Title: The Grey Path - Chapter Four: The Fortress At The Edge of The World
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.

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Chapter Four: The Fortress At The Edge of The World

South, they travelled. Always south.

The two Wardens left Denerim through Maric’s Gate, continuing on the southward road past columns of singing Andrastian pilgrims and the caravans of surface dwarf merchants. Duncan was adamant that the two reach Ostagar with all haste, so the two rode until it was simply dark to continue, before rousing themselves to go on at first light. For the next few days, they continued on relentlessly, exchanging their horses at inns or courier stations for fresh mounts whenever the beasts became exhausted, the blue-and-grey tabards depicting the gyphon emblem of the Wardens enough to encourage the generosity of others. At one point, they managed to book passage aboard one of the many river barges that ferried goods along Ferelden’s waterways, saving them valuable time. Farmholds teeming with labourers preparing for the eventual harvest, grim stone castles overlooking vital passes and trade routes, watermills, meadhalls and villages, all fell behind them as the miles passed, other travellers hastily making way for the pair riding with almost monomaniacal purpose.

Sagramor soon found himself infected with that purpose. The doubts and grief that had plagued him did not vanish, but were simply forced under the weight of their tiring trek and the duty he had taken up. He had no idea if he was worthy of being a Grey Warden, or if he would be capable of confronting in the challenges ahead of him, but in the end, he had been given a chance to prove his worth. For whatever reason, Duncan believed in him, and that belief was enough to get him through the bone-jarring journey south, for the moment, at least.

As such, when Duncan showed him the basics of how to establish and maintain a camp, how to set snares to trap game and survive in the wilderness, Sagramor paid attention and learned quickly, relieved by Duncan’s reassurances that he was not recruited into the Warden as a servant. When called upon to stand long watches into the night, he obeyed without question, bringing his superior elven senses to bear against anything that might lurk in the darkness. When Duncan tested his fighting skills by leadening him down with a set of old plate armour and full helm, Sagramor fought on despite these handicaps, approaching every sparring session like it was open war. He always lost these, but it did give him a chance to improve his own skills and test Duncan’s, and it was clear that the old Warden was a talented soldier.

On the eve of the tenth day, Sagramor sat by the fire, sharpening a nick out of his greatsword left by that night’s sparring session. A chill southern wind rising from the Korcari Wilds whipped through the camp, and not for the first time, the young elf was grateful for the well-made hunting cloak draped over his shoulders. It had been a gift from Duncan, purchased at the first inn they had visited along the way; a heavier garment that extended to the knee, with a deep, pointed cowl, its collar lined with wolf fur. It wasn’t exactly suitable for midsummer in Denerim, but given the severity of Ferelden winters, he had no doubt it would prove to a lifesaver then.

Across the fire sat Duncan, in the process of maintaining his own blades. Sagramor had been uncertain about the Warden when they first met, but had come to respect him as a firm, yet kind and loyal man. So it was with no hesitation that Sagramor asked, “May I ask you some questions about the Wardens, Duncan?”

“Of course,” came the older man’s response. “I will answer what I can. In fact, I must apologize; I should have informed you more about the Order earlier.”

“That’s alright; we haven’t exactly had a spare moment. First, from all the stories I read of the Fourth Blight, it is said that the darkspawn were utterly destroyed. Now, I know that lots of things are made up in the stories, even in all the real-life accounts, but why did they say so if that wasn’t the case?”

“Well, primarily, it was a means of keeping order in those dark days. After all, the thought that an endless army of monsters could emerge from underground at any moment would have inspired considerable panic and discord. Garahel’s forces had slain so many darkspawn following the death of Andoral, it was easier for humanity’s leaders to convince themselves that the danger had truly passed. It is a belief that has not made our duty any easier.”

Sagramor nodded in understanding. “Yes, you mentioned that the Wardens are few in Ferelden. Is that the case everywhere?”

“Regrettably so, for the most part. The chapters in Orlais and the Anderfels are still strong, but after four hundred years, there are many who see the Grey Wardens as a relic of the past, an unnecessary drain on their resources of their kingdoms. Many of our traditional holdings have been abandoned over time, as we have not had the numbers to properly maintain and garrison them. And all the while, the darkspawn have rebuilt their strength, and unlike the leaders of men, their convictions will never waver.”

“It is said that the darkspawn are more akin to a force of nature than an army.”

“That is correct,” Duncan asserted. “To face the darkspawn is to face an enemy bent solely on death. And they are all the more dangerous during a Blight, because the presence of an Archdemon gives them a united will and purpose. You will be tested in the days to come.”

“I just hope that I’ll be able to pass that test, Duncan.” Shaking aside the self-doubt, Sagramor posed his next inquiry. “And how many other Grey Wardens are here in Ferelden now?”

“About a dozen, plus the new recruits like yourself. When word of the Blight reached us, we sent out a call west to the Grey Wardens of Orlais. With luck, they will soon join us, and bring the Empire’s army to bolster Ferelden’s defenses.”

“Would the nobility even permit that?” Sagramor asked incredulously. He was a student of history, and knew that the seventy-five year occupation of Ferelden by the Orlesian Empire still bore its marks upon the country. Even the alienage folk, almost inured to endless hardship, remembered the rule of the sadistic Usurper King Meghren with equal parts fear and contempt. “It’s only been thirty years since King Maric threw out the Orlesians to begin with, I can’t help but think that some will protest.”

“Of course. Fortunately, King Cailan understands the nature of the threat Ferelden faces, and has accepted Orlais’ offer of aid. And even if he did not, the Orlesian Wardens would still join us. Remember that the Order is neutral in political affairs. Defeating the darkspawn is and must be our only concern, and we will require unity to achieve that.”

Duncan looked wary for a moment before continuing. “On that note, I must ask that when we arrive at Ostagar, you maintain a civil and approachable attitude towards any nobles you might encounter. We cannot afford to turn them against us at this point.”

Bristling at the implication, Sagramor assented nonetheless. “You can trust that I’ll be civil to any humans I meet, Duncan, noble-born or commoner, but if any of them force themselves on a servant or something like that, all bets are off.”

“Very well,” sighed Duncan, “that will suffice. Have you any more questions at the moment?”

“Just one,” said Sagramor.

Duncan raised an eyebrow. “As you wish.”

“Why me?” the young elf asked. “The threat that you’re describing, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make a difference against it. I’m not even that great a fighter! Maker, there must have been a hundred more worthy candidates for recruitment in Denerim, all manner of knights and fighters and soldiers; why not use the Right of Conscription on all of them! I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for all you have done for me, but…”

“You wonder if you will be able to live up to the strength others see in you,” Duncan finished. “First of all, the Right of Conscription is a tool of recruitment only to be used sparingly. If it were invoked too often, it would sour the people against the Grey Wardens and turn them against us. We can use it to bolster our numbers in desperate circumstances, as well as bring in promising recruits like yourself who cannot be recruited by any other means. But even if we could employ it widespread without consequence, we would not. All those knights and fighters and soldiers you mentioned may be effective in battle, but we look for qualities beyond that in our aspirants.” The elder Warden fixed Sagramor with a hard stare, and the elf swallowed nervously at the intensity of it. “You acted against Vaughan to protect those who could not defend themselves. You engaged suicidal odds to achieve your objective, and never once considered abandoning the cause. You did what was necessary, regardless of the opinions of others, never shirked your responsibility, and you succeeded. How many others can claim the same?

“It has always been the strength of the Grey Wardens that we see talent where others do not, that we recruit those ignored or looked down upon and turn them into something greater. Remember that four centuries ago, another elf was recruited into our Order, and he ended up defeating the Blight. Just like Garahel, you too are capable of making a difference. I invoked the Right of Conscription because I trust that you are capable of the task ahead. Now, you must trust in yourself.” The old Warden gave a reassuring smile. “Now, you should get some rest. We will reach Ostagar soon at this pace, and I need you clear-headed and ready for anything.”

Nodding, Sagramor laid down upon his bedroll and closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep. What had happened at the wedding… he would never be able to escape it, never be able to overrun the guilt and the longing for his family.

But he would not let it destroy him. He was alive, he had a sword that he knew how to use, and there was a world that needed protecting, so he could not in good conscience give in. If it was his destiny to becoming a Grey Warden, then he would embrace it, not spend his days lamenting and waiting for it to swallow him whole. Wrapping his cloak tightly about him, he began to drift asleep, wondering why it was that Duncan always insisted on taking the first watch, if not several…

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

A few hours later, Sagramor awoke to the sensation of Duncan shaking him by the shoulder. “Duncan-”

The older Warden silenced him abruptly, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “The camp is in danger and we are about to be attacked. I need you to bring your sword and stand watch over the horses. If I am to fall, you are to ride to Ostagar with all haste and inform of the other Wardens of what has transpired. Do as I say!”

Heeding Duncan’s words, Sagramor quickly took up his greatsword and a pair of leather gauntlets, heart pounding with tension. He would have liked to put on some additional armour, but the urgency of the Warden’s one suggested that there was simply no time. Drawing forth his longsword, Duncan covered it in ashes from the firepit to dull the blade. “I’ll be back shortly. Stay quiet, and stay safe,” he ordered, darting into the darkened woodlands that surrounded their camp.

Drawing his greatsword, Sagramor stood next to the horses, forcing himself to breath slow and stretch out his limbs in preparation for battle. Until his recruitment, he had never been outside of Denerim’s walls, so the sights and sounds of the countryside were largely alien and unfamiliar, particularly after nightfall, where darkness and weariness worked to befuddle the mind. For the first few nights, everything was a source of peril; the wind whistling through the trees became bounty hunters and watchmen under orders from Arl Urien to slay him in retaliation for Vaughan’s death; the rustling of small animals through the undergrowth became darkspawn creatures, ready to pounce. Time had taken the edge off, but now, roused from slumber and facing peril, the fear returned.

Blood pounding in his ears, Sagramor willing himself to calm, peering into the night. The fire had long gone cold, but his grey eyes saw in the dark well enough, and he could see neither hair nor hide of an enemy. Refusing to relax his vigilance, the elf considered how Duncan, with his lesser senses, could have known of a foe’s presence when he did not. Simple experience? Had he been so weary as to be oblivious to the world around him, even in sleep?

Then he caught the smell; a rank, vile odour, the combination of spoiled milk, rotting meat and vomit. An instant later, Sagramor heard dazed footsteps crunching on fallen leaves, a thick gurgling cough, broken only by deranged mutterings as the figure staggered into the clearing.

It was a human, a farmer by the looks of him, his practical garb soiled with dirt and blood. A chill ran up Sagramor’s spine as he saw the newcomer’s face; blotchy and pallid and covered with weeping sores and bublous tumours. Milky-white eyes stared in the elf’s direction, while blackened saliva ran down his jaw to stain the grass. “It’s so beautiful,” he muttered, raising arms covered in lesions. “It’s so wonderful to hear…”

“Who are you, ser? What’s wrong?” Sagramor asked, raising his blade in a defensive stance. This man was very, very sick, and as much as he wanted to give aid, Duncan’s warning was fresh on his mind.

“It’s the song!” ranted the human, coughing forth a fresh batch of saliva. “I hear so much now, I understand everything! The whole world, united in song! It will be beautiful!”

“What song?” demanded Sagramor. Behind him, the horses whinnied in fright. “I have some medicines that might help, ser, but you need to stay right where you are.”

“You do not understand. You do not listen!” barked the pitiable creature. A chunk of hair fell from his skull, and he shambled forward, reaching behind his back. “But I will make you listen.”

The knife emerged, a crude, rusted thing, blade sodden with blood. “Stay back,” Sagramor warned, aghast at the sight. Had Duncan fallen, silent and unnoticed in the darkness? “This is your last warning. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Stand down.”

The vile stench accompanying the stranger increased many-fold, and Sagramor turned to see a half-dozen more emerge from the night to surround him; men and women, all bearing the same sickness. “We will make you listen,” the first snarled, rushing forward headlong. “Listen listen listen listen listen listen listen LISTEN!”

The blow was poorly directed, a mad slash that Sagramor quickly dodged before running the assailant through. But then the others were upon him, lashing out with shovels and pitchforks and blacksmith’s hammers, frenzied, wild, driven insane, completely unconcerned with self-preservation. They were beyond reason, beyond saving.

Only one course of action left.

Sagramor met their advance, scything through the first of the attackers in his mad rush, twirling the blade and driving it into the next. Shockingly, the madman seized the hilt and pinned the sword into his own body. Sagramor fought to retrieve it, but the foe had a strength that was utterly unnatural for someone so sick and mortally wounded, and the third of their number lunged for the elf, hands closing around his neck. “You will listen!”

Gasping for each breath, the air now rank with their rot, Sagramor punched his assailant straight in the mouth, once, twice, thrice, sending him spinning away, spitting black blood. But there was more, always more, swarming him, burying him under the weight of numbers, the night split with the sounds of their insane ranting, the scream of the horses and the elf’s cries of defiance. His belt knife shone for a moment before he plunged it into a foe’s heart, and he was dimly aware that whatever ague had affected them so might be contagious…

And then the pressure suddenly lifted as Duncan appeared, left hand ripping one of the attackers off him while the longsword in his right impaled the lunatic. The remaining three abandoned Sagramor and launched themselves at the older Warden, but Duncan was shadowfast, and three severed heads fell to the ground. “Are you alright?” Duncan asked, pulling Sagramor to his feet. “Have you suffered any wounds? Did any of their blood enter your mouth, anything of that nature?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sagramor replied, quickly running his hands over his body to check. He had gotten through that fight more-or-less unscathed, though he doubted he would have remained so for much longer without Duncan’s intervention. “I owe you my life.”

“You are to be a Warden, Sagramor Tabris,” Duncan replied, striding over to the final attacker, still lying on the ground and spitting out broken teeth. Rearing up, he made to attack, only to be cut down with a quick slash. Duncan, the elf noted, was fairly splattered with the ink-black blood of their attackers, but seemed to pay it no heed. It seemed there had been more out there, all of which Duncan had ruthlessly dispatched. “The Wardens look after their own.”

“What in the Maker’s name was wrong with them? They were utterly out of their minds!”

“Ghouls,” Duncan explained. “Men and women infected with the darkspawn taint. It strips them of their reason, their sanity, everything but the will to serve their dark masters. There should not have been any this far north…”

“Could something have happened to the forces at Ostagar, then?”

“Unlikely. If they were either destroyed or forced to retreat, then we would know. There is only one truly efficient route for the horde to take in order to enter Ferelden from the Wilds, but there are passes acceptable for small bands such as this. We should be cautious.”

“Agreed,” said Sagramor, suppressing a shudder of fear. “If I had been infected…”

“Then you would have become one of them,” finished Duncan. “The blood of ghouls and other Blight-tainted creatures is not as potent or infectious as the darkspawn themselves; dangerous, but merely being in their presence will not spread the taint. Still, it does not hurt to be careful. We should leave this place immediately, in case more arrive.”

“Right, right,” Sagramor muttered, calming the horses before throwing his things together. Within minutes, they were gone, speeding into the darkness as safely as they could manage, the blood and bodies of the ghouls the only signs of their passing.

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

Three days later, they crested a small hill, and Sagramor first laid eyes upon Ostagar.

A thousand years earlier, the Tevinter Imperium had stretched across the boundaries of the known world, an empire fuelled by dark magic and slavery and commanded by the twisted magisters. The Imperium had advanced in every direction, seeking new lands to conquer and resources to exploit, before eventually finding their way to the edge of the Korcari Wilds, a strange and inhospitable wilderness at the edge of the world.

Even for the Tevinters, with their endless hunger for land, slaves and blood, the idea of conquering the Wilds ultimately proved to be unfeasible. The land was too harsh, too distant from the Imperium’s settled territories, and the cold swamps and forests provided little of material value. Moreover, the Chasind Wilders that dwelt within paradoxically seemed to be both too scattered and few to make the Imperium’s slave trade profitable here, while at the same point, being able to unify into considerable hosts to bedevil the northern invaders.

And so, the unstoppable Tevinter war machine halted their southwards advance, and to shield themselves from the Wilders, erected the fortress of Ostagar. Built high upon the cliffs overlooking the Wilds, Ostagar had repelled numerous Chasind assaults during the Imperium’s reign, and had never been breached or captured by the enemies of Tevinter.

Of course, it was eventually all for naught. The First Blight had destroyed much of the Imperium over the course of two hundred years, weakening its hold over the outlying territories. Andraste’s Exalted March had nearly finished the job, forcing the Imperium to abandon southern Thedas before the Prophet’s betrayal at the hands of her mortal husband Maferath. Ostagar had been vacated and left to rot, but even time and neglect could not bring it down.

The sight of the old fortress was breathtaking, and Sagramor allowed himself a moment to stare in wonder. Ostagar had been built to protect a narrow pass that led into the fertile heartland of what was now Ferelden, and he was stunned by the sheer hundred-foot walls that covered the gorge and by the numerous old towers built along the ramparts, one in particularly along the eastern side of the fortress reaching several hundred feet. Looking upon the old ruins, Sagramor suddenly felt small in the face of it. “How big exactly is the army?”

“Just over ten thousand men,” Duncan answered. “A considerable host, but not as large as it could be. When I left King Cailan at the assembly point, many of Ferelden’s nobility had yet to commit their forces. I can only hope since the following battles, additional reinforcements have arrived to bolster our numbers.”

“You mean they’ve already engaged in the darkspawn?”

“Three times prior, and after each battle, the darkspawn simply retreated into the Wilds to bolster their numbers with reinforcements emerging from the Deep Roads. By now, they look to outnumber us significantly.”

“Will the forces we have be enough to stop the darkspawn? If nothing else, Ostagar looks like it can be defended.”

“I do not know if our numbers are sufficient, but you are correct in your assessment of our defenses. Even a thousand years later, Ostagar is a bastion to be respected. It must be, if we are to stop the Blight.”

“And what if we can’t hold them here, Duncan?” Sagramor asked. “If the fortress is breached, then what?”

“Then Ferelden will fall,” the elder Warden intoned gravely.

Leading their horses on, the two Wardens dismounted at an impromptu bastion on the eastern edge of the fortress meant to watch for threats coming along the road. The horses left in the hands of trained grooms and a report made about their recent nighttime ambush, they made their way beneath the shadow of the largest tower, a massive edifice that overlooked the entire fortress and the lands around it. “This area of the fortress has been designated as the King’s Camp. The bulk of the army, along with the full-fledged members of the Order, are encamped in the valley below.”

The elf’s eyes widened. “The King’s Camp? You mean-”

“Ho, there! Duncan!” came the enthusiastic boom, and Sagramor turned to witness the speaker approach, accompanied by a quartet of knights in full plate, the human’s golden armour and blonde hair shining in the sun. For a moment, the elf froze in utter disbelief.

“King Cailan,” Duncan greeted the newcomer, giving a small bow. “I didn’t expect-”

“A royal welcome?” the King of Ferelden quipped, placing a friendly hand on Duncan’s shoulder. He was a young man in the prime of life, perhaps about twenty-five years of age, tall, vigorous and well-built, with a confident demeanour and a lust for life. He was the heir of Maric the Savior and a scion of Calenhad the Great’s bloodline, inheriting the land that his father had liberated from the yoke of the Orlesian Empire and restored to its former glory; yet if he felt the weight of all that history and the shadow of his lineage, he gave no sign of it. For better or for worse, Cailan was not an elder statesman or a peerless diplomat, but a fighting king, a man far more comfortable drinking with and warring alongside his soldiers than politicking with domestic nobles and foreign dignitaries. “I was beginning to think you’d miss all the fun!”

“Not if I could help it, Your Majesty,” came the wry reply.

“Then I’ll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all. Glorious!” Cailan crowed. “The other Wardens told me you found a promising recruit. I take it this is he?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. Allow me to introduce-”

The King gave a small snort of derision. “There’s no need to be so formal, Duncan, we are to be riding into battle together, after all.” Walking over, Cailan enthusiastically shook Sagramor’s hand, as if they were two old comrades finding each other, and not a King and the lowest of his subjects. “Ho there, friend, might I know your name?”

“Sagramor Tabris, Your Majesty, of the Denerim Alienage,” said the elf, pulling his hood back. In ordinary circumstances, he might have considered bowing, but Cailan didn’t appear to be particularly overly concerned with courtly formality.

“Ah! Good old Denerim. It has been some time since I’ve returned home.” The King gave him a curious look. “Tell me, how is the Alienage? My guards all but forbid me from going there, though I can hardly understand why. The Alienages have served Ferelden well and given your people a chance to live free, after all.”

Yes, we’re free to starve and rot and be spat upon, when your vassals aren’t taking time from their schedules to brutalize us, Sagramor mocked inwardly, forcing himself to bury his anger. “In truth, Your Majesty, my people live hard lives full of challenge, and while I would hesitate to remind you of your duty, the attention and aid of Ferelden’s King would be a great boon to us.”

“Oh?” Cailan inquired.

“Indeed, Your Majesty. Despite what you may have heard, the Alienage folk are both hard-working and dedicated to Ferelden, yet many of your subjects look down upon and mistreat them. Ferelden’s elves are no threat to any, yet are persecuted and marginalized all the same. Given the chance to improve their condition, I have no doubt they would prove to be the most productive members of Ferelden society.”

“Indeed?” said the King, brows furrowing in thought. “My father spoke well of your people, but in truth, I have not given the matter much thought since my coronation. Well, once the war is done, I’ll be certain to examine the state of the Alienages more thoroughly.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Always so much to do! Perhaps once the darkspawn are defeated, you can return to your people with both glory and good tidings, eh?”

“Looking forward to it, Your Majesty,” said Sagramor, bowing low. He had not expected much from Ferelden’s king, but presenting the needs of the elves was a rare opportunity that he had to take advantage of. If nothing else, now Cailan had no excuse for not knowing about what his elven subjects faced. “Regardless, you can depend on me to do whatever is needed to stop the darkspawn.”

“Excellent. Then allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar, Sagramor Tabris of the Denerim Alienage. The Grey Wardens have been desperate to bolster their numbers, and I for one am eager to help them. Should you need to assistance of any of my soldiers, feel free to ask.”

“What is the status of the army, Your Majesty?” asked Duncan, eager to get down to business. “Have any more nobles committed their troops?”

“Troops from Highever have arrived, at long last,” Cailan answered. “About a hundred men under Bryce’s son Fergus arrived about a week ago. I put them to work as part of the scouting teams.”

“But Teryn Cousland himself has not come?” Duncan inquired.

“No, he hasn’t, and neither have the troops from Amaranthine. It’s very strange; young Fergus told me that his father and Arl Howe would be no more than a day or two behind him.” The King gave a shrug, as if the absence of two of his more notable vassals was a triviality. “Then again, the Coastlands are rather stormy this time of year, perhaps the weather delayed them? I’m sure they’ll arrive eventually, but as it stands, I don’t think we’ll need any more men, not with how swimmingly the battles have been going.”

“Your uncle sends his greetings, and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week.”

“Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory,” Cailan remarked mockingly, rolling his blue eyes. “We’ve won three battles against these monsters already, and tonight should be no different. We’ve been tracking the horde’s advance through the Wilds, so by the time they approach the fortress, we’ll be ready to send them scurrying back into their holes.”

“You sound very confident of that, Your Majesty,” Sagramor remarked evenly. The King seemed entirely at ease about the impending darkspawn onslaught, and the elf had no idea if Cailan was simply putting on a carefree front for the sake of morale, or he truly believed the Blight was no challenge to his forces. For the sake of Ferelden, he hoped it was the former.

“Overconfident some would say, right, Duncan?” Cailan jested.

Duncan maintained a diplomatic, cautious tone in the face of Cailan’s self-assurance. “Your Majesty, I’m not certain the Blight can be ended as quickly as you might wish.”

“To be honest, I’m not even sure this is a true Blight. There have been plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, no sign of an Archdemon.”

“Disappointed, Your Majesty?” Duncan inquired wryly.

“I’d hoped for a war like in the tales! You know, where a king rides with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god. But, I suppose this will have to do.”

“We should return to your tent, Your Majesty,” one of Cailan’s bodyguards said, a heavyset man with greying hair. “Most likely Teryn Loghain will wish to review our strategies.”

“Yes, Elric, of course. Sorry to cut this short, but I must return before Loghain sends out a search party,” Cailan sighed in frustration. “Farewell, Grey Wardens.”

As the King departed, Sagramor let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Well, that was unexpected.”

“To an extent,” Duncan explained. “King Cailan is a major ally of the Wardens in Ferelden, and is one of our strongest advocates, especially with the Blight at our doorstep. And what he says is true; they’ve won several battles against the darkspawn so far.”

Sagramor caught the elder Warden’s worried tone. “But at first glance, he seems to be taking it rather lightly.”

“His glibness stems in no small part from our presence. He believes that our legend alone makes him invincible, a belief he ferments to further inspire his men. I said before that much would be expected of you; now you see why. To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual immediately.”

“Is this some sort of initiation rite?” asked Sagramor, genuinely curious.

“Of a sort. Each Grey Warden must go through the Joining in order to become a full member of our Order. For the moment, I cannot tell you more. Suffice it to say that we do what is necessary.”

Sagramor frowned as he heard that most weighty of phrases. Duncan had explained a great deal about the Wardens and the darkspawn on the journey, but the Joining had never come up. Why would he have to hide it? “Very well then. What do you need me to do?”

In response, Duncan tossed him a pouch of coins. “Feel free to explore the King’s Camp as you wish, all I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being. There is another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair; once you’ve equipped and prepared yourself as you see fit, find him and inform him that it’s time to summon the other recruits. Once that is done, the next step of your initiation begins.”

“Understood, Duncan, and thank you.”

“Do not thank me just yet. There are many trials left to come,” the older man intoned, bowing to the recruit before he turned and walked away.

“Somehow, I knew that would be the case,” Sagramor muttered darkly. “Nothing could ever be easy, could it?”