Chapter 9: The King's Delusion
The chill of the morning air bit through the gaps in Daylen’s plate armor as he followed Alistair through the maze of Ostagar’s camp. The sense of Wynne’s warmth was still a phantom imprint on his skin, a stark contrast to the metallic taste of dread in his mouth. Every clank of his own footsteps, every shouted order from a sergeant, felt amplified, abrasive. Beneath it all, the darkspawn song was a toothache in his soul.
“Try not to look so constipated,” Alistair muttered, glancing sideways at him. “The king likes his heroes dashing and preferably not about to vomit. Though, given your Joining, I suppose that’s a possibility. Just aim for his boots, not the royal regalia.”
“Your pep talks need work,” Daylen grumbled, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Alistair’s gallows humor was a lifeline.
“I’m a Warden, not a bard. My job is to kill darkspawn, not uplift spirits. Though I do a bit of both, really. Usually by killing darkspawn in creatively uplifting ways.”
They arrived at the massive war tent. Crimson fabric, stained with smoke and weather, billowed gently in the mountain wind. Two Teryn Redcliffe guards in polished steel eyed them, their gazes lingering on Daylen’s shaved head and the longswords crossed on his back. A mage. A mage in full battle plate. It unsettled them; he saw it in the tightening of their grips on their halberds.
Duncan stood just inside the entrance, a figure of calm authority amidst the chaos. He gave a slight, approving nod as they approached. “Stay close. Listen. Speak only when spoken to. This is politics as much as war.”
The interior was a bath of noise and heat. The scent of spiced wine, oiled leather, and wet wool clashed in the thick air. Torchlight danced across maps pinned to wooden boards, their edges curled by the damp. Nobles in fur-trimmed tunics stood in clusters, their voices a low, serious rumble. And there, at the head of a heavy oak table, stood King Cailan.
He was younger than Daylen expected, handsome in a florid way, his armor so gilded and ornate it seemed more for ceremony than combat. He was laughing at something a grizzled veteran said, his posture relaxed, almost buoyant.
“Your Majesty,” Duncan announced, stepping forward and bowing. “May I present the two newest Grey Wardens: Alistair, and Daylen Amell.”
Cailan’s eyes lit up with genuine, boyish excitement. He stepped around the table, his movements brisk. “At last! The reinforcements from the Circle! I was starting to think you’d gotten lost in the Wilds.” He clapped a hand on Alistair’s shoulder, then turned to Daylen. His gaze swept over the Arcane Warrior’s imposing frame, the twin sword hilards peeking over his shoulders. “And a battle-mage! Marvellous! I’ve always said we don’t utilize your kind nearly enough on the front lines. Too much wasting talent on healing and magical fireworks, not enough on actually cutting down the foe!”
Daylen bowed, feeling dozens of eyes upon him. “Your Majesty.”
Cailan leaned in, peering at the Grey Warden griffon insignia on Daylen’s chest. “The symbol of the holy warriors! You know, as a boy, I dreamed of this. Joining the Wardens, facing down a Blight.” He straightened, beaming. “And now here we are, on the cusp of a glorious victory!”
From the edge of the gathering, near a smaller table strewn with herb pouches and healer’s satchels, Wynne watched. Her expression was schooled into neutral attentiveness, but Daylen felt her presence like a change in barometric pressure. As Cailan gestured expansively, talking of flanking maneuvers and glorious charges, Daylen shifted his weight. His armored thigh brushed against the fabric of a healer’s robe. Wynne’s robe.
He didn’t look at her. She didn’t move away. The contact was brief, hidden by the press of bodies and the sweep of Cailan’s arm. But he felt it—a solid, electric point of connection in the crowded, noisy tent. His skin burned beneath the steel. His mind flashed to the feel of her, soft and warm beneath him, the scent of her skin. His blood stirred, a treacherous, defiant heat against the pervasive chill of the taint.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her fingers, resting at her side, flex slowly. Curl inward, then release. As if remembering the weight and shape of something they had held. The casual, intimate gesture sent a jolt straight through him.
Alistair, standing beside him, was giving a synopsis of the Joining he’d clearly been forced to give too many times. “…and then you drink it, and let’s just say it’s not a fine vintage. More of a ‘vintage vomit’ situation.”
Cailan laughed, but his eyes were already drifting toward the large strategic map. “Yes, yes, a necessary trial! Now, our forces here at the mouth of the valley…”
Daylen forced himself to listen, to absorb the troop placements, the Chasind scout reports, the dire numbers. But part of him was hyper-aware of the woman standing just beside him. The space between them hummed with unspoken memory. He could smell the faint, clean scent of elfroot and lavender on her, cutting through the musk of the tent.
“The Tower of Ishal is the key,” a new voice cut in, deep and gravelly with disapproval. A man in severe, practical armor stepped into the torchlight. His face was a landscape of stern angles and a close-cropped steel-grey beard. Teyrn Loghain. His eyes, cold and assessing, swept over the Wardens and settled on Daylen. “It commands the entire valley. Whoever holds it controls the fate of the battle. I do not like leaving its defense to… unknowns.” His gaze flickered to Duncan, loaded with meaning.
“Which is why my Grey Wardens will hold it,” Duncan said, his voice even but firm. “There is no one better suited.”
“A handful of warriors and a single mage,” Loghain countered, his voice dripping skepticism. “Against whatever might come from the deep passages beneath it.”
“This mage,” Daylen said, the words leaving his lips before he could stop them, “held the stairs of Kinloch Hold during a templar uprising for six hours. Alone.”
The tent went quiet. Loghain’s icy eyes locked onto his. “Did he.”
“I did.” Daylen held the Teyrn’s gaze, feeling Wynne’s stare on his profile. “The passages beneath Ishal are narrow. Numbers will mean less. Skill and endurance will mean more.”
A slow, thin smile spread across Loghain’s face, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “Confidence. Good. You’ll need it.” He turned back to the map, dismissing him. “See that it is not simply bravado.”
The king, oblivious to the tension, clapped his hands. “Perfect! The Wardens at the tower, my forces in the valley, and Loghain’s men circling to crush the horde between us! It will be a song for the ages!”
As the discussion dissolved into logistics, Daylen felt a subtle pressure against his thigh again. Wynne, shifting her stance. Her hand, now hidden in the folds of her robe, brushed against the back of his armored hand. A fleeting, secret touch. Then it was gone, and she was moving, gliding away to tend to a soldier with a bandaged arm.
The absence was a physical coldness.
Alistair leaned in, his voice a low murmur. “So, ‘held the stairs for six hours,’ huh? A bit flashy, don’t you think? Next you’ll be telling them you fought an Archdemon with a butter knife.”
“It was a dinner fork,” Daylen whispered back, the ghost of a smile on his face.
“Even better. Pragmatic.”
Duncan approached them, his expression grave. “The tower is yours. Alistair, you know the plan. Daylen, your magic and your blades will be the anvil. Hold the top level. Nothing gets through.”
“Understood.”
Duncan looked at him, a long, searching look. “The taint sings to you. Loudly?”
“It’s… a background noise. For now.”
“Use it. Let it sharpen your senses, but do not let it cloud your mind.” Duncan placed a hand on his pauldron. “The tower is not just a position. It is a statement. Show them what a Warden can do. Show yourself.”
As they were dismissed, filing out of the stuffy tent into the crisp afternoon, Daylan felt the weight of the task settle on him. The ghost of Wynne’s touch lingered on his skin. The darkspawn song thrummed in his veins. And high above on the mountain pass, the brooding shape of the Tower of Ishal waited.
Alistair bumped his shoulder with his own. “Come on, hero. Let’s go find some dinner that isn’t mysterious Grey Warden potions. I hear they’ve got a stew that’s only slightly identifiable.”
Daylen took a last, deep breath of the cold air, pushing away the memory of warmth, the scent of lavender. The future was steel, and stone, and blood.
“Lead the way,” he said.
The trip back through the camp was quieter. The king’s boisterous confidence felt like a thin veneer over the silent apprehension thickening the air. Soldiers checked straps and sharpened blades with a focused, grim repetition. The smell of pitch from the cauldrons near the fortifications mixed with the damp earth scent of the approaching evening.
“Glorious victory,” Alistair muttered, kicking a loose stone. “He makes it sound like a summer joust. Loghain’s right to be nervous. He’s the one who actually fought in a war.”
“You think the plan is flawed?” Daylen asked.
“I think hoping darkspawn will behave like conventional infantry is a fantastic way to get dead.” Alistair shrugged. “But we have our orders. Tower. Light the beacon. Don’t die. Simple.”
Their path to the Tower of Ishal led them through a narrow stretch of forest at the edge of the camp. The trees were skeletal, their branches clawing at the grey sky. The usual sounds of the woods—birds, squirrels—were absent. It was Alistair who heard it first, a low, warning growl that vibrated in the stillness. He silently drew his sword and shield from his back.
“Company,” he whispered.
A pack of six lean, brindled wolves emerged from the undergrowth. Their ribs showed, and their eyes held a desperate, feral hunger. They were desperate creatures, driven down from the mountains by the spreading Blight. Saliva dripped from their snarling muzzles.
“Don’t let them surround us,” Alistair said, his voice all business now. “Back to back.”
Daylen didn’t bother with a staff. His hands dropped to the hilts of his longswords. The metallic shing of steel leaving scabbards echoed sharply. The wolves hesitated for only a second before the largest, a grey-furred beast, lunged at Alistair.
Alistair caught the lunge on his shield with a solid thump, pivoted, and brought his sword down in a clean arc across the animal’s neck. Blood sprayed the fallen leaves. Two more leapt at Daylen. Time seemed to slow. He dropped into the arcane warrior’s stance, mana syncing with muscle. His blades became a whirlwind of silver. A sweeping cut opened one wolf’s belly. A reverse thrust punctured the other’s lung. They fell with pained yelps.
The remaining three attacked together. Daylen felt a set of jaws clamp onto his greave, teeth screeching against the metal. He kicked out, feeling bone crack. Alistair bashed another with his shield edge, stunning it, before finishing it with a precise stab. The last wolf turned to flee. Daylen flung out his hand. A spike of ice materialized in the air and shot forward, impaling the creature through the haunches. It collapsed, whining.
Silence returned, broken only by their heavy breathing and the wet, final gasps of the wolves. The coppery stink of blood filled the clearing.
“Neat trick with the ice,” Alistair said, wiping his blade on the grass. “Show-off.”
“Efficient,” Daylen corrected. He looked at the largest wolf, its grey fur still thick. An idea formed, a grounding ritual from the Circle’s more practical lessons. “Help me turn him.”
They worked quickly. With Alistair holding the carcass steady, Daylen used one of his sharpened longswords to make careful incisions. His hands, accustomed to precise magical gestures, proved deft at skinning. The pelt came away in one heavy, bloody sheet. He scrubbed it clean with handfuls of snow from a shaded hollow, then used a focused, low-heat flame spell to dry and begin the curing process, the mana leaving his fingertips in a steady, warm stream. The smell of seared hair and wet fur filled his nostrils.
In under an hour, he had a serviceable, stiff pelt. Using a leather thong from his pack, he fashioned it into a crude sash. He wrapped it around his waist over the heavy chainmail, tying it tight. The fur was rough against his hands. It smelled of the forest, of fire, of a clean kill. It felt like a promise, a piece of the wild world anchored to him.
He sheathed his silverite longswords, the blades whispering home. Finally, he pulled his helmet from his belt—a heavy, full-faced grey warden helm with a griffon crest. It settled over his head with a decisive clunk, narrowing his world to the view through the T-shaped visor. The gear hummed against his skin. The enchantments woven into the metal and leather were subtle but potent: a reinforcing of his life force, a reservoir of extra stamina for the fight to come. He felt heavier, more solid, a statue of vengeance and will.
They found Duncan near the king’s forward position. The older warden was checking the straps on his own armor. He looked up as they approached, his eyes taking in Daylen’s wolf-pelt sash, his helmeted form.
“You look like a Warden,” Duncan said, a note of approval in his voice. He clasped forearms with Alistair, then Daylen. His grip was iron. “The beacon must be lit. No matter what you see in the valley, no matter what you hear. That is your only task.”
“We’ll hold the tower,” Alistair said. All his earlier humor was gone. His face was set, his jaw firm.
“See that you do.” Duncan looked between them, his expression grave. “The fate of the army rests on that signal. Do not fail.” He gave a final, sharp nod. “Maker watch over you. And watch each other.”
Then he turned and walked toward the massing ranks of the king’s men, his blue-grey cloak merging with the twilight. They watched him go, a solitary figure moving toward the coming storm.
Alistair adjusted his shield on his arm. “Ready?”
Daylen took a last breath, the air cold through his helmet’s vent. He pushed Wynne’s memory, the feel of her, into a locked compartment in his mind. The darkspawn song was a drumbeat now, a rhythm in his blood. He focused on it, let it sharpen the edges of the world.
“Ready,” he said, his voice echoing slightly inside the helm.
Together, they turned and began the climb up the worn stone path toward the Tower of Ishal. Its dark silhouette cut into the bruised purple of the evening sky, a sentinel awaiting its purpose. Alistair’s steps were measured and solid beside him. No more jokes. No more comments. Just the scrape of boot on stone, the creak of leather, and the deep, preparing silence of two soldiers walking into the mouth of the dark.