David Gaider - The Calling

He laughed derisively. “I was raised on the streets, and even I know that kings can’t do everything.” He began to walk ahead, and Fiona stayed where she was, watching him go. “I don’t know what it is you think he should be doing, but maybe you should tell him about it instead of me. Now I’m going to go and see if he needs anything. He’ll probably send me to fetch a chamber pot.”

“Has he sent you for a single one yet?” she laughed.

“He could start. If you keep glaring at him all the time, he’ll probably need one.” More hours passed as they pressed farther into the Deep Roads. The signs of darkspawn corruption gradually became worse. Pools of brackish water filled portions of the halls, and Kell warned them not to touch any of it. A quick command to Hafter and the hound backed off, wisely deciding against slaking his thirst. Duncan was inclined to agree. There were bones of … things … floating in those pools. Something moved in the water that might have been worms, but he didn’t want to think about it too closely.

The funguslike growths on the walls got thicker, as well. There were mounds of it, some looking like great misshapen beehives with dark tendrils radiating outward. The growths were covered in that same slick substance, like a putrid oil. Sometimes the stench of it got so thick it clouded the air and all but choked the torches. They gagged on it, and only at Maric’s urging did they continue on.

He seemed to think they were headed in the right direction. Several times they had passed branches, and only at the first had the king hesitated. It was not, Duncan noticed, to figure out where they were supposed to go. His eyes were far away, lost in some memory he didn’t speak of. When he finally spoke and pointed the way, he seemed quite certain.

Duncan wondered what lay in those other directions. One way looked much like the others here, and he wasn’t all that sure just how the king was telling them apart. Those memories of his must be quite clear. If so, then maybe Genevieve was right to insist he come. If they’d accidentally gone down one of those other passages, who knows where they might have ended up?

They had reached the remains of a dwarven way station when Genevieve called for a halt. There was little left of the building aside from a hint of mortar walls and some crumbling tools, but the rest of them knew the Commander hadn’t stopped them to admire the area.

They were getting closer to the darkspawn. The fact that they were also getting closer to Ortan thaig, according to Maric, wasn’t lost on them, either. Duncan could feel the teeming masses of them ahead, like they were slowly approaching a black pit full of eyes all trained on him. The very idea filled him with a fear that twisted up his insides into a knot. His experience with the darkspawn was minimal, and now he was willingly venturing into a place where he would encounter more of them than he ever wanted to. It was a terrifying notion.

The tents were put up without discussion, within the boundaries of where the way station once stood. Here the dwarves had probably once stopped travelers in the Deep Roads, inspecting their goods or perhaps taxing them. Or maybe the station was built to watch for invaders? He really had no idea. When the First Blight struck, it had hit the dwarves the hardest. The darkspawn had swallowed up the Deep Roads, and the dwarves had retreated all the way to Orzammar, sealing up all entrances to the tunnels and leaving everyone stuck on the other side of those seals to their fate.

What must it have been like, to have realized that there was no escape? To have the darkspawn wash over you like a tidal wave, drowning everything in their path and wiping out almost an entire culture? The dwarves apparently never doubted that the Blight could return again, and had always afforded the Grey Wardens far more respect than anyone else. His own people were less dependable, naturally. They tended to forget what wasn’t right in front of their faces.

Not that Duncan was better than the rest of humanity, judging them from his high perch. Far from it. He’d simply seen enough in his time that he could imagine with a fair degree of accuracy just what humanity was capable of. On most days he’d say that a Blight washing over the surface might not be such a bad thing, swallowing up humanity and perhaps belching and spitting it out for good mea sure.

Maybe he should sit down and make up a list of all the good things that would get destroyed at the same time—like cookies. The darkspawn would wipe out all cookies from the face of Thedas. That would be bad, and alone made this entire endeavor seem more worthwhile.

“Why are we stopping already?” Maric asked him, approaching quietly from behind. Duncan noticed that the man looked a bit feverish in the torchlight, sweaty and pale. The Deep Roads did not seem to be agreeing with him much. But then, who would they agree with, exactly?

“We’ll be on the darkspawn soon. A lot of them.”

“Really? I don’t—Oh.”

“We can sense them ahead,” Duncan reminded him. “I expect the next bit is going to get exciting.” He tried to sound braver than he felt. Genevieve paced at the edge of the camp relentlessly, and her tension slowly infected the rest of them. There was little talk, and after the others had eaten their meal of dried rations and flat wine they had huddled closely around the small campfire—something that the Commander had only reluctantly allowed. None of them wanted to admit that despite their exhaustion, the idea of closing their eyes while surrounded by that oppressive darkness was almost unbearable. The flames were warm and bright, and it was a little easier to pretend that they were not miles under the earth in their presence.

Even so, it didn’t take long for the gloom to settle over them like a pall.

Julien and Nicolas played an Orlesian game on a large rock, something that required ivory pieces moved around on a checkered board. Duncan had seen the wealthy playing it from time to time, but had no idea what the rules might be or what it was even called. It seemed to require intense concentration, the two warriors furrowing their brows a great deal and stroking their chins quietly.

It was a game that suited the pair, probably. Duncan had thought them brothers when he first joined the order, but it turned out they were just comrades that preferred each other’s company, and mostly kept to themselves. Duncan had rarely heard Julien speak more than a handful of words, and it was usually to calm Nicolas down. That was something Julien could do when almost nobody else could. There was a gentleness to his manner that contrasted sharply to Nicolas’s brusqueness and quick temper.

Kell sat across from Duncan, solemnly carving more arrows with his belt knife. His quiver was already full, yet still he applied himself to the task. No doubt he thought he’d need all the arrows he had and more soon—he was probably right. Hafter crouched next to his master, gazing up at him adoringly and probably wishing that he could somehow help with his task.

The rest of them just stared into the flames. Every time Genevieve paced past them, everyone froze. It wasn’t anything overt: Julien and Nicolas paused in their playing, deliberately not looking up from their board, and the others held their breath. Her steel gaze washed over them and then moved on. She didn’t say it outright, but it was obvious she thought it would be better simply to pick up the camp and keep traveling if no one was going to sleep.

It slowly became unbearable. Duncan’s body cried out for sleep, and he found himself nodding off several times only to jerk himself back up. The fire was blissfully warm, the only source of anything decent in this Maker-forsaken place. He wanted to pick it up and hug it close. Maybe that would warm him up and stop the shuddering, which was now almost constant.