David Gaider - The Calling

He fell into a daze, focusing more on putting one foot in front of the other and keeping up with the Architect—who said nothing. Their travel was utterly silent, with only the beautiful strains of the humming tugging at Bregan’s senses. He tried to tune it out. When he finally started to wonder just where it was they were going, he resigned himself to the fact that there was no point in asking. The Architect was moving and he was following.

Then the emissary finally stopped, abruptly enough that Bregan almost ran into it. He looked up and saw that the tunnel had come to an end. They were at an entrance of some kind that opened up into a larger natural cavern beyond. What little he could see with the glowstone told him this was natural rock, mostly untainted. The faintest breeze crawled across his skin, cool and welcoming, and only belatedly he realized that it signified fresh air. They were near the surface.

The Architect held up a calming hand as he spun about. “It is not as close at it seems,” it cautioned in its usual calm and civilized tone. “The ducts that still exist here bring the air down from the surface. But it would be a simple matter to reach the surface from here.”

Bregan stared at the creature suspiciously. “And why did you bring me here?”

“If you had attempted to flee again when we were still among my brethren, they would have stopped you. They listen to me at times because they fear me, but I am not the same as them and they know this.”

It took a moment for the idea to sink in. He was exhausted, his legs burning now that he was standing still. The fiery itch underneath his flesh clawed at his tendons. The Architect turned and stared out into the cavern, the glowstone highlighting every fold of the withered flesh on its skeletal face. If Bregan were to guess, he’d have suspected that it felt pensive. “You want me to flee now?”

“Is that still what you wish?”

“Would you let me go?”

“I would.”

That answer stumped him. He looked out into the shadowed passages where the Architect stared and wondered what the darkspawn saw there. Bregan had come to the Deep Roads to die. If he left, he could still do that. He could continue his Calling, as planned.

But if all he wanted to do was die, then there were simpler ways to do it. Even the Architect had told him that, and it was true. So perhaps he didn’t want to die. Perhaps he could go to the surface, if it was truly reachable. He could warn the Grey Wardens about what this emissary planned, give them time to find a way to stop it …

… but should he?

Ignoring the idea that he would be attacked the moment he showed himself on the surface, his skin as corrupted as any mad ghoul’s, it occurred to him that perhaps there was actually something to the emissary’s plan. The death of so many was a horrific thought, yes, but if it meant survival? Stopping the Blight was a Grey Warden’s true duty, and even if Bregan had never wanted that onus originally, it was all he truly had left now.

“This thing you have planned,” he began slowly.

“Yes?”

“You aren’t just unleashing something on humanity? You said that the darkspawn needed to meet in the middle as well, yes? You must have a plan for them, too.”

“We can speak on that, if you wish.”

“But the idea is to end the Blights? Forever, so they never happen again.”

The emissary turned and regarded Bregan for a moment, its expression unreadable. The large pale eyes blinked and it leaned heavily on its gnarled black staff. He ground his teeth, wondering if maybe this wasn’t the creature’s plan all along. Take him down into the depths, let the corruption gnaw away at his sanity until finally … what? Until he finally admitted that maybe the Grey Wardens never had all the answers? They did what they could to protect the world from the unthinkable, but possessed no solution save the constant sacrifice of young souls to the taint? Nothing Bregan had been taught could ever have prepared him for this.

“That is the idea, yes,” the Architect murmured.

“And what do the other darkspawn think about this? Do they agree with you?”

“They cannot. I must make this decision for them.”

Bregan found himself slowly nodding. He looked out into the cavern and felt another brush of cool air across his skin. It would feel good to be on the surface, he thought. By now there would be snow on the ground, and the icy breath of the wind would be welcome against his flushed, burning skin.

And then he thought of Genevieve, his white-haired sister with her stern glare. He remembered his dreams and wondered if she was indeed searching for him. If he went to the surface, she might even find him. And what would she say, if she saw him now?

“Let’s talk about it, then.” The words spilled out of him unbidden, yet as soon as they were said Bregan knew that it could be no other way. The whispers within the distant humming grew louder and more insistent, calling out his name from the shadows and tugging at his mind.

And he ignored them.

The Architect bowed low, respectfully, and then gestured back the way they had come. Bregan adjusted what little clothes he had left and began to stride purposefully down the passageway, back into the depths, and this time the darkspawn followed him.

It was impossible to tell the time in the Deep Roads, but Maric suspected that they couldn’t possibly have rested more than a handful of hours. He had only slept in fits and starts, himself, and whenever he did awake he was aware of the Grey Warden’s commander pacing outside.

It wasn’t long afterwards when Genevieve finally stirred them from their tents, her tone insistent. No doubt she had waited until she simply couldn’t take it anymore. Young Duncan grumbled, but a deadly look from her silenced the lad. Maric would have laughed had he not been certain he would have received a similar reaction.

The Grey Wardens began to efficiently pack up the tents. A hush had descended over them. Whereas the previous day had been filled with Duncan’s amiable chatter, among other talk, now there was only tense silence.

They insisted on packing up Maric’s tent for him. He’d started to do it himself, but Utha interjected herself between him and the tent. He’d spluttered in protest, but the dwarf had simply ignored him. And how did one argue with a mute, anyhow? So reluctantly he’d given in, and it was probably just as well. The others had the pro cess down to a science.

Kell ventured ahead, the large hound bounding after him. Maric had wondered how wise it was to bring an animal down into the Deep Roads, but it was increasingly obvious that Hafter was no ordinary creature. He and the quiet hunter appeared to share a bond that went beyond that of master and servant. Kell rarely needed to give the dog commands. Hafter never went too fast or got too excited, either. He was as cautious and suspicious as the hunter, keeping an eye on every shadow. It was quite easy, in fact, to stop thinking of Hafter as merely a dog.

The only person other than Maric who appeared to have nothing currently to do was Fiona. She stood nearby, pointedly ignoring him, the beacon of white light from her staff providing the only illumination in the ruin now that the campfire was extinguished. Its flickering glow cast shadows on the ruin’s walls, a virtual puppet’s play cavorting high above them. Since she was holding the staff, the shadow behind Fiona was the largest, looming high over her as if about to pounce. How fitting that the fiery elf should cast the most dominant shadow, he thought.