Chapter 12: The Ambush at Blackmire Ford
The river stank of rot and old secrets.
Fox crouched at the water's edge, his boots sinking into mud that squelched with every shift of his weight. The Blackmire Ford stretched before him—a shallow crossing where the river widened and slowed, its black waters swallowing the moonlight like a drunkard swallowing wine. The bridge was gone. Nothing left but twisted iron and charred wood, skeletal fingers reaching up through the mist.
Beyond the ford, campfires flickered.
Leliana's army.
The dead didn't need warmth. Didn't need light. But she'd made them build fires anyway—a mockery of life, a performance for anyone watching from the shadows. The flames danced across the water, distorted by the current, and Fox counted at least forty figures moving among the tents.
Forty. Maybe more.
He'd faced worse odds.
He'd never faced worse odds with so much at stake.
"Stop brooding."
Arielle's voice came from behind him, soft but sharp. He didn't turn. Didn't need to. He could picture her exactly—kneeling by the riverbank, her blonde hair tied back, her hands stained with the dark residue of nightbloom extract. She'd been working for hours, crushing the poisonous flowers into a paste, mixing it with river water in a leather skin.
The poison wouldn't kill the dead.
Nothing killed the dead.
But it would slow them down. Confuse them. Make them stumble and claw at their own rotting flesh while the living slipped past.
"Vial's done," Arielle said.
Fox finally turned.
She was holding up a small glass bottle, the liquid inside black as pitch. Her face was smudged with dirt and something darker—blood, probably, from the rabbit she'd caught for dinner. She looked tired. Looked angry.
Looked beautiful.
He pushed the thought away.
"Good," he said.
"Good?" She laughed—a short, bitter sound. "We're about to walk into a nest of fucking corpses, and all you can say is good?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to say we have a plan. I want you to say this is going to work. I want you to say something that makes me believe we're not about to die for nothing."
Fox stood.
The mud released him with a wet, sucking sound.
"We have a plan," he said. "We're going to lure the dead into the ford, freeze them solid, and steal the Codex while Leliana is distracted. It's going to work."
"You don't believe that."
"I believe we don't have a choice."
Arielle stared at him for a long moment. Her eyes—green as spring leaves, bright as shattered glass—searched his face for something he wasn't sure he had anymore.
Then she nodded.
"Fine," she said. "Let's get this over with."
---
Everly was already in the river.
She stood waist-deep in the black water, her arms extended, her fingers tracing patterns in the air. The runes she'd carved into the riverbed glowed faintly beneath the surface—blue-white light that pulsed like a heartbeat, spreading outward in concentric circles.
The cold didn't seem to bother her.
Nothing ever seemed to bother Everly.
Fox waded toward her, the water biting at his legs through his leathers. By the time he reached her, his teeth were chattering.
"How's it coming?" he asked.
She didn't look at him. Her eyes were closed, her lips moving silently, her fingers weaving through the air like she was conducting an invisible orchestra.
"Almost," she said.
Her voice was distant—not dismissive, just focused. The runes pulsed again, brighter this time, and Fox felt the temperature drop. Frost crept along the surface of the water, thin and delicate, spiderwebbing outward from Everly's position.
"The dead are moving," Fox said. "Patrol. Six of them. Coming this way."
"I know."
"You need to hurry."
"I know."
He waited.
The frost spread. The runes glowed. Everly's breath misted in the cold air, and her fingers never stopped moving.
"When I give the signal," she said, "get to the bank. The ice won't discriminate between the living and the dead."
Fox nodded.
He turned back toward the shore.
Arielle was already in position—crouched behind a fallen log, her daggers drawn, her eyes fixed on the approaching patrol. The dead shuffled through the reeds, their bodies bloated and waterlogged, their eyes empty pits that reflected nothing.
They didn't see her.
They didn't see anything.
The first one stepped into the ford.
The runes flared.
---
The river screamed.
Ice erupted from the water—jagged spires that shot upward like teeth, cracking and shrieking as they expanded. The dead soldiers didn't have time to react. One moment they were wading through shallow water; the next, they were impaled, frozen, shattered.
The wall of ice rose higher.
Higher.
A barrier of frost and death that blocked the ford, sealing the crossing, trapping the army on the far side.
Fox ran.
His boots hit the bank just as the last of the frost settled. He turned, nocking an arrow, and watched the dead claw their way through the ice. They were slow—slower than they should have been—the nightbloom extract doing its work, poisoning their rotting blood, making their limbs heavy and uncoordinated.
But they were still coming.
"Fox!"
Arielle's voice, sharp and desperate.
He spun.
Three of them had circled around the ice wall—climbing over the rocks on the eastern bank, their jaws snapping, their hands reaching. Arielle was already moving, her daggers flashing, but there were too many.
Fox drew.
Loosed.
The first arrow took one in the eye. The second caught another in the throat. He reached for a third—
His quiver was empty.
"Shit."
He dropped the bow and drew his knife.
The third corpse lunged.
Fox sidestepped, drove the blade into its temple, and twisted. The thing collapsed, twitching, and he kicked it into the river.
Arielle finished the last two.
She was breathing hard, her face splattered with black ichor, her daggers dripping. She looked at him—just a glance, just a moment—and nodded.
Then the ice wall cracked.
"Everly!" Fox shouted.
She was still in the river, her arms raised, her face pale with exertion. The ice was fracturing—spiderweb cracks spreading outward, chunks breaking off and falling into the water. The dead were pushing through. Not one or two. Dozens.
"Hold it!" Fox shouted. "Hold it!"
"I'm trying!"
Her voice was strained. Desperate.
The wall shattered.
The dead poured through.
---
Fox grabbed Arielle's arm and ran.
The woods were dark—darker than they should have been, the canopy swallowing the moonlight, the underbrush clawing at their legs. Behind them, the dead howled. Ahead, nothing but shadows.
"Everly!" Arielle screamed.
"I'm here!"
She emerged from the trees, her robes soaked, her hair plastered to her face. She was shaking—not from cold, but from exhaustion. The spell had taken everything she had.
"Can you run?" Fox asked.
"I can fucking walk."
"Good enough."
They moved.
The dead followed.
---
For three hours, they ran.
The forest was a labyrinth—twisting paths, dead ends, streams that led nowhere. Fox navigated by instinct, by the faint memory of maps he'd studied years ago, by the desperate hope that they were heading west. Away from the river. Away from Leliana.
Away.
The dead didn't tire. Didn't stop. Didn't slow. But they were far behind now—their howls fading into the distance, swallowed by the trees.
Finally, Fox stopped.
A fallen oak blocked their path—a massive trunk, uprooted by some long-ago storm, its branches tangled with vines and moss. Beneath it, a hollow. Small. Sheltered.
"Here," he said.
Arielle collapsed against the trunk.
Everly followed.
Fox stood guard.
---
The night was quiet.
Too quiet.
Fox sat with his back against the oak, his knife in his hand, his eyes fixed on the darkness. He could hear Arielle breathing—slow and steady, the rhythm of someone trying to calm down. Could hear Everly muttering under her breath, her fingers tracing runes in the dirt.
Neither of them spoke.
Not at first.
Then Arielle stood.
She crossed the hollow in three steps, her face a mask of barely contained fury. Fox didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched as she stopped in front of him, her hands curled into fists at her sides.
"Why didn't you shoot?"
Her voice was quiet.
Dangerous.
"Arielle—"
"Why didn't you fucking shoot?"
He had no answer.
She slapped him.
The sound cracked through the silence—sharp, brutal, the kind of slap that left marks. Fox's head snapped to the side. His cheek burned. He didn't raise his hand. Didn't defend himself.
"I had the shot," he said. "I had her."
"Then why?"
"Because—"
"Because what?"
He looked at her.
Her eyes were wet. Not crying—Arielle didn't cry—but wet. Bright with something that might have been rage, or hurt, or both.
"Because I froze," he said. "Because when I saw her, I remembered."
"Remembered what?"
"Everything."
The word hung between them like smoke.
Arielle stared at him.
Then she kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't tender. It was fury and frustration and fear, all of it compressed into the press of her lips against his. Her hands grabbed his face—rough, demanding—and her tongue forced its way into his mouth.
Fox didn't resist.
He couldn't.
She pushed him down.
The ground was hard and cold beneath his back, but he barely noticed. Arielle was already straddling him, her thighs gripping his hips, her hands tearing at his belt. She was strong—stronger than she looked—and when he reached for her, she grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head.
"Don't," she said. "Don't fucking move."
He didn't.
She pulled his cock free.
He was hard—had been hard since the moment she'd slapped him, the sting of it sending blood rushing south. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking once, twice, and he groaned.
"You like that?" she hissed. "You like being used?"
"Yes."
"Good."
She sank onto him.
Fox gasped.
She was tight—so fucking tight—her cunt gripping him like a fist as she took him to the hilt. She didn't wait. Didn't adjust. Just started moving, her hips rolling, her breath coming in sharp, angry gasps.
"You're mine," she said. "You don't get to freeze. You don't get to hesitate. You're mine."
"I'm yours."
"Say it again."
"I'm yours."
She rode him harder.
Her nails dug into his chest, raking lines of fire across his skin. Her teeth found his shoulder—bit down, hard—and he felt blood well up, hot and wet.
He didn't care.
He grabbed her hips and pulled her closer, driving deeper, and she moaned—a raw, animal sound that echoed through the hollow.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
The ground trembled.
Everly.
She was watching. Fox could see her in the corner of his vision—sitting against the trunk, her legs spread, her fingers buried between her thighs. Her lips were moving, forming words he couldn't hear, and every time he felt the earth shake, he knew it was her. Knew she was doing something, some spell, some magic that made the air thick and charged and wrong.
He didn't care.
Arielle leaned down, her lips brushing his ear.
"Next time," she whispered, "you shoot."
Then she bit his ear.
He came.
The orgasm tore through him—violent and sudden and overwhelming. He bucked beneath her, spilling inside her, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Arielle rode him through it, her body milking him dry, her breath hot against his neck.
When he was spent, she collapsed.
They lay there, tangled together, the earth still trembling beneath them. Everly had stopped—Fox could hear her breathing, heavy and ragged, saw the way her hand was slick with her own pleasure.
"Feel better?" he asked.
Arielle laughed.
"No," she said. "But I'll feel better tomorrow. When we kill that bitch."
Fox nodded.
He didn't look at the trees.
Didn't see the figure standing in the shadows—the undead woman with pale hair and empty eyes, watching them from a distance. Didn't see her turn and disappear into the darkness, heading back toward the river.
Heading back toward Leliana.
He didn't know.
Not yet.
But tomorrow, he would.