Chapter 6: The Kocari Wilds
The path into the Korcari Wilds wasn't a path at all. It was a betrayal of solid ground, a gradual sinking into a world of sucking mud, tangled roots, and air so thick with the smell of decay and blooming fungus it felt like breathing soup. The towering pines did whisper, but it was a malevolent hiss, their branches clawing at a sky the color of a fresh bruise.
“Charming,” Daveth muttered, pulling his boot from a particularly greedy patch of muck with a wet shloop. “Reminds me of summer in Denerim, if you replace the trees with drunk nobles and the mud with… well, actually, it’s pretty much the same.”
Ser Jory wasn’t laughing. He walked with his greatsword held ready, his eyes darting to every shadow. “We shouldn’t be here. This is madness. My wife, she’s in Highever, she’s with child, and I’m…”
“Walking through a bog, we know,” Alistair finished, his shield angled ahead. “You’ve mentioned it. Several times. The darkspawn, however, are unlikely to be swayed by your impending fatherhood.”
“He has a point, though,” Daylen said softly, his senses stretched thin. The Veil here felt frayed, thin in places. “This place is… wrong.”
The words had barely left his lips when the ground ahead erupted.
They were creatures of mud and malice, bursting from hidden hollows and dropping from the trees. Genlocks. Short, stocky, their skin like grey leather stretched over distorted muscle, their mouths all needle-like teeth and mindless hunger. Their stench hit first—a foul mix of open graves and rancid meat.
“Contact!” Alistair roared, his voice shedding all its previous levity. He planted his feet, shield slamming forward to catch the charge of the first two creatures. The impact was a dull, sickening crunch of bone on metal. He shoved, creating space, and his sword flashed out, shearing through a genlock’s arm.
Daveth was already a blur of motion, melting into the deeper shadows. A dagger found a spine from behind. He moved like water, all fluid twists and sudden, vicious strikes.
Ser Jory bellowed, a wordless cry of fear and rage, and brought his greatsword around in a wide, sweeping arc. It cleaved a genlock in two at the waist, but the momentum left him open. Another creature lunged at his flank.
Daylen didn’t think. He acted.
His left hand thrust forward, mana coursing from his core down his arm. A lance of raw, crackling energy—Lightning—speared through the air, striking the attacking genlock. It convulsed, muscles locking, giving Jory the precious second to wrench his blade free. At the same time, Daylen’s right hand dropped to the hilt of the longsword at his hip. He drew and stepped into the same motion.
The blade, enhanced by a whisper of Frost energy that rimed the edge with blue-white cold, sang as it cut. He severed the leg of a genlock closing on Daveth, then pivoted, driving his shoulder into another. The creature staggered, and Daylen’s follow-up thrust, powered by momentum and magic, punched through its rusted breastplate and out its back.
He was a whirlwind of calculated violence. A burst of flame from his palm incinerated a pair of genlocks clustered near a rotten log. When three more rushed him, he didn’t retreat. He met them, his sword a silver blur, parrying a crude axe, disarming another, and finishing the third with a deft decapitation. The arcane robes, light and unhindering, flowed around him like smoke, the staff on his back a forgotten weight.
Alistair fought with grim, economical precision. He was the anvil. He intercepted, held, and broke their rushes, his shield a wall they could not pass. Daveth was the needle, finding seams and weak points, his knives glinting wetly. Jory was the hammer, each mighty blow clearing space, though his movements were growing more frantic, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“They keep coming!” Jory shouted, cleaving another foe.
“They’re drawn to us!” Alistair yelled back, kicking a genlock off his shield. “The taint! It’s like a beacon!”
Daylen felt it now, a low, throbbing pulse at the edge of his consciousness, a psychic rot that mirrored the physical decay around them. He shook his head, focusing. He saw a cluster of four genlocks coordinating, trying to flank Alistair. Daylen planted his feet, digging deep. He channeled mana not into a bolt, but into the earth itself. The ground beneath the creatures heaved, a localized Stonefist erupting upward. Dirt, roots, and darkspawn bodies were thrown into the air in a chaotic clatter. Before they landed, Alistair and Daveth were there, cutting them down.
Silence fell, abrupt and heavy, broken only by the labored breathing of the four men and the last gurgles of the dying darkspawn. The clearing was a charnel house.
“Well,” Daveth said, wiping a black, viscous fluid from his cheek. “That was bracing. Anyone bring a towel?”
Jory was leaning on his sword, trembling. “Maker’s breath. They’re… they’re nightmares.”
“They’re just the foot soldiers,” Alistair said, his voice tight. “Wait ‘til you meet a hurlock.” He glanced at Daylen, a new appraisal in his eyes. “You fight like… well, not like any mage I’ve ever seen.”
“The Circle had a very specific curriculum,” Daylen said, flicking gore from his blade. The adrenaline was a cold fire in his veins. It felt horrifyingly good.
Pushing deeper, the landmarks on Duncan’s map—a lightning-blasted oak, a trio of standing stones slick with moss—led them to a sunken ruin. It was little more than a crumbling, circular foundation half-swallowed by the marsh, but the symbol carved into a central plinth was unmistakable: the griffon of the Grey Wardens.
“This is it,” Alistair said, voice hushed. “The cache should be under that slab.”
The heavy stone was pried up with effort, revealing a small, watertight compartment. It was empty.
“No,” Jory whispered, the sound full of dread.
Daveth crouched, running his fingers along the inside. “Cleaned out. Recently, too. The stone’s not weathered inside.”
A sense of failure, cold and leaden, settled in Daylen’s gut. The Tower, or worse, awaited.
“A fine hunt this turned out to be,” a woman’s voice said, smooth as aged whiskey and just as intoxicating.
They spun, weapons rising.
She stood atop a ruined wall as if it were a palace balcony, shrouded in feathers and dark leathers. Her dress was a patchwork of furs and weavings, impossibly elegant for the swamp, and it did nothing to hide the lithe, powerful curves beneath. Pale, unblemished skin contrasted with waves of raven-black hair, and her golden eyes held a predatory intelligence that made the hair on Daylen’s neck stand up. She was beautiful in the way a sharp blade was beautiful.
“Who are you?” Alistair demanded, shield up. “Identify yourself!”
“So loud,” she sighed, hopping down from the wall with unnatural grace. “You are in the Wilds, young Grey Warden. You do not shout here unless you wish to be… answered.” Her gaze swept over them, dismissive of Alistair and the others, lingering on Daylen. She took in his staff, his robes, his shaved head. Her full lips curved into a faint, amused smile. “A mage among the Wardens. How novel.”
“We’re on Warden business,” Daylen said, stepping forward. He kept his voice level, respectful but not submissive. “Our cache has been looted.”
“Your cache?” She laughed, a low, throaty sound. “My mother looted it before your order first pitched its tents at Ostagar. She found your ‘secret’ stash rather obvious.”
“Your mother?” Alistair asked, suspicion warring with confusion.
“Flemeth,” the woman said, as if speaking of a force of nature. “She has what you seek. The vials of blood. The documents you left with them.” Her eyes, those piercing golden eyes, locked back on Daylen. “I am Morrigan. She sent me to guide you, lest you blunder into a spider’s nest or, worse, a chasmspawn breeding pit. Though watching you try might have been amusing.”
“Sent you? Why?” Daylen asked.
Morrigan tilted her head. “Because she wishes to speak with you. Or perhaps she is simply bored. My mother’s whims are her own. The question is, do you wish to complete your task, or will you return to your commander empty-handed?”
Jory looked ready to bolt. Daveth watched Morrigan with the alertness of a hunter who’d just seen a more dangerous predator. Alistair’s jaw was set.
Daylen weighed the options. A mysterious witch in the sentient Wilds, or Duncan’s disappointed face and the consequences of failure. The choice was no choice at all.
“Lead the way,” Daylen said.
Morrigan’s smile widened, showing perfect teeth. “Wise. For a shemlen.”
She turned and began walking into the deeper gloom without a backward glance. The men followed, a tense, silent procession. Alistair fell in step beside Daylen, his voice a bare murmur. “This is a terrible idea. ‘Hey, let’s follow the strangely attractive swamp witch to her probably carnivorous mother’s house.’ Top plan.”
“You have a better one?” Daylen murmured back, his eyes never leaving Morrigan’s back, the sway of her hips navigating the treacherous ground with effortless grace.
“No,” Alistair admitted glumly. “But I’m going to complain about it the whole way.”
Morrigan led them on a route no map could chart, through briar tunnels that parted for her and over stagnant pools on stones that seemed to appear only as she stepped. The oppressive atmosphere of the Wilds deepened, the air growing warmer, heavier with the scent of strange flowers and ozone.
Finally, they emerged into a clearing where the water was black and still, reflecting the gloomy sky. And there, in the center of the water, stood a hut. It was built on stilts of petrified wood, shaped from the bones of the forest itself, twisted and grown into a shelter that looked both ancient and alive. A crude bridge of roots and planks led to its door.
Morrigan stopped at the water’s edge. “There,” she said, a hint of something unreadable in her voice. “The home of Flemeth. The Witch of the Wilds.” She turned her golden gaze on Daylen once more. “Mind your manners. She eats rude visitors.”
“She eats rude visitors.”
The rotting plank bridge groaned a protest under their combined weight. Ser Jory’s armor creaked with every hesitant step. The water below was opaque, a black mirror reflecting only the bruised clouds above and the impossible silhouette of the hut. No reeds grew here. No insects skimmed the surface. The silence was a physical pressure.
Morrigan pushed the hide-covered doorway aside and entered without announcement. The men exchanged a final, tense look before following.
The interior was not what Daylen expected. It was warm, dry, and spacious, lit by a central hearth where a low fire crackled under a hanging iron pot. The air smelled of dried herbs, old parchment, and something spiced and savory that made his empty stomach clench. Jars of strange substances lined shelves carved directly into the walls, and feathers, bones, and peculiar woven charms dangled from the ceiling.
An old woman sat in a high-backed chair of twisted wood near the fire. She was ancient, her face a roadmap of deep lines, her white hair wild yet possessed of a strange, regal quality. Her eyes, though clouded with age, held a sharpness that seemed to peel back Daylen’s skin and examine the marrow beneath. This was Flemeth.
“So, the little Wardens have come crawling from their crumbling fortress,” she said. Her voice was like stone grinding against stone, yet it filled the hut completely. “Led by my daughter. How… predictable.”
Alistair opened his mouth, likely to say something unwise. Daylen stepped forward smoothly, placing himself slightly ahead of the group. He gave a short, respectful bow of his head, the kind Senior Enchanter Irving had taught him for dealing with powerful, unknown entities. “Lady Flemeth. Thank you for receiving us. And… for safeguarding the Grey Warden cache.”
Flemeth’s ancient eyes fixed on him. A slow smile revealed surprisingly strong teeth. “Polite. And a mage. The Circle’s leash must have been longer than most.” She gestured a gnarled hand towards a rough-hewn table where a stack of old, leather-bound scrolls and three glass vials filled with a thick, black liquid sat. The vials seemed to absorb the firelight. “Your treaties. Your blood. I grew tired of watching the spiders spin webs over them.”
Daylen felt a surge of relief so profound it almost buckled his knees.The treaties. The binding magic and seals that could compel the armies of Ferelden’s disparate lands to stand with the Wardens against a Blight. He had only read about them in the Tower’s restricted section. “These are… invaluable. Our order owes you a debt.”
“Your order is a scattered handful of fools about to be stomped into the mud at Ostagar,” Flemeth corrected, though not unkindly. It was a statement of fact. “The debt is to me. And I collect in my own time.” She leaned back, her gaze drifting to Morrigan, who had moved to the hearth and was silently stirring the pot with a long ladle. “For now, you will eat. You smell of fear and swamp. It offends the stew.”
Morrigan said nothing, her back to them. Her movements were efficient, almost dismissive, as she lifted wooden bowls from a shelf and began to ladle out a thick, fragrant broth containing chunks of unknown meat and wild roots. She placed the bowls on the table with a quiet thud, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
Daveth eyed his bowl with deep suspicion. Jory looked like he might be sick. Alistair leaned close to Daylen, whispering through barely moved lips. “Unknown meat. In a witch’s hut. This is how every bad campfire story starts.”
“Eat or don’t,” Morrigan said flatly, finally turning. She handed a bowl directly to Daylen, her fingers briefly brushing his. Her golden eyes held his for a second too long. “It is not poisoned. If we wished you dead, we would have left you for the genlocks.”
Daylen took the bowl. The stew was delicious—rich, gamey, warming him from the inside out. He ate methodically, watching Flemeth. The old woman seemed content to sit in silence, observing them like specimens. When the last of the broth was gone, Daylen carefully gathered the scrolls. The parchment was dry and crisp, the wax seals—the griffon of the Wardens, the mabari of Ferelden, the crown of Orzammar—still intact. He secured the vials of black blood in a padded pouch on his belt. They felt unnaturally warm.
“You have what you came for,” Flemeth stated. The firelight danced in her deep-set eyes. “Now you will leave. My daughter will see you to the edge of the Wilds. The longer you tarry, the more likely you are to become a permanent feature of the landscape.”
Morrigan stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Mother, must I? They have legs.”
“You must,” Flemeth said, her tone brooking no argument. “They are clumsy. They will attract things. Ensure they do not. And do not dawdle.” Her final glance at Daylen was inscrutable. “The world tilts on a knife’s edge, young mage. Do not be the one who slips.”
The return journey began in tense silence. Morrigan strode ahead, a phantom in the gathering dusk, her impatience a palpable force. The strange, guided path through the worst of the marsh felt shorter, the oppressive weight of the Wilds lightening with every step away from the black-water clearing.
Once they were a decent distance from the hut, Morrigan’s posture shifted. The rigid obedience melted into her earlier, feline curiosity. She fell back to walk beside Daylen, ignoring Alistair’s vigilant glare.
“Your Circle trained you to fight with a blade,” she stated, her gaze tracing the line of the longsword at his hip. “An odd combination. Clumsy.”
“It’s effective,” Daylen replied, watching a twisted root so he wouldn’t trip over it.
“Effectiveness is not elegance,” she mused. “Magic is a wild river. Steel is a forged channel. To merge them… there is a certain brutal poetry to it, I suppose. For a shemlen.”
“You keep using that word,” Daylen said.
“It means ‘quick child.’ It means ‘one who lives fast and dies young.’ It fits.” She glanced at him, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Though you seem less… frantic than your companions. The loud one with the shield compensates for something, surely. And the knight smells of fresh milk and terror.”
Ahead, Alistair scoffed. “I can hear you, you know!”
“Your ears function. A point in your favor,” Morrigan called back, not looking at him. Her attention returned to Daylen, more focused now. “My mother collects things. Stories.Power. She saw something in your cache worth keeping. And now she sees something in you worth sending me out into the damp to escort. I wonder what it is.”
Daylen met her golden stare. “Maybe she just wanted you to get some fresh air.”
Morrigan laughed, a genuine, surprised sound that was unlike her previous mocking tones. It was low and musical. “Perhaps. Or perhaps she wished me to observe the creatures soon to be slaughtered. You march to Ostagar to die, you know.”
“We march to fight,” Jory said from behind them, his voice hollow.
“It is the same thing this time,” Morrigan said, her smile fading into something more like pity. “The horde your king toys with is but a fingertip. The body stirs deep in the earth. You are all rushing to kiss a corpse.” She shrugged, the motion graceful. “But it is your corpse to kiss. I am merely here to ensure you reach it without being eaten by wolves first. A pointless task, but mother’s orders.”
The tree line was thinning ahead. The unnatural silence of the deep Wilds was giving way to the familiar, distant sounds of the army camp: a faint bugle call, the muted ring of a hammer. The solid ground of the Imperial Highway was a dark line in the twilight.
Morrigan stopped at the very edge of the twisted trees. “This is where my boredom ends. The road is there. Try not to lose your precious scrolls.”
“Thank you for the guide service,” Alistair said, his voice tight with relief and lingering suspicion.
She ignored him, her eyes once more finding Daylen’s. She took a single step closer, the scent of wildflowers and ozone enveloping him. Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for him. “You carry two weapons now, quick child. The one in your hand, and the one in your blood. The second is heavier. I wonder if you know how to wield it.”
Before he could form a reply, she turned and melted back into the shadows of the Korcari Wilds, vanishing as completely as if she’d never been there at all.
Daveth let out a long, shaky breath.“Well. I’m never sleeping again.”
“We have the blood,” Daylen said, his fingers closing around the pouch at his belt. The warmth of the vials seeped through the leather. “We have the treaties.” He looked back at the dark wall of trees, but there was no sign of her. Only the memory of a whisper and golden eyes.
“Right,” Alistair said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, breaking the spell. “Time to go get officially, horrifically joined. I can hardly wait.” He started down the slope towards the road, his stride quickening. “Come on. Duncan’s waiting, and I really need to describe that stew to someone before I forget how terrifying it was.”
Daylen took one last look at the Wilds, then turned his back on them. The camp’s fires glittered in the distance like fallen stars. The real test was just beginning.