridge, to the fortress. It was deep enough to go through the rock under the bottom of the bay all the way to the island. According to his brother, he's been here since the fortress was founded. My Lady Isolde met with Sir Praet and myself — my sister-in-law was extremely agitated at the time. After telling me of a «dark evil» that had taken up residence in the castle to take the lives of her brother and Connor, the Earl's only son, My Lady demanded that I return to the castle with her. To...

— To do what?

— To confront the evil with Connor.

— And?

— I was frightened by this nonsense. The incoherent babbling on the verge of hysteria from a woman who once overcame her open dislike of her surroundings and bad word of mouth to be where she wanted to be and with the one her heart belonged to. In the light of what was happening, it seemed threatening. When Milady realised I wasn't inclined to take her word for it... I'd never heard my sister-in-law swear like that before. And such curses. I confess I wanted to use force to prevent her from returning to the castle.

But..Bann's grim gaze shifted to Sir Preet, instantly revealing the animosity that had built up between them. Holding back a mixture of irritation, guilt and regret, the knight set his jaw and replied dryly:

— I took an oath, My Lord Tegan.

Crossing her arms under her chest, Morrigan quietly commented on the excuse:

— So the oath of allegiance and true loyalty are not the same thing... Paradoxically. It's harder for someone who deals with a lot of people to know which ones are trustworthy.

Leaning over to the enchantress, Tristan dropped the same half voice:

— «Paradoxical»? It's more surprising how your «southern savage» mask slips a little.

Turning back to the audience, the Seeker continued:

— So we have a way into the fortress. That's good. You can open it from this side, right?

Tegan nodded slowly and, straightening up, Tristan summarised:

— We'll go to the mill tonight, under cover of darkness. Now we rest.