Title: The Grey Path
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Very important notice; this chapter is particularly dark and violent, and there are some references to sexual assault as well (though no such acts are shown). This chapter is definitely meant for a mature audience, so reader discretion is advised! If you feel especially uncomfortable about such things, then read no further!

Otherwise, read on!

____________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter Two; Elves at the Mercy of Men

"Can you hear me, cousin? Are you alright?"

Sagramor groaned in pain as he came awake, the monstrous pounding of his skull and the rough wood of the stage scraping his elbows evidence enough of his continued survival.

Taking Soris' hand, he hoisted himself up, breathing deeply to quell his growing panic. "Never mind me, what happened to Shianni and the other women?"

"Gone. Vaughan took them all, cousin; Shianni, Nesiara, Valora, Nola, the entire bridal party! The Elder tried to stop them, but there was nothing anyone could do."

"Damnation!" Sagramor cursed, stumbling forward off the stage. The pounding only increased, his vision swam for an instant, and the young elf gave a small moan of pain, cursing his battered state. "We need to go after them."

"Maybe you should rest, cousin, those guards roughed you up pretty hard," Soris urged gently. "At least get the Elder to examine your wounds before you go storming off."

Sagramor opened his mouth to retort, but fell silently as a trickle of blood slithered down his face. "Suppose it wouldn't hurt. Where's the Elder now?"

"Over by the tree with that Grey Warden, Duncan. For the most part, I think he's just trying to calm things down; everybody's getting upset!"

"How upset?"

"Some are calling for blood," Soris explained as the two young men made their way over. "Others say that any action will just make it worse for the rest of us. It's getting ugly, fast."

"And you?" the dark-haired elf inquired.

Soris sighed in resignation. "I think both sides are right. The smart thing to do would be to keep our heads down, but I'm not willing to do that while Valora's in danger. If there's anything we can do to help, I say we do it."

"Agreed," Sagramor replied, privately impressed with his cousin's nerve. Adaia had trained her son in combat, but her nieces and nephews remained untutored at the request of their parents, so to see Soris willing to risk his life for a woman he just met despite this handicap was inspiring. For his part, Sagramor tried to remain calm, but the thought of the women suffering at Vaughan's hands stoked his anger once more. Especially Shianni… "Let's see what we can add to the discussion."

Picking up their feet, the two young elves headed towards the growing crowd, threading their way through until they were next to Valendrian himself. The Elder raised his hands in a placating gesture as he tried to settle things down. "Please, all of you, listen! I know you are upset, and with good reason, but there is nothing we can do right now!"

"He's right," chimed in Elva, the usually bitter elf very matter-of-fact about the subject, her worn face betraying no sympathies for the abducted women. "Running after them will only make things worse."

"So we do nothing?" another elf retorted, face turning red as his hair. "They took my sister!"

"Let's pay the humans back!" demanded a third. "Take their women in exchange for our own!"

"Shianni shouldn't have hit the Bann like that. She always was a troublemaker; now look where it's gotten her!"

"We should rise up! The humans have gone too far, we should pay them back in blood!"

A cacophony of voices added to the din, as every elf present shouted their suggestions and demands. Proposals and counter-proposals echoed back and forth, and the Elder's pleas went unheard as the discussion became more heated and divisive. Throughout it all, Duncan remained by his old friend's side, brows furrowed in thought, his quiet contemplation a sober counterpoint to the growing hysteria.

"Elder Valendrian!" Sagramor boomed, cutting through the din. "Do we have any idea where the women are right now?"

"They were taken to the Arl's palace, I suspect," Valendrian answered. "Normally, I'd consul patience. However, stories of the Arl's son and his…appetites are most disturbing, and I cannot help but feel that for every moment Shianni and the others are held prisoner, their peril increases."

"All the more reason to move quickly then," stated Sagramor, the beginnings of a plan forming.

"But what can we do?" one of the crowd stated. "It's the Arl's palace; even with the Arl and his knights gone, it will be guarded. And that doesn't even count the rest of the city guard, or the garrison at Fort Drakon. We'd all be massacred before we could try anything!"

"Elder, if I may make a suggestion?" spoke another elf, a slender young man whose dark skin suggested a more northerly heritage.

"Of course, Galen, all are welcome to speak."

"I work inside the palace," Galen explained, "I could sneak in one, perhaps two others in through the servant's entrance. Nobody will notice a few more elves looking around."

"Excellent idea," Sagramor added, seizing onto this thread of hope. "En masse, we'd never free Shianni and the others, the guards would just close the gates and cut us to pieces. But a few of us sneaking in, we could be in and out with the women in tow before anyone notices the difference."

"I'm with you, of course, cousin," Soris declared, trying not to appear nervous, "but if we're caught, we won't be able to talk our way out of it."

For the first time since the abduction occurred, Duncan spoke. "For that, you will need weapons," he said, removing a few from his keeping. "Allow me to offer you my own longsword and bow. A man should be able to defend his loved ones properly."

Soris took the proffered weapons in trembling hands, though Sagramor declined their use. "I have my mother's greatsword, Duncan, it's a weapon I'm more familiar with and I think I'll work better with it. While your assistance is appreciated, I think we could use an experienced fighter like you with us more. Why don't you come with us?"

Duncan shook his head regretfully. "I am afraid I cannot. Believe me when I say that my intervention would do more harm than good, both for the Alienage and all of Ferelden. If this is to be done, it must be done by you."

"Then your path is set," Valendrian stated solemnly. "I pray that the Maker looks on it with favour, and brings you all home safe."

"You're all insane!" Elva declared. "The guards will burn our homes down around us! You're risking all our lives for the sake of a bunch of foolish tramps!"

"Enough, Elva! You've had your say," retorted the Elder, his firm tone silencing her. "They shall try, for their own honour and the honour of the women. We must trust in the Maker that He will see justice done."

"He will if I have anything to say about it, Elder," said the dark-haired elf, turning towards his compatriots. "Galen, I need you to send word ahead to the palace. Make sure that the servants' entrance is unlocked and the way cleared. Once we reach the palace grounds, we'll need to be quick."

"Of course."

"Soris," Sagramor added, "I need you to collect some spare clothing and tear them into strips. We'll use them as bandages in case any of us gets injured, the women included. We'll meet back here in a few minutes. As for me," he said, striding determinedly towards home, "I'm going to get my sword."

**********************************

As Sagramor headed for home, he noticed a stillness in the air, a tension in the Alienage, as if the entire community was holding its breath and waiting for the plunge. Housewives called for their children, scooping them up in their arms to shield them as he passed, while some of the older folk spat at their feet as he approached, seething with fear and resentment. Others still avoided making eye contact, or skipped over to the other side of the path, as if his mere presence was an omen of ill luck for any he encountered. They understood his purpose, they bemoaned the potential consequences, and they feared what he was capable of.

Let them.

As right now, Sagramor Tabris felt like the most dangerous son-of-a-bitch in all of Ferelden.

And Bann Vaughan Kendells, heir to the arling of Denerim, had made himself an enemy.

*********************************

Upon reaching his home, Sagramor moved with even greater haste, using his knife to pry free some loose floorboards under the bunk bed he and Soris shared, and removing the prize within. It was his mother's greatsword, sheathed in a worn leather scabbard and covered with an old oilcloth to keep off the worst of the dust. Drawing the old blade, Sagramor tested the edge, smiling in relief at the keenness of the four foot long steel. The sword was heavy, tough and vicious, and few in the Alienage were strong enough to wield it for any considerable length of time. It had been Grandfather Rafen's first, a trophy of the Rebellion, and the emblem of Orlais stamped into the pommel had been left worn and smoothed down by the passage of time and use. Sheathing the blade and gathering a sword-belt and some battered leather bracers, Sagramor turned to see his father. "Are you certain about this, son?"

"I am," Sagramor replied firmly, tightening a bracer over his right forearm.  "Those girls deserve better than this, and I'm not going to leave them to rot in Vaughan's clutches."

"You wouldn't be my son if you did," Cyrion said. He had always been a peaceful soul, built to endure the trials faced by the alienage folk, but it appeared that even his quiet nature had its limits. "It's just-"

"Don't, Father, please. There's nothing to worry about. I'll be back before you know it."

Cyrion gave a mournful sigh. "I pray to the Maker that you're right."

The door shut with a clatter, and Duncan entered, a piece of worn parchment in his right hand. "Are you prepared?"

"Almost. Sure I can't convince you to come with us?"

"Regrettably not, but I can offer you one last weapon. Here," the Warden said, passing the parchment in Sagramor's waiting hand. "It is from memory and only covers the main floor, but it should help you to avoid becoming lost."

"A layout of the palace," said Sagramor, giving it a quick glance. He had never been inside before, having found work elsewhere, so this would doubtless prove valuable. "I appreciate it."

"Grey Warden, I must ask-"

"Why I will not join your son in this endeavour, Master Cyrion?" Duncan gave a weary sigh. "My Order to committed to a position of political neutrality to help us fight the darkspawn. The battles of kings and men are not our concern, so long as they do not interfere with our primary mission. Moreover, the Order is weak in Ferelden. It was only twenty years ago that King Maric permitted the Grey Wardens to return to this country, and we rely upon the good graces of the nobility far more than we would like. With a Blight on Ferelden's doorstep…"

"You can't go around picking fights with the people letting you remain," Sagramor finished. As much as he didn't like it, he had to admit that Duncan had a point. The darkspawn were the enemies of all life, all peoples, and the young elf got the impression that Duncan was sticking his neck out enough as it was. They would make do, and succeed despite his absence. "What can you tell me about Vaughan? Has he fought in battle before?"

"No, merely a few tournaments. He does possess some skill with a blade, but he is no
soldier. His father is a decent man and a warrior of some renown, but his son lacks these virtues, and the garrison may suffer for it."

"How so?" asked Sagramor.

"The Arl is a strict disciplinarian, both respected and feared by his troops. Vaughan is neither, and with the majority of the city's troops having followed their lord south, those left behind may have allowed themselves to grow idle and unprepared."

"Numbers?"

"I would estimate at least twenty men, no more than thirty."

"Thirty men…" Cyrion breathed, horrified. "Son, how can you possibly stand against so many?"

"One at a time if possible. All at once if necessary."

"You'll forgive me if I don't find that comforting."

"We're all here, cousin," said Soris, walking in with Galen, the pair hefting large cloth rucksacks over their shoulders.

"Got those bandages?"

"Yeah, and even better. Look," Soris said, loosening the drawstrings of one bag. The red-haired elf had cleverly filled the sacks with as much spare clothing as he could find before placing his borrowed blades inside, concealing them beneath the garments. Indeed, had Soris not chosen to show him, Sagramor doubted he ever would have seen the weapons. "Have one for you as well. Hope your greatsword will fit."

"It will," replied Sagramor, placing the blade in the bag before arranging the clothing to mask it. "Galen, I assume that you've sent that runner?"

"Yes," Galen answered. "There should be a guard on duty right inside, but he's usually drunk or asleep."

"So much the better for us. By any chance, do you know how to use a blade?"

"No, I've never even held one, at least not one meant for battle."

"Very well then," Sagramor said, fixing the others with a hard stare. "Then here's the plan. When we get to the palace, we'll get as close to Vaughan's chambers as possible before we make our move. I will take the lead; I have the most skill and experience with a weapon, and can best defend myself against any guards we meet. Soris, I want you to stay behind me and attack only when you see an opening. I don't doubt your courage or commitment, but the garrison are trained soldiers. Valora deserves a living husband, not a dead hero, so just stay back and if you get the chance, stick 'em with the pointy end."

"Alright, if you say so," Soris replied, swallowing nervously.

"Galen," the dark-haired elf addressed the third member of their little team, "You have the most dangerous and vital task of all: seeing the women to safety. Whatever happens, when the fighting starts, you're to stay out of sight and avoid attracting the attention of the guards. Once we have freed the women, you're to stay with them and escort them home. They may be injured, they may be in shock, but you must bring them back to the Alienage in one piece. If necessary, Soris and I will hold the line long enough for you to escape." Sagramor paused, allowing the impact of his words to sink in. "If you want to back out now, then no one will think less of you for it. But we bring the women home, or we don't come home at all. Understood?"

"I'm with you, cousin," Soris affirmed.

"As am I," Galen said.

"Then let's go."

Hold on, Shianni. We're coming.

*********************************

Denerim was not a place of beautiful architecture or of refined knowledge. The Prophetess Andraste had been born there over a thousand years earlier, but even its nature as a place of pilgrimage for the faithful was secondary. It was a much a brute citadel as it was a place of habitation, Fereldan to the core, the many homes and warehouses all surrounded by a series of massive stone walls and towers, both surrounding the city proper and dividing its various districts. Any foe attacking either by land or sea would face some of the most considerable defenses in Thedas, most notably the massive Tevinter-constructed citadel of Fort Drakon that dominated the southwestern corner of the city. Even if these outer ramparts were breached, their ordeal would have only just begun, for dotted throughout the city lay the estates of Ferelden's nobility, each one a fortress in their own right.

The palace of the Arl of Denerim was one of the largest and best-maintained of these, befitting the home of the city's rulers. A deep moat had been sunk around the high walls of the compound, connected to the series of canals and tributaries that ran through the city and spanned only by a short stone bridge that led to the outer gatehouse. A besieging foe would either have to funnel his forces across that bridge and be torn to pieces by archers posted in the numerous towers, or attempt to fill the moat and then scale the walls, a hazardous prospect. Of course, even if an enemy were clever or dedicated enough to take the outer walls, they would then face the palace itself, a squat keep with more towers, more guards and more blood for any invader foolish enough to attack it openly.

Which is why Sagramor and company walked openly through the open gatehouse, slumped under the weight of their counterfeit laundry and acting like they had every right to be there. Denerim was full of elves, and their labour kept so much of the city running, though the humans would never admit it. They were servants and street sweepers, potboys and washerfolk, dockhands and dogsbodies and dung farmers, and Fereldan society could hardly function without them. As such, the few guards watching the gate noticed nothing amiss, and were more concerned with getting their midday meal and ale ration than a trio of stinking knife-ears. "How many guards do you see?" Soris asked.

"Just two at the gatehouse and it doesn't look like there are many on the outer wall," Sagramor replied, busily scanning for any indication of resistance. "I think Duncan was right. Most of the soldiers have gone south, and the rest are relying on the defenses to protect them." If they are aware of danger at all. After all, who would be stupid enough to attack the Arl's palace?

"Here we are," Galen said, leading them through the palace garden and the servant's entrance.

Stepping into the antechamber, Sagramor gasped at the warmth radiating from the kitchen fires in the next chamber. The guard on duty was slumbering, an empty jar of ale on the table beside him, and only awoke when the belt knife scraped the stubble at his throat. "Where's Vaughan?" came Sagramor's growled inquiry.

"He should be in his chambers," babbled the human, realizing he was in no position to resist. "Please, I had nothing to do with Vaughan taking your women, please, have mercy!" The elf's hard stare bore into him, and his words quickly devolved into pitiful pleas for forgiveness, hoping against hope that the foe would spare him.

Studying the guard's face intently, Sagramor made his decision. A rapid left hook knocked him off his stool and onto the stone floor. Covering the guard's mouth with his hand to stifle any cry, the elf drove his fist into the man's gut three times, the pain sufficient to render him unconscious. "Soris, you have those bandages I asked for?"

"Plenty. Why?"

"Pass a few here," Sagramor replied. With the aid of the others, the guard was quickly bound and gagged, before being shoved in the corner and concealed with some nearby sacking. "With luck, that'll keep him until we can escape with Shianni and the others."

"Um, cousin, not to sound too bloodthirsty or anything, but if he breaks out…"

"I know," Sagramor replied. The smart thing to do would be to put a knife through his ribs now and save a potential problem later. But the guard had been telling the truth. Of all the faces that had stared out at the elves from behind their half-helms as they took the women away, his was not one of them. Moreover, the thought of slaying a helpless prisoner made his stomach turn. He felt he wouldn't have any difficulty in killing an armed man, prepared and fighting back, especially in the vengeful mood he was in, but to slay a man outside of battle was wrong. Let's hope it doesn't cost us…

Hoisting their laundry sacks once more, the trio cut through the kitchens and passed through the dining hall, keeping their heads respectfully low to avoid the attention of the half-dozen or so off-duty and increasingly drunk guards. As their grumbling voices receded, Sagramor gave the map a quick check. Okay then, head straight down this corridor to the entrance hall, then through the corridor on the right, and to the last door on the left…

"Hide it!" Soris hissed, the clank of mailed boots drawing their attention.

"What are you lot doing 'ere?" said the guard, clad in a functional suit of chainmail, gauntlets figuring the longsword that hung from his belt. "Speak quickly, you knife-eared little shits, or I'll have Cook throw you into tonight's stew."

"Laundry delivery for the castle, ser," said Sagramor, assuming an appropriately slavish tone.

"But we'll already had a delivery today," the guard muttered in confusion, pointing at the cousins in anger. "And I don't recognize the pair of you from the staff…"

As understanding dawned in the guard's mind, Sagramor swung his laundry sack with all the strength he could muster. Soris had stuffed the bags with every spare scrap of clothing he could find, and the guard stumbled, left off-balance. Sagramor saw his opening and lunged with the belt knife, a quick thrust into the neck. Red warmth flooded over his hands, staining the bright wedding tunic, and the guard fell.

More armour clanked; a second guard, crossbow loaded and leveled. A quick flick of Sagramor's wrist, and the knife embedded itself in the meat of his shoulder. The human gave a shrill scream, but the elf was already upon him, repeatedly slamming the soldier's head into the wall until he stopped moving.

But the damage had been done. A babble of shocked voices raised the hue and cry, footsteps pounding on the stone and heading for them fast. "What do we do now, cousin?" asked Soris.

The rational part of Sagramor's mind knew the answer, and dreaded it, but the darker aspects of his psyche revelled in it. "Galen, stay out of danger, and be ready to follow us once the way is clear. Soris, draw steel and kill them all."

Swords scraped free from their scabbards, the outraged voices of the humans rose to a fever pitch, and Sagramor and Soris met the rush.

*************************

The state of the Alienage had become even more tempestuous and panicked since the rescue party left, but while Valendrian and Duncan did their best to settle things down, Cyrion Tabris remained alone within his humble home. He tried losing himself within the banalities of everyday routine, taking care of some day-to-day chores, but his father's heart would not be stilled. He knew that there was nothing he could do, that his son possessed the skill and courage to see succeed in this rescue, and it gave him no comfort. Shianni and Soris, he had taken care of them ever since their own parents died, and considered them to be more like his own children than those of his siblings. And Sagramor, who tried so hard to be a good man, who strove every day to emulate his mother, who was the best son a father could ask for…

A wooden plate tumbled out of his hands, and Cyrion crumpled, allowing himself to weep. He felt so terribly old and fragile and weak, unable to shield his own son from danger, to protect those he had always sworn to. Oh, Adaia, my love, I wish you were here, now more than ever. You would know what to do. You always did.

Kneeling, Cyrion pleaded under his breath, "Maker, I have not asked much from you, and you have rarely listened, but please listen to an old man now. Save my son. Give him the strength needed to save the women, and bring them all back home safely."

Cupping his head in his hands, Cyrion wept freely. For in his heart, he understood that there would be no happy ending to this, no return to normality.

The humans had taken his wife from him. Now, one way or another, they would take his son.

*************************

Within the wall of the palace, a storm broke.

Roaring his defiance, Sagramor carved through the garrison, his greatsword sweeping forward in bright, lethal arcs. Behind him, Soris fought grimly on, less skilled but no less committed to see justice done. Parrying the thrust of a shortsword, Sagramor struck down its wielder with a swift thrust, kicking the corpse into the press of humans to buy himself some breathing room. "Come on, you scum! I want you!"

The guards advanced, charging the intruders with the arrogance of those who did not believe they could be beaten, particularly by a pair of ragged elves. But Duncan had been right; the garrison was unprepared. Many had been roused from their quarters by the alarm and so went unarmoured, while others still were slowed by drink, their senses fuddled. One of the humans collapsed, skull split open. Another gave a professional lunge; Sagramor sidestepped and took off the foe's sword-hand before running him through. "What's the matter? Afraid of a little knife-ear? Come for me!"

More humans charged, and Sagramor met them in a vengeful rush, sword slaked with blood, cutting through chainmail and spearshafts and flesh alike. There was a joy in this, a terrible, insane joy that came from facing such odds, and Sagramor laughed, battle-drunk. Two men against so many! It was the stuff of legends, the meat and bread of so many tales, and even if they were to fall, the humans would tremble with the knowledge that they were not immune from consequence, that the spirit and strength of the alienages would never truly be crushed. "For Shianni and the Alienage!" he howled, teeth bared in a lupine snarl. "Come on and die, you bastards!"

For the young elf, everything had become perfectly clear, his senses operating at a level he never dreamed possible. A mail-clad soldier raised his sword to strike, but Sagramor ignored his threat to deal with another guard in a rough wool tunic driving a spear towards his belly. Sagramor released his blade, seizing the spearshaft just below the razor-sharp head, and tugged. The unarmoured guard screamed in agony as his comrade's sword cleaved into his back, and Sagramor let the dying man fall, retrieving the greatsword and bringing it up in a massive sweeping blow that tore through the other. He was an angel of death, striding through the halls of the palace and bringing ruination to all who opposed him, leaving the dead scattered behind him like autumn leaves.

Then a woman's scream cut through the madness, and the elves rushed into a nearby lounge to witness the freshest of the day's horrors.

Somehow, by some combination of luck and guile, one of the bridesmaids had managed to slip free from her captors. It was Nola, her pale face streaked with sweat and tears, one hand holding up her ripped bodice. She saw the two men and ran towards them, a relieved smile gracing her fearful expression, and for one glorious moment, Sagramor felt that everything would be fine.

Then Nola gave a tiny grunt, propelled forward into Sagramor's arms, the crossbow bolt jutting out of her back. "No!" the elf roared, ducking as a second bolt flew past his head.

Three soldiers stormed into the room, the heavy ash crossbows in their hands evidence of their guilt. Their leader, the insignia of a captain present on his tabard, fired, forcing Sagramor behind a table for cover. "Looks like we got ourselves some troublemaking knife-ears, boys!" he drawled, pulling a fresh bolt from his quiver. "Shame about the whore, but there are plenty more back in Vaughan's room! Finish this scum quick so we can have a taste!"

Something broke inside Sagramor, a rush of sudden fury that overwhelmed all sense of caution or reason. He had not been particularly close to Nola; the girl had been very shy and didn't socialize much with the rest of the community, but she had been a kind, gentle person and deserved a far better fate than this. It was just one more injustice out of so many, one more frustration in a life full of them; of working hard at the toughest jobs for next to nothing only to be labelled lazy and ungrateful, of facing endless suspicion and bigotry, of watching family and community perish from hunger or disease or accidents or the blades of the guards, of slaving and saving and bowing and scrimping and getting by on nothing and building a life only to have some spoiled nobles destroy it all in the space of a few minutes, and the anger burst from him in a frenzy.

His mother had always warned against acting on such impulses. "Anger is a carthorse!" she admonished him once after a particularly difficult sparring session. "Harness it, whip it, make it work but don't ever ask where it wants to go. A clear head in battle is often more important than a strong sword-arm."

It had been good advice, but Sagramor was past remembering it. For in his fury, he thought of nothing by tearing through all opponents, storming into Vaughan's chambers and driving his greatsword so deep into his twisted heart they'd have to bury him with it.

Without thinking, Sagramor charged right at the crossbowmen, their eyes going wide with fear, hands slipping, fumbling with their weapons. The first brought the wooden stock up to his shoulder, lining up the shot, but the elf's greatsword batted it aside. The second fired in haste, tearing off a few strands of black hair, even as the Captain discarded the unloaded crossbow in favour of his longsword. Finishing off his current victim, Sagramor crossed blades with the Captain, the heavy sword forcing him back.

Somewhere in the previous madness, Soris had obtained one of the guards' shields to use alongside the sword borrowed from Duncan. It was a heavy, clumsy and far more of a strain that he would have liked, but he put those attributes to good use, slamming the iron-bound oak into the other guard. The man stumbled, but parried Soris' subsequent thrust all the same, putting the elf on the defensive.

"Maker curse you!" screamed the Captain, aware that he was running out of room to retreat. Feinting left, he struck high, going for Sagramor's eyes, but the elf ducked, striking at his midsection. The guard's blade struck only air, but from the agonized screams that tore from his throat, Sagramor's blade didn't.

"Enjoy your taste?" the elf growled, eyes full of tears, kicking the foe away as he bled out. With one smooth motion, he turned and stabbed the final guard in the back, Soris gasping in shock as the threat fell.

And then there was silence, stark and terrible, broken only the sobbing gasps of dying men. "Maker, cousin, they killed her!" Soris said, staring at Nola's body with undisguised horror. "The others-"

"That's not going to happen to them, I won't let it!" Sagramor barked, his gaunt face wound tight. Oh, Nola, I am so, so sorry. I should have gotten here faster, fought harder…

"Sagramor, we can't take her with us," intoned Soris' grief-laced voice.

"I know, cousin. Maker forgive me, I know." There was simply no time to bring her body with them, nor could they fight effectively with such a burden. Nola would never be returned to her parents, never given the burial she deserved, not even at the pauper's graves used by most of the alienage folk. Cuffing tears, Sagramor took a moment to cover her body with the guard's cloaks, a futile gesture of respect, all he could do with time against them.

"Cousin…"

"We kill them all, Soris. If they stand in our way, then they die."

**********************

Further along the corridor, the palace garrison had finally managed to assemble themselves into a halfway-decent defense. There were only six men, but they were all armed and armoured, their shields overlapping and their formation tight. Beyond them lay Vaughan's chambers.

They stood in their way, so they would die.

At Sagramor's suggestion, Soris had brought the three crossbows used by the previous group of soldiers; all of them strung and ready to be fired, one after the other. The first bolt went wide, hitting the stonework above the guards' heads, but the second flew true, strike a soldier in the face and casting him down. Instantly, Sagramor was in the gap, hacking into the humans and tearing apart their formation from the inside-out. Having lost so many comrades already, they quickly began to crumble; abandoning the fight, but Sagramor was relentless, cutting them down where they stood. One or two remained, fighting on in desperation, aghast at the possibility of being defeated by an elf. Sagramor winced in pain as a blade slashed his right shoulder, and he retaliated by cleaving off the offender's head.

Soris' voice rose in warning, and Sagramor turned, barely parrying a savage strike from yet another enemy. It was one of the Arl's knights, a giant garbed in heavy silverite plate, face hidden behind his full helm. In his right hand, a heavy mace battered away the elf's greatsword, tearing it from his grip. In his left, a metal shield bashed his opponent to the floor. Sagramor tried to get back to his feet, only to be kicked in the ribs for his troubles.

Emboldened, the two remaining guards focused their attacks on Soris. Frantically, the elf parried and deflected what he could, each ounce of strength and skill going to just staying alive, let alone fighting back. Seeing his cousin's plight, Sagramor rose until another kick sending him to the ground.

The knight seized Sagramor by the throat, lifting him up off the ground and slamming him into the wall. He had no idea how these elves expected to get away with trying to murder the Arl's son, but ultimately, it didn't matter. The Arl had assigned him to watch over his heir while he and the rest of his knights fought in the south, and if he was to be denied the glory of facing the darkspawn, then the knight could at least take comfort in doing his duty as best he could. His lordship could be made aware of the threat once it had been dealt with; his pleasures were to remain uninterrupted. Striking the elf in the face with the hilt of his mace, the human drew back for the final blow.

In that instant, Sagramor launched his final gambit. The knight's armour was well-made and would be difficult for him to breach, even if he managed to retrieve his fallen greatsword. But like any suit of plate, there were vulnerabilities; the gaps where the various pieces met, the narrow opening at the neck between the helm and the breastplate, the dark slits in the helm for him to see…

The knight howled, reeling in agony, Sagramor's belt knife driven right into the left eye-slit.  The foe staggered away, giving the elf an opportunity to grab his sword and bring the steel blade down on his neck. Once, twice, thrice with all his strength, and the plate crumpled, oozing dark blood. The remaining guards turned, stunned by the change in fortunes, allowing Soris to strike one down, longsword slick with gore. Seeing his fellows all butchered around him, the last man tried to run, but Sagramor was there, casting him to the floor and kicking his skull over and over again. "We finish this," he intoned darkly, taking his sword to the door of Vaughan's chambers. Wood splintered under the repeated impacts, and with a final kick, the elves burst in.

Every head in the room turned to face the battered and bloodied intruders; Vaughan, Braden and Jonaley all in various states of undress. On the bed, Shianni gave a short scream and bolted away, drawing her tattered and ruined skirts around her in the hopes of hiding her debasement. Cursing, Vaughan buckled his pants, grabbing a shortsword from Braden before he addressed Sagramor, voice thick with condescension. "My, my, what have we here?"

"Don't worry, we'll make short work of these two," Jonaley crowed.

"Quiet, you idiot! They're covered with enough blood to fill a tub! Now what you think that means?"

"It means that your father's going to need to recruit some more soldiers," Sagramor growled, levelling his weapon at Vaughan, "and get himself another heir!"

"Now, now, let's not be hasty," Vaughan said, suddenly conciliatory. "I think we both know that killing me would be a very bad mistake on your part. Strike me down, and by dawn tomorrow, the city will run red with elven blood. After all, it has been some years since the Alienage was last purged. Perhaps it's overdue."

A purge. Sagramor felt the cold hands of terror grip him. Of all the tools of oppression the humans had at their disposal, to purge an alienage was the most dreadful and vicious of them all. It was a means of subjugation, in which the city's combined soldiery were sent it to massacre any elves they encountered, with no atrocity considered unacceptable as a punitive measure. It could take years for an alienage to recover from the resulting slaughter, and Vaughan knew it. "This is no idle threat. My father would not take my death lightly, and neither you nor your families would live long to regret it."

"If you're going to say something, Vaughan, say it," came Sagramor's response, Shianni's pitiful sobs like a knife in the heart. Don't worry, Shianni, I'm getting you out of here!

"Here's what I propose," Vaughan said, smirking once more. "Turn and walk away. Leave Denerim tonight, and you will not be harmed or hunted. As a gesture of good faith, I'll even add forty gold sovereigns to your purses. How does that sound?"

Soris made a shocked noise, and Sagramor couldn't truly blame him. Forty sovereigns was a fortune, and he knew that even many wealthy humans or dwarves wouldn't sneeze at such a sum. They could live to a ripe old age in decent comfort on that kind of money, and more important, they might avoid any blowback harming the alienage. But the thought of cutting a deal with this monster repulsed him on every level, and he couldn't shake the feeling that to do so would be a mistake.

And then Shianni gave a choked sob, and the forty sovereigns vanished like dust in a gale with her plea. "Please get me out of here. I want to go home!" Her face, usually so lively and good-natured, had been left bloodied by Vaughan's cruel ministrations, and Sagramor could see the horror of what she had gone through reflected in the extensive bruising along her neck. "Please, cousin…"

"What about the women? Are they free to go as well?" Sagramor asked, hard grey eyes never leaving the Bann.

"Oh, they'll stay until the morning," was Vaughan's reply. "They'll be returned safely once we're done with them, but if I'm playing you forty sovereigns to leave, then I expect to get my money's worth. The redhead has been quite delicious thus far, and it would be a shame not to sample the others. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

"Here's a counteroffer," Sagramor snarled, advancing. "You and your cronies die screaming, I free the women and take the coin of your stinking corpse. How does that sound?"

"Bah! I always regret talking to knife-ears! Now I'll just gut your ignorant carcasses instead!" Vaughan screamed, lunging for Sagramor. The elf deflected, trying to bring the superior reach and power of his weapon against the nobleman's swift blade. Vaughan was no mean swordsman, and constantly jabbed towards his opponent's wounded right shoulder, hoping to exacerbate the wound. But Sagramor remained focused, even as Soris fought off Braden and Jonaley behind him, putting every bit of his will into bringing his enemy down once and for all.

"What have you bastards done with Valora?" Soris shouted, letting his shield absorb the impact of Jonaley's sword. Braden tried striking at the elf's side, but a clumsy slash that tore at his upper arm forced him to reconsider. Jonaley raised the sword above his head for a killing stroke, but Soris remembered his cousin's advice, and stuck him in the belly with the pointy end. The noble's eyes widened in horror, and he coughed blood all over some white silk sheets as he fell.

Vaughan's eyes flickered to the side, distracted by the death of his comrade. Sagramor seized the initiative, drawing his head back and breaking the nobleman's nose with a vicious head-butt. A powerful kick followed, and he toppled backwards, knocking a delicate crystal goblet onto the floor. The greatsword flickered, sending his blade skittering away. "Mercy, ser!" the noble pleaded, looking around for anything that might be used as a weapon. "Perhaps I was being too hasty. How about a hundred sovereigns? Will that satisfy you?"

Grim-faced, silent and utterly without pity, Sagramor walked towards Vaughan, letting the greatsword drag on the floor, the metal scraping on the hard stone with a terrifying screech. "And you can take the women as well! The redhead too, I was just about done with her. Bring them all back to the alienage, just leave me alive."

Sagramor maintained his silence. "I have allies, elf, powerful ones!" Vaughan boomed enthusiastically, as if he was sharing some great secret. "We're going to remake Ferelden, and you, you could be a part of it! You want to make a better life for your people, then spare me, and you could join us!"

That horrid scraping continued, the sound of an executioner's blade, and Vaughan lost all composure. "Damn you, I am the heir to the arling of Denerim. Every life and soul in this city is mine to do with as I please, and I command you to speak, you fucking knife-ear! What will it take to satisfy you? Say something!"

"Your life," Sagramor whispered, raising the greatsword, and with all the hate and fury he could muster, bringing it down through the heart of Vaughan Kendells.

The nobleman choked on the blood that filled his mouth and throat, dying words fading on his lips. "And just so you know, you piece of shit, her name is Shianni!" the elf bellowed, twisting the blade and wrenching it free so that blood poured from the dying man. "And you will never hurt my family ever again." Spitting on his fallen enemy, Sagramor allowed the rage to bleed from him, panting with exhaustion.

"Cousin!" Soris screamed, and Sagramor turned, just in time to avoid Braden's sword from stabbing him in the back of the head. Soris attempted to intervene, but the noble riposted, and the elf staggered back, bearing a deep cut on his sword-arm.

But in his desire to defend himself against the intruders, Lord Braden forgot about the third elf in the room. Like a mad wolf, Shianni was behind him, plunging Vaughan's shortsword into his neck. Down went Braden, life leaking from the wound. Down went Shianni, screaming her vengeance at the last of those who had abused and defiled her. Down went the sword, plunging into his overweight body again and again and again and over and over and over until her entire existence was a haze of red and the gore drenched her white gown and the blade kept stabbing him and stabbing and stabbing and then Sagramor was pulling her off his corpse and holding her close and whispering soothing words and trying to make everything right, just like he always did. "It's over, Shianni, he's dead."

"Oh, Maker," Shianni bawled in stunned disbelief, eyes fixed on the blood that had drenched her arms and upper body. "I killed him. I killed a noble, and they're going to arrest me, and I'm going to hang-"

"No, no, Shianni, that's not going to happen, okay? He was killed by the intruders who broke in here, you did nothing wrong. They killed Vaughan and the others, okay?"

"B-but the blood!"

"There is blood everywhere," Sagramor told her firmly. "The castle is full of it. The intruders did a lot of damage when they attacked, and they killed many men. Everyone is covered in blood."

"Yes, you're right," she mumbled, still lost in shock. She looked at the two men for the first time, as if just realizing that they were present. "I want to go home. I need to get out of here, please."

"We will, Shianni, we will. Now, where are the others?"

"In the back chamber. I think Vaughan was saving them for later."

"Soris, go see to them. Soris!" Sagramor shouted, rousing the other elf from his stunned
reverie. "Go check and make sure the others are okay."

"Yeah, sure, sure," Soris stuttered, returning the borrowed longsword into its scabbard. "Just tell me we did the right thing here, cousin."

"We did," Sagramor declared with absolute certainty. Vaughan had been right on some level; there would be repercussions, both for the rescuing elves and the Alienage as a whole, but the deaths of the garrison alone would have been enough to incur a punishment. Indeed, if the humans wanted to brutalize the elves, they didn't need an excuse; they routinely went out and did it without cause regardless. Vaughan had no interest in keeping his word, and the women deserved a better fate than to be abandoned and made his unwilling playthings. He would regret a great deal about this day, but risking his life to save the women? Never. But what had he meant about 'allies'? On the surface, he might have just been talking about his other noble friends, but the awe in his voice suggested something more… "So long as Shianni and the others are safe, that's all that matters. Now go to them."

Soris complied, leaving Sagramor amidst the blood-drenched and wrecked bedchamber with his battered cousin. Somehow, a water-filled copper basin had managed to escape the mayhem, and the dark-haired elf gently led Shianni over, scrubbing her hands and upper arms with some soap, guiding her along as he might a small child. "You killed them, didn't you? You killed them all?" she asked, frantically working to remove the blood.

"All of the humans who hurt you, yes," was the answer.

"Good. Good," the girl sniffled, burying her head in his chest, the tears flowing freely now.

"Don't worry, Shianni, it's going to be alright," Sagramor lied, feeling her slim body wrack with sobs. He had failed to protect her when she needed him most, and Nola had ended up paying the price for his weakness as well. And after what Vaughan and his cronies did to her, many of the more conservative alienage folk would doubtless render her a pariah. After all, what true elven man would ever want a woman who had been so tainted… human-spoilt? I'm such a failure. What good is a warrior who can't defend the helpless when they are threatened?

But he could not give in to self-pity right now. Shianni needed him, and she had suffered far worse things than a few wounds in battle. She needed support, and Sagramor vowed to be strong for her, no matter what. He could beat himself up later, once they were safely home.

The shuffle of feet drew his attention, and he sighed in relief at the sight of Soris and the remaining three women, all unharmed. "Is…she going to be alright?" Valora asked in a small voice, shuddering at the sight of all the blood.

"She will be. Vaughan and the others just roughed her up a bit," Sagramor answered, drawing a bemused glance from Shianni. "What about you? Are any of you injured?"

"No, we're fine," said Nesiara, eyeing her betrothed nervously. Only a few hours before, she was preparing to marry this man; now, Sagramor was more akin to a forgotten elven war god than a man, wedding clothes smeared with gore, the angular lines of his face intimidating rather than warm, seemingly ignorant of the wound to his shoulder. "I think they were saving us for later, your friend got the worst of it."

"Wait, where's Nola?" the third girl asked frantically, and Sagramor chided himself for forgetting her name.

"She's dead," the dark-haired elf replied, wiping the blood of his sword before sheathing it. "I…wish we could have saved her. But we should get out of here."

Galen appeared at the doorway, bearing the laundry sacks and looking more than a little ill. "Oh, Maker, I think you killed all of them."

"You're certain?" questioned Sagramor.

Galen nodded, doing his best not to become sick in front of the others. "I checked the grounds once the fight broke out, and I think even the gate guards came inside to stop you. The entire garrison…" He shook his head, the sheer weight of the bloodshed almost mind-boggling. "If we move quickly, we should be long gone before any more soldiers come to investigate."

"Agreed. Soris, you're rearguard. Ladies, would you look after Shianni?" he asked, quickly rummaging around the drawer of Vaughan's desk. His hands closed over a leather pouch, and he smiled despite himself as coins jingled within. This will help the Alienage a great deal. "I'll lead the way. I think we've all had enough of this place."

The little column made their escape, past the slaughter that had marked Sagramor's passage, away from the bedroom that would form the centerpiece of Shianni's nightmares, and into the sunlight where, for good or ill, the consequences of the rescue would be played out.