Maybe he should sit down and make up a list of all the good things that would get destroyed at the same time—like cookies. The darkspawn would wipe out all cookies from the face of Thedas. That would be bad, and alone made this entire endeavor seem more worthwhile.
“Why are we stopping already?” Maric asked him, approaching quietly from behind. Duncan noticed that the man looked a bit feverish in the torchlight, sweaty and pale. The Deep Roads did not seem to be agreeing with him much. But then, who would they agree with, exactly?
“We’ll be on the darkspawn soon. A lot of them.”
“Really? I don’t—Oh.”
“We can sense them ahead,” Duncan reminded him. “I expect the next bit is going to get exciting.” He tried to sound braver than he felt. Genevieve paced at the edge of the camp relentlessly, and her tension slowly infected the rest of them. There was little talk, and after the others had eaten their meal of dried rations and flat wine they had huddled closely around the small campfire—something that the Commander had only reluctantly allowed. None of them wanted to admit that despite their exhaustion, the idea of closing their eyes while surrounded by that oppressive darkness was almost unbearable. The flames were warm and bright, and it was a little easier to pretend that they were not miles under the earth in their presence.
Even so, it didn’t take long for the gloom to settle over them like a pall.
Julien and Nicolas played an Orlesian game on a large rock, something that required ivory pieces moved around on a checkered board. Duncan had seen the wealthy playing it from time to time, but had no idea what the rules might be or what it was even called. It seemed to require intense concentration, the two warriors furrowing their brows a great deal and stroking their chins quietly.
It was a game that suited the pair, probably. Duncan had thought them brothers when he first joined the order, but it turned out they were just comrades that preferred each other’s company, and mostly kept to themselves. Duncan had rarely heard Julien speak more than a handful of words, and it was usually to calm Nicolas down. That was something Julien could do when almost nobody else could. There was a gentleness to his manner that contrasted sharply to Nicolas’s brusqueness and quick temper.
Kell sat across from Duncan, solemnly carving more arrows with his belt knife. His quiver was already full, yet still he applied himself to the task. No doubt he thought he’d need all the arrows he had and more soon—he was probably right. Hafter crouched next to his master, gazing up at him adoringly and probably wishing that he could somehow help with his task.
The rest of them just stared into the flames. Every time Genevieve paced past them, everyone froze. It wasn’t anything overt: Julien and Nicolas paused in their playing, deliberately not looking up from their board, and the others held their breath. Her steel gaze washed over them and then moved on. She didn’t say it outright, but it was obvious she thought it would be better simply to pick up the camp and keep traveling if no one was going to sleep.
It slowly became unbearable. Duncan’s body cried out for sleep, and he found himself nodding off several times only to jerk himself back up. The fire was blissfully warm, the only source of anything decent in this Maker-forsaken place. He wanted to pick it up and hug it close. Maybe that would warm him up and stop the shuddering, which was now almost constant.
“Are you all right?” Fiona asked him, the sound of her voice initially a shock. He turned and stared at her fuzzily, at first not quite absorbing what she had said, before he finally nodded. “Would you like to play a game?” she offered. “I have some cards in my pack; I could dig them out if you—”
“No.” He shuddered again, almost a spasm, and rubbed his hands vigorously next to the fire. The others stopped and stared at him, exchanging quiet looks.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! I’m sure!”
The quiet descended again, and Duncan almost regretted his refusal. He rubbed his hands even more by the flames, noting how remarkably pale they were. Funny, he thought. I spent half my life wishing I could be pale just like all the other children, and it turned out all I needed to do was freeze to death in the Deep Roads.
“Perhaps I should build the fire up more,” Kell offered.
“I’m fine!” Duncan snapped.
He could feel Fiona staring anxiously at him, though she hesitated to speak. So he wrapped his arms around himself and leaned close to the flames, trying not to look as miserable as he felt. From the awkwardness he felt around him, he doubted he was very successful.
“You know,” Maric suddenly spoke up, warming his hands in the fire beside Duncan, “back during the rebellion, we had a ritual the night before a battle. We would pass around some dwarven ale. See who could take the largest swig.”
Utha grinned and made a gesture with her hands. Kell paused in his whittling and looked bemused. “She says that’s not really ale.”
“You’re telling me! I think they make it from fungus. It’s black as pitch!”
Duncan groaned. “You drank that?”
The King winked at him and reached into his cloak, drawing forth a large silver flask. The dwarven rune emblazoned on the side of it was clear for everyone to see, and a few whistles of appreciation floated around the fire. Even Julien and Nicolas were interested now, grinning as Maric opened it up. The smell of something sickly sweet filled the air, like a skunk that had crawled under a shed to die and slowly rot in the heat.
Fiona laughed, covering her mouth with a hand. “Oh, that’s foul!”
“My mother started the tradition,” Maric said, lifting the flask to his nose and taking a sniff. He sighed in delight, as if the odor was wonderful and not putrid in the slightest. “She’d met up with a dwarf that had crossed the Orlesians. I think I was fifteen. I forget his name. Curliest beard I’d ever seen. Anyhow, he traveled with us for a time and he gave us an entire keg of dwarven ale as a gift.”
The man’s smile suddenly became fond, his eyes sad. Duncan had to think to remember that the mother the King spoke of had been murdered—right in front of him, so the story went. He wondered if that was true. “None of the men wanted it, but Mother was so stubborn she refused to waste anything, especially a gift. So the next night before battle, she brought out the keg and dunked a cup inside. Drank the entire thing in front of all her commanders, and then dared them to do the same.”
He laughed then, a hearty and joyous laugh that slowly became tinged with sadness as it trailed off. Hesitating only a second, he brought the flask to his lips and took a long swig. Duncan felt his nose crinkling in disgust as the King gulped not once but twice, and then stopped, grinning madly as he made a satisfied “Ahhhh!” sound.
Utha made an impressed gesture. “I agree,” said Nicolas.
“I was the last one to drink that first night.” Maric smiled, his voice strained as if the ale had stripped his throat raw. “I had one sip and I vomited all over the campfire.” He turned and offered the flask to Kell with a slight raise of his eyebrow.
The hunter regarded it dubiously, and then with the slightest sigh he put down his half-completed arrow and his belt knife and accepted the flask. He held it to his forehead and bowed in the king’s direction, a gesture of thanks.
“I trained with the Ash Warriors,” the hunter said. He stared into the flask as if he was certain that something was going to crawl out of it. “They believe it is necessary that one die before battle. If you cannot see your death and acknowledge it, it will take you unawares. Before my first battle, they bled me with shallow cuts and then salted my wounds until I finally screamed in agony.” He grinned suddenly. Duncan had never seen the solemn man actually smile before, now that he thought of it. “When I did, they all laughed. They had taken bets, you see, to see how long I would endure.”