Chapter 8 - Into the Wilds

Alistair led the recruits to the edge of camp. There, a pair of guardsmen flanked a hastily erected wooden gate—the only protection between Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds.

"Hail," he said as they approached.

"Hail," one of the guards replied. "I'm told you all have business in the Wilds. The gate is open to you."

As he spoke, his fellow guardsman went about unlatching the gate so it might be wrenched open.

"I just love how quickly word seems to get around camp about these little things," Alistair jibed. He knew Cailan was fond of the Grey Wardens, but to have half the camp jumping at their every whim...

"Just be careful out there," the man at the gate warned. "The forest isn't safe, even for you Grey Wardens."

Behind him, one of the recruits gulped audibly. Alistair fought the urge to sigh. As if going into the wilds wasn't frightening enough, these soldiers had to go and get the recruits all jumpy.

Maker's breath! he swore internally, though he knew they would each have to learn eventually. Duncan had always maintained a method of 'learn by doing,' and when it came to the life of a Grey Warden, Alistair wasn't sure there was a better way. If he ever found it, though, he'd certainly try. The life of a person in their order was...harsh, to say the least.

"Right, thank you very much, this way to the doom and gloom, everyone," Alistair snarked, ushering the recruits through the gate.

Arual stepped through the gate behind Alistair. If there were darkspawn in these woods, she wanted to be as close to the only true Grey Warden among them as possible.

Like everything else she'd encountered since fleeing Highever, Arual only knew of the Korcari Wilds through books and ghost stories. It was said these woods could drive a man mad, that its evil would seep into your every pore and taint you as sure as any darkspawn.

She shuddered at the thought as they marched into the woods. First one mile. Then two.

The forest's dangerous reputation had yet to prove itself, but it certainly looked unlike anything she had ever seen before. The giant trees twisted like they were frozen in the throes of agony, and a perpetual cold mist clung to the ground. It gave the forest an ominous feel, one that deepened the further they marched. One of Arual's tutors had explained the reason for the mist, but her mind was racing too fast to recall any of the particulars.

Dim light filtered down from overhead, and she could just barely make out the overcast sky through the patches in the tree canopy. It made the day seem later than it was.

The mist made travelling difficult; she couldn't see where she was stepping most of the time, and her boots got caught between gnarled roots or in small depressions in the mud.

Daveth suddenly gave a long, low whistle behind them and everyone stopped.

"What do you suppose did that, eh?" he asked, pointing with his chin.

Arual looked at the fallen tree where Daveth was pointing. It was an elder poplar, papery white and ten times as wide as herself. Some unknown force had ripped it out of the ground. Massive exposed roots snaked around the alcove like giant tentacles.

"Let's not stick around to find out," said See Jory.

The Wilds were full of fallen, ancient trees, sometimes toppled in large groups that made Arual wonder just what force could do this. Her mind turned to tales of dragons, but there had not been actual dragons seen south of River Dane in decades. Not that there couldn't be other giant creatures lurking in the Wilds. Arual had heard tales of things like great savage bears as large as a house and blue-skinned ogres with horns as long as a man's arm. She supposed they should be grateful that those weren't anywhere in evidence either at the moment...

A snapping of branches and a groan caught her ear. Arual whirled about, hand hovering over her sword hilt. Daveth gave a chuckle at her expense.

"Oh, jumpy are we?"

She shot him a scowl.

"Who...is that?" someone groaned. The party all turned together toward the sound. Alistair crept forward first, weapons still sheathed. The others followed. Just over a small ridge, hidden hitherto by the mist, crawled a man in armor. And blood. Through the gore, they could see his tabard bore the king's colors. He strained to look up at them.

"Grey...Wardens...?"

"Well, he's not half as dead as he looks, is he?" Alistair said light-heartedly.

"My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn," the dying soldier explained wearily, his voice thin as old parchment. "They came out of the ground."

"Scouts?" Arual echoed, unable to keep the desperation from her voice. She fell to her knees and grabbed the soldier by the shoulders, urging him to meet her gaze. "Please, I must know if Fergus Cousland was amongst your party."

"Please! Help me!" the soldier gasped. "I've got to...return to camp."

"But my brother—" Arual's word died in her mouth as a hand gripped her shoulder. It was somehow gentle and firm all at once, like a kind reminder that could not be ignored. She looked up, ready to bite the hand off whoever was getting in the way of finding her brother, but when she saw the concern in Alistair's honey brown eyes, the rage in her evaporated (much to her chagrin).

"I have bandages in my pack," he offered the wounded man, drawing the supplies from a fat pouch along his belt.

"Thank you! I...I've got to get out of here!"

Alistair quickly bandaged the soldier up as best he could. It was not the first time he'd needed to staunch bleeding in the field, but he was no nurse and it showed. Still, the soldier was adamant that he could make it back to camp now that the bleeding had stopped. Alistair gave him a small vial of a healing potion from his pack anyway, just to be sure. The soldier took it with a deal of gratitude and downed it like one would a shot of liquor.

Arual watched him limp away curiously.

"Did you hear?" See Jory hissed once the man was out of ear shot "An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by darkspawn!"

"Calm down, Ser Jory," Alistair said. "We'll be fine if we're careful."

"Those soldiers were careful, and they were still overwhelmed. How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There's an entire army in these forests!"

"There are darkspawn about, but we're in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde," Alistair assured him, doing all he could to project a sense of calm.

"How do you know? I'm not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless," See Jory said. He was talking very loudly and very fast now. "We should go back."

"You sound like a coward to me," Daveth sneered.

"I...am simply trying to stay alive. You do not see me fleeing, do you?"

"A bit of fear isn't unnatural, you know," Alistair assured him. "Few relish meeting darkspawn up close. I know I don't." He placed a hand on Ser Jory's shoulder, and met his eye. "Know this: All Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won't take us by surprise. That's why I'm here."

"You see, ser knight?" Daveth japed. "We might die, but at least we'll be warned about it first."

"That is...reassuring?"

"That doesn't mean I'm here to make this easy, however, so let's get a move on."

Arual chewed at her lower lip as she fell into step behind Alistair. Despite Alistair's reassurances, she was still fearful of the darkspawn. If they were half as bad as everyone seemed to think they were...

She shuddered and tried to put the thought from her mind. She didn't want to entertain the possibility that Fergus was anywhere but safe back at camp—that they had only just missed each other somehow.

Maker, watch over my brother, she prayed.

"Look there..." Alistair said, his voice heavy. Arual followed his gaze up into the trees. There hung a corpse, a human man with clammy skin like a fish. He was strung up by his neck and arms, dangling like a broken puppet, with flies and the smell of turning meat hovering in the air. The man had been slain by a wicked, jagged blade that opened his guts to spill out blood and entrails.

"Poor slobs," Alistair sighed sadly. Arual gaped as she saw the man was not alone. There were other bodies in the trees, just a few that she could see, hidden in the mist and shadows. Most of them were skeletons with nothing more than tattered cloth and scraps of wispy hair clinging to them.

Hers eyes darted amongst the dead, searching for any sign of her brother. She breathed a slow sigh of relief when she found none.

The further into the Wilds they went, the stranger they became. Gnarled tress of every size and color surrounded them, knotted bark that looked like eyes peered out from some of the thinner ones, while jagged hollows in others appeared like gaping maws filled with hungry teeth.

Here and there they passed by the remnants of some ancient civilization. The ruins hung thick with moss and vines, and statues had been covered in gore and bones and the trappings of darkspawn and Chasind alike—graffitied and defaced.

Arual wasn't sure how long or far they had been walking when Alistair suddenly signaled for them to stop. The mist was thick here—thicker than anywhere they'd come across so far. Arual couldn't see more than a few feet in front of her, but something had given Alistair pause. She swallowed past a lump forming in her throat.

"Get ready," he instructed the others.

All at once, the four of them drew their weapons, and waited, hardly daring to breathe.

The four of them froze as they saw a humanoid shape slowly shamble toward them out of the gloom. At first it seemed to be a man, but as it drew closer, they saw it clearly was not. It was a hideous mockery of a man, skin puckered and boiled with bulging white eyes and a toothy, malicious grin. It wore a mishmash of metal armor, some rusted and some of it held together with scraps of frayed leather. In its hands it carried a wicked-looking sword—all points and odd angles.

The creature held its sword in front of it in a menacing manner, staring at them hungrily as if they didn't represent a true threat of any kind.

A deep humming was coming from it. The creature was moaning softly, almost chanting, and this moan built upon the sounds of many others behind it in the mist. They hummed in unison, a hushed and deadly whisper the creatures spoke as one.

Arual took a step backwards, gulping loudly.

More began to appear behind the first. More tall ones, some wearing strange headdresses and blindfolds, others in more impressive armor covered in deadly spikes. Some wore little armor at all, their black and diseased skin covered in scars. There were shorter ones, as well, ones almost dwarf-sized with pointed ears and wide, demonic grins. All of them walked as calmly as the first, shambling toward them while moaning and hissing softly. The sound was loud now, reverberating around them like a physical force.

"Darkspawn," Alistair spat. He held his sword up before him warningly, watching the creature at the head of the emerging pack. "Move back," he murmured.

They slowly backed up, warily matching the pace that the darkspawn approached with. At the back, Daveth turned about and suddenly halted, gasping in fear. "Alistair!"

Through the mist more of the monsters could be seen drawing near from behind. They were surrounded.

"How did they get behind us?" Ser Jory cried, panic evident in his voice.

"Careful," Alistair warned. The four of them backed up against the wall of the ruins, keeping close. They watched the darkspawn advance, their weapons held at the ready. Even with their prey cornered, the creatures did not accelerate. Their hum became louder, reaching a hungry, fever pitch.

The darkspawn continued their slow, inevitable approach. Twenty feet. Then ten. The four of them stood with backs pressed together, sweat pouring as they watched and waited.

The first darkspawn stepped forward, bared its fangs and roared. Alistair met it and slashed his longsword across the monster's chest in a wide arc. It reared back in agony, issuing a gurgling scream.

This finally seemed to energize the rest of the horde. They roared in turn and began to push forward. Daveth barely knocked a wicked blade aside with his dagger, just escaping being stabbed. Ser Jory pushed Daveth behind him, interposing his armor to take the darkspawn blows. Alistair swung wide with his longsword, pushing them back with sword and shield. Arual kicked one of the smaller creatures back into its fellows, knocking them down, and then began to stab with precise, clean blows.

The ferocity of their defense worked in their favor, at least for the moment, before their darkspawn surge began to push them against the wall. They could not knock the blades aside fast enough, and though the recruits kept pushing the creatures back, the others would heedlessly step over their fallen to strike.

The great moaning sound reached a crescendo, drowning out everything but the ring of steel upon steel.

And then a new sound interrupted the battle: a crack like the snapping of a great tree split the air, accompanied by a devilish purple light which permeated the mist. 

Many of the creatures began to turn and hiss with outrage at something that was descending on them from behind. Violet light lit the fog from that direction; each tiny water droplet suspended in the air caught reflected the light, making it seem that half the world had been consumed by the color.

And that was when she appeared.

In the haze of battle, Arual could only make out that the woman was dark-haired and pale-skinned, and that she wielded a gnarled, black staff in one hand. A mage. There was no knowing where she had come from, why she was there, and why she seemed to be helping the recruits, but neither was there time to ponder these things.

Alistair seemed to realize this, too, and pushed forward, stabbing his blade deep into the back of the darkspawn that had turned away from him. The creature roared in pain as Alistair kicked it off his sword and then turned to face another. Encouraged, Arual and Daveth did the same and began to fight toward the mage. Ser Jory went with them, albeit hesitantly—for all they knew the mage could be worse than the darkspawn, but for the moment they were the enemy of their enemy. The recruits were willing to take their chances.

The result was dramatic. A great cry of terror went up from the darkspawn as their ranks began to dissolve. The ones behind Ser Jory and the others turned and fled, while the ones caught between the recruits and the mage began to fight viciously and desperately.

Within minutes it was over. The last of the darkspawn had fled, screaming, into the Wilds. What remained was a charnel house of gore, darkspawn bodies littering the ground with their black blood pooling over the forest floor.

"It's over…" Arual said breathlessly. Her heart was hammering in her chest so loudly she was sure the others could hear it. Her face was flush with battle, sweat slicking the flyaway hairs from her braided crown to her brow. Her breath misted before her in the cold forest air. Looking around, she saw Daveth and Ser Jory were much the same.

Only Alistair remained vigilant.

Arual followed his narrowed gaze toward the mage who had helped them.

She…was…beautiful…

At a glance, she did not appear much taller than Arual, though certainly several years older—a decade at most. Her smooth skin was the color of fresh milk, a quality that was impossible to ignore given the woman's lack of clothing. Glittering golden necklaces circled her long, slender throat, camouflaging the clasps to a harness of knots that held up her significant bosom. The plunging neckline of her burgundy shirt hinted as to its complicated nature, but hid enough to leave the whole of it a mystery. Her lips were painted a dark purplish color, like frozen mulberries, but it was her eyes that had Arual ensorcelled.

They were the golden yellow of a cat or a snake, pupils slitted like some nocturnal predator. Like her lips, her eyes were decorated with a dark purple powder, giving her an almost skeletal look. Dark hair fell over one of her eyes—a dark as a moonless night. The length was impossible to determine, however, as she kept it in a tidy chignon.

"Who are you?" Alistair demanded. The force in his voice was enough to break the spell Arual had suddenly found herself under. "State your name and purpose."

"I have watched your progress for some time," the mage said, her voice deep and melodic as she approached. "'Where do they go?' I wondered, 'why are they here?'"

"Don't answer her," Alistair warned the others. "She looks Chasind, and there may be others nearby."

"You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you!" the woman mocked, gesturing with her hands above her head. Alistair narrowed his eyes.

"Yes," he growled. "Swooping is bad..."

The woman rolled her golden, cat-like eyes and scoffed before turning to Arual.

"You there. Women do not frighten like little boys. Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine."

Arual, caught off guard, jumped half out of her skin and fell into a courtly routine that was almost second nature to her. She gave a small bow and spoke with all the grace and courtesy of the noble lady she'd once been. "I am Arual, my lady. It is a pleasure to meet you."

The woman chuckled, a rich, velvety sound that lit a fire in Arual's cheeks. All too late, Arual recalled there being legends about mages and Chasind alike—warnings to never give them your blood, hair, or name. Had she just doomed herself?

"Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call my Morrigan."

Arual nodded. 

"Now there is a sensible request," Morrigan said. She smiled hungrily at Arual, and when she spoke, her voice was all warm honey and amatory promises, "I like you."

Arual shuddered.

"I'd be careful," Alistair said in her ear. "First it's 'I like you,'—" he affected an effeminate voice to imitate Morrigan (a poor attempt at her sultry, come-hither tone), "—then zap! Frog time."

"She'll put us all in the pot, she will!" Daveth cried. "Just you watch!"

"If the pot's warmer than this forest, it'd be a nice change," Ser Jory cut in, sounding brave for the first time since they'd entered the Wilds.

"Follow me, then, if it pleases you."

Deep in the thick of the forest, where the white mist turned into an obscuring fog and the sun barely reached, there stood a simple weathered hut with a roof of brown moss and old branches. It lay at the end of a short path, and thick, dark ivy crept up the walls on all sides. More significant were the ropes of skulls hanging along the path: rat and wolf and some Arual couldn't identify all tied together with feathers and sticks and mud. They dangled ominously, a sign staking claim to this land. Maybe there was magic here, too, for Arual felt a strange sensation running up her arms and into the back of her neck. The air bristled with power, and the way the mist flowed seemed to beckon them further.

As they walked down the path, the shadows seemed to deepen. The trees towered more ominously overhead, and the mist twisted and danced around them. Was it a trick of the light? Or something more...sinister?

In front of the hut sat a small rickety rocking chair as well as an old fire pit that had not seen use for many days. Small moldy bones surrounded the pit in neat piles.

"Greetings, Mother," Morrigan said, sounding almost bored. Arual looked around, but couldn't see who she could be talking to.

"I bring before you four Grey Wardens, who—"

"I see them, girl," came a new voice. A decrepit woman hobbled into view from among the trees. She was the very picture of a witch, wild white hair and a robe formed mostly of thick black furs and dark leather. Hanging down her back was a heavy cloak trimmed in fox fur, quite striking and delicately stitched. She carried a basket filled with large acorns and other items wrapped in red cloth. She eyed the four of them.

"Mmm," she said, her voice thin and raspy. "Much as I expected."

"Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?" Alistair asked incredulously.

"You are required to do nothing," the old woman rasped. "Least of all believe."

Her voice was cackling with easy amusement, which made the situation all the more surreal. The old woman walked toward the hut without waiting for them and sat herself down in the rocking chair with a belabored sigh.

"Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide..." she set her basket down and folded her gnarled hands in her lap. "Either way, one is a fool."

"She's a witch, I tell you!" Daveth said shakily. "We shouldn't be talking to her!"

"Quiet, Daveth!" Ser Jory hissed. "If she's really a witch, do you want to make her mad?"

The old woman chuckled darkly. "There's a smart lad," she said. "Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will."

Without moving an inch, the witch's gleaming cat-like eyes flicked to Arual.

"And what of you?" she purred. "Does your woman's mind give you a different viewpoint? Or do you believe as these boys do?"

Arual glanced about at the hut and wood all around, at the two women before her and the men behind her, and considered the situation—the pure madness of it.

"I'm not sure what to believe," she admitted.

"A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies," the old woman said approvingly. "Be always aware...or is it oblivious? I can never remember."

She cackled suddenly, as though amused at a joke told by some unseen and unheard force.

"So much of you is uncertain...and yet I believe. Do I?" she turned her head as though listening for something the rest of them could not perceive. "Why, it seems I do!"

"So, this is the dreaded Witch of the Wilds?" Alistair murmured dubiously.

"Witch of the Wilds, eh?" the old woman echoed. "Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it! Oh, how she dances under the moon!"

"They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother..." Morrigan sighed, rolling her eyes nearly into the back of her head.

"True..." the old woman chuckled, as though at some private joke. She focused her eyes on Arual, gaze so intense it was likely to start a fire. Arual fought the urge to take a step backward.

"Tell your Grey Wardens this Blight's threat is greater than they realize!" the old woman advised, voice ringing with a clarity of mind that seemed to make all that had come before seem like some kind of cruel game.

"What...what do you mean?" Arual breathed.

"Either the threat is more than they realize or less. Or perhaps the threat is nothing! Or perhaps they realize nothing!" She laughed again. "Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for."

"But we—"

"Time for you to go, then," Morrigan interrupted all too eagerly. At least she didn't try to hide her distaste of their presence, rude as it was.

"Do not be ridiculous girl," he mother cooed. "There are your guests."

Her tone and words were sweet, almost gentle, but there was something beneath them. Like a shark wading shallow waters waiting for a bite. Morrigan seemed to pick up on it, too, as she adjusted her posture.

"Oh, very well," she said, her voice rising in pitch. "I will show you out of the woods. Follow me..."