David Gaider - The Calling

“And you remember us? You know who we are?” Maric asked her carefully.

“You are the King of Ferelden,” she stated, reciting the fact with a sad sigh. “The men with you are Grey Wardens, as am I. Yes, I remember.”

The dwarves in the room looked fearful and confused. The older man stepped forward, glancing at Maric as if he were a snake ready to bite, but walking up to Utha in order to take her hand in his own. “Utha, what are you speaking of? This is madness!”

She looked at her father, tears welling up in her eyes, and she reached up to fondly stroke his cheek. “I know it is, Father. It’s time for me to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

Her mother marched toward them, the woman’s concern overriding her fear of Maric and the others. The rest of the family piled in behind her, babbling confused questions. “What do you mean you’re going?” she asked. “Why would you leave with these people?”

Utha pressed her lips into a thin line, controlling the tears that clearly threatened to overwhelm her. “I must,” she whispered, her voice thick. She hugged her father and then her mother, each of them returning her gesture warmly even if they didn’t understand what she was doing. The children gathered around Utha, hugging her legs and shedding panicked tears as they realized what was happening.

“You won’t stay for dinner, even? You and your friends?” her mother asked with faint hope, tears streaming down her face.

Utha kissed her mother tenderly on the cheek, saying nothing, and did the same to her stammering father. Then she turned to face the young man who stood grimly nearby. She began to speak to him, but a wave of grief held her tongue. She paused, collecting herself even as the young man stared at her, not comprehending.

“You fought well, Tam,” she finally forced out. She made herself look him directly in the eyes, though it was clearly difficult for her. “I was very proud of you. Very proud.”

“You … were?”

“Oh, yes,” she said fervently. “I swore an oath to avenge you.” She turned and looked at the others, new tears welling. “I swore an oath to avenge you all. And I shall.” Her tone was resolute, and with that the chamber vanished. They were back in the Fade, standing in a field of impossibly tall rock pillars, and Utha stared off into the distance. She looked as she did before, dressed in simple brown robes with her hair braided down her back.

She turned back to the others, her eyes red from tears. She made several emphatic gestures, ending with her fist clutched over her heart. Her expression was so desperately sad that Maric didn’t know what to say.

Kell walked up to her. They stared at each other for a long moment, and then she hugged him tightly around his waist. He stroked her hair fondly. “We do not blame you, Utha,” he said. “You stayed as long as you could.”

Duncan hung his head sadly. Maric looked at him and wondered if he thought of his own family. He saw Katriel standing not far away, watching the group but unwilling to join them. He wondered how terrible it would have been just to stay with her for a time, to enjoy that lie just a little bit longer. He longed to talk to her, to make her understand… .

But these were thoughts he needed to banish. He had made a promise. Their lives hung in the balance.

They needed to move on. A cabin made of logs stood at the top of a hill, amid a verdant forest that appeared to stretch on forever under a clear blue sky. The trees here were enormous pines shooting straight up into the sky, rows upon rows of towering sentinels that made the cabin look like a tiny thing in comparison. It wasn’t, of course. As they drew closer, they could see that the building was significant, with a large pile of chopped wood outside and a warm trail of smoke leading up from a chimney. A furry hide stretched over a drum next to the doorway, and a large fire pit still smoldered from recent use, a spit over it stained from what ever carcass had been roasted there.

“We are in the Arbor Wilds,” Kell surmised, studying the terrain. “In the south of Orlais. Dangerous country. A difficult place to live, to be certain.”

Duncan looked up, interested. “Dangerous? Because of the animals?”

“Because of the dryads.”

“Whoever lives here seems to be doing fine,” Maric noted. “And there’s someone now.” He pointed off in the distance toward the side of the cabin, where a shirtless man with short dark hair and a beard was busily chopping wood on a tree stump. They walked up the dirt path, the rhythmic sound of the chopping echoing over the countryside. A flock of crows burst into flight from one of the nearby trees, cawing loudly as they vanished into the sky.

The chopping sounds halted.

As the group came around the side of the cabin, they encountered the dark-haired warrior facing them warily with axe in hand, still sweating and heaving from his exertions. He looked on them as one might regard a pack of wild dogs, uncertain whether they were actually going to attack or slink away. What ever he thought, he said nothing. It took Maric a moment to realize that he knew who this was.

“Julien!” Duncan cried in amazement.

The man narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you?”

“Of course you do!” Duncan replied. “We’re—”

“Friends of Nicolas,” Kell interrupted, placing a hand on Duncan’s chest to hold him back. The lad looked confused for a moment before he realized why. This wasn’t Julien. It couldn’t be. Julien was dead.

“I find that hard to believe,” he responded, holding up his axe a little higher. “Nobody knows we’re out here, not even my relatives. You don’t look like the normal sorts of bandits we get, but I’ll tell you the same as I told the last: Leave now, or face the consequences.”

“We’re not bandits, I assure you,” Maric told him.

“Then what are you?”

“If we could speak to Nicolas, that would be easier to explain.”

Julien assessed them carefully. His gaze went from one to the next before he finally lowered his axe. It was done only reluctantly, and likely only because all of them kept their weapons sheathed. “We will see” was all he said as he swung the axe hard into the tree stump, lodging it there. He walked back toward the cabin, snatching up a damp linen shirt from on top of the woodpile and throwing it over his shoulder.

The inside of the cabin was a single chamber, filled with evidence that it had been occupied for a long time. A stone hearth dominated the room, two worn chairs in front of it surrounded by several wine bottles askew on the floor. A bookshelf overflowed with dusty tomes, and a desk sat next to it covered with reams of papers, many of them crumpled into wads, and an elaborate quill-and-ink set made of gold. The kitchen was a mess of iron pots and dishes scattered about the stove, and beyond it lay a single sizable bed in the corner covered by several thick bear furs.

Nicolas sat inside in front of the hearth, the fire roaring and filling the room with warm light and a smoky smell. He wore a long black shirt and leather trousers, and stared into the fire with the air of a man weighing a heavy burden. He barely glanced up as Julien and the others crowded in through the door.

“You heard?” Julien asked him.

Nicolas continued to stare into the fire, his face haggard and worn. “I did.”

“And do you know these people?”

Maric stepped forward. “Nicolas, I know this may be hard to believe, but—”

The blond warrior stood up, interrupting him with the heavy scrape of his chair as it was pushed back. He looked at Julien solemnly. “You need to leave me alone with them, Julien.”

“What? You’re mad! Tell me who they are first.”

Nicolas walked toward him. Ignoring the presence of the others nearby, he took Julien’s chin in his hand and kissed him tenderly on the lips. Julien seemed chagrined at first, and then accepted the gesture. It was sweet, and had the air of a couple that had been together for a great long time.