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.
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Chapter Five: The King’s Camp
Crossing the bridge that spanned the gorge, Sagramor permitted himself a moment of rest to shake off the aches and pains of his long journey. Leaning on the ramparts, the young elf took in the endless swamps and forests, and in the distance, snow-capped peaks so tall they seemed to pierce the sky. At least a hundred feet below him in the gorge, the Army of Ferelden made preparations for the next battle. The elf’s keen grey eyes witnessed barricades being assembled, companies of spearmen and greatsworders drilling, while the wind was alive with the sounds of shouted orders and boastful cheers. Further back, nestled at the northern mouth of the gorge lay a massive camp, itself fortified and packed to the brim with the cream of Ferelden’s soldiery, along with many of their families, retainers, servants, stewards, priests, peddlers, armourers, camp followers, labourers and all of the other non-combatants who frequently followed in the wake of armies. It was clear that this was an experienced and well-prepared host; had Duncan and King Cailin never mentioned those missing nobles, he doubted he would have even noticed.
“Enjoying the view?” a woman’s voice asked teasingly, and Sagramor turned to see one of the King’s soldiers approaching; a young woman of raven hair and pale skin, her steel breastplate freshly polished beneath the hounds-rampant surcoat, and a greatsword resting in a sheath at her back. “It’s not so pretty once the darkspawn swarm all over the landscape, but for the moment, it’s nice enough.”
“You speak from experience?”
“Well, three battles worth of fighting the monsters certainly counts,” she said, gazing upon him with startlingly blue eyes. “If nothing else, it certainly gives you an appreciation for the simple things in life. But where are my manners? Corporal Marian Hawke, Third Company of the King’s Own,” she introduced herself, offering her hand.
Sagramor took it, feeling her strength beneath the gauntlet. “Sagramor Tabris, of the Wardens.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Sagramor. I’ve seen the Wardens in action since the army arrived. The King’s trust is well-earned, I can say that much. If you don’t mind, why are you not in the main camp with your fellows?”
“In truth, I’ve only just arrived,” the elf admitted sheepishly. “I’m just a new recruit to the Order, and our Commander, Duncan, asked me to get equipped and find another Warden here in this camp.”
“There’s no shame in that. Everyone has to start somewhere, right? Well, I’d be happy to show you around. Captain Varel has me running an errand up here, so I’m heading to the quartermaster anyways.”
The two warriors fell in step, passing companies of archers drilling along the ancient bridge. “As I understand it, this is the King’s Camp, correct?” Sagramor asked.
“Right,” said Hawke. “The bulk of the army is down below, but this space on the cliffs has been reserved for the King and his entourage, along with most of the other notables. We have the Circle of Magi here, along with a pack of those bloody Templars lurking around them. Teryn Loghain is here, the Grand Cleric… If you’re looking to find key figures in this army, this is the place. Myself, I’m downstairs with all the real soldiers,” came the quip.
“So what brings a real soldier up here then?” Sagramor replied with equal good humour.
“Captain Varel had a new greatsword forged for himself by the blacksmiths up here. The main camp has its own logistical staff, but on occasion, we’ve asked those in the King’s Camp to help out. It’s a job for a messenger, actually, but the Captain wanted at least some of us to know the layout of the defenses on the cliffs, if we’re ever forced to retreat.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Agreed. The King’s Camp is very secure because the trails and paths leading up to the cliffs are narrow and winding. It’s good if the darkspawn try to storm the heights, but there’s no way the army will be able to quickly retreat up them en masse. That’s one of the reasons why the bulk of the army is encamped on the low ground; if the darkspawn attacked, there’s no way a significant force could deploy from the heights to stop them in time.”
“How’s morale? Will the army hold?” Sagramor asked.
“They’ll hold, I promise you that,” Hawke replied firmly. “The King thinks this is all going to end with one huge battle the bards will sing about for centuries, and most of the men were determined to prove him right. As for me…” The young woman gave a small shrug. “I like to hope for the best and plan for the worst. In either event, we’ll have our work cut out for us.”
The two entered the King’s Camp proper, and Sagramor took Hawke’s tale to heart, grey eyes catching every detail possible for future reference. The mages had their own encampment on the southern side, just behind the battlements, their tents hidden behind a crude palisade and surrounded by the plate-armoured templars of the Chantry. Several of the mages were moving about the camp, though the grand majority of those did so under templar guard, the Chantry unwilling to allow their control over the Circle to slip, even in the face of the Blight. Further west, the young elf could hear hounds barking and men crying out in pain, while groups of priests roamed around the camp, offering blessings and comfort to the assembled soldiers. To his pleasant surprise, Hawke was not the only woman-at-arms present; more than a few soldiers were female, and were armed and armoured much the same as their male colleagues.
On the southwest side, nestled in the ruins of a collapsed tower and overlooking the valley, two great tents had been erected. The first was an opulent, lavish domicile; its rich, bright yellow silk befitting a king, while the second was a more utilitarian structure of heavy green canvas. Banners flanked the entranceways; the first tent marked with the hounds rampant symbol of the Crown, while the second had standards depicting a golden wyvern on a field of green, the emblem of the Terynrir of Gwaren. That must be Loghain’s tent, Sagramor realized, thinking back to his grandfather’s stories of the Teryn and his rise to power from a simple farmboy to Ferelden’s greatest general. “Have you met Teryn Loghain, Hawke?”
“Eager to find out if the man matches the legend?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” replied Sagramor with genuine enthusiasm. For so many, Loghain was not merely a powerful noble, but a symbol of Ferelden’s triumph; the vanquisher of the hated Orlesians and proof to the rest of Thedas that in Ferelden, any man could rise to greatness on the basis of his merits alone. Unless you’re an elf, of course, he mused darkly. “How often does one get a chance to meet one of the country’s greatest heroes?”
“Point,” Hawke remarked. “Well, I’ve only met him once or twice, but he seems alright. He’s a very good general: he’s tough, smart, knows how to inspire the men. Just don’t go expecting a new drinking buddy; he’s not a very sociable man, especially not these days.”
“Has something in particular happened?”
“Well…” Hawke paused for a moment, blue eyes glancing about. “I really shouldn’t gossip, but its better you learn this from me instead of accidently treading on dangerous ground. From what I’ve heard, Loghain and King Cailan have been arguing lately about Queen Anora, and while the teryn is loyal to the king, he’s also the type to stand by his daughter, no matter what. Combine that with disputes over battle strategy, and the two aren’t really pleased with each other right now.”
Sagramor nodded in understanding, taking it all in. He had known that Cailan had been married, of course, the proclamations of a royal wedding some five years earlier had reached even the Alienage, though they had found out little about the specifics. “So Loghain isn’t merely Cailan’s top general and his father’s best friend, but also his father-in-law.”
“Exactly. And he’s known Cailan since the King was a babe, so they’re not really the type to stand on ceremony together, especially when they’re at loggerheads,” Hawke elaborated. “Myself, I think one of the only reasons we’re doing so well is because of Loghain’s strategies. Just… be careful what you say around him.”
Frowning, Sagramor considered the implications. The two most senior leaders of the army quarreling: if they could not resolve their differences and focus on the fight ahead, it could prove disastrous. He had always heard that the nobles of Ferelden were a fractious bunch; he just hoped it wouldn’t end up costing them all in the end.
“This way,” Hawke urged, and the two turned north to an impromptu supply depot. Teams of labourers, many of them elves, distributed crates full of weapons and armour to waiting soldiers, honed blades on grindstones and repaired broken chainmail links. The young woman had to speak up to be heard over the constant ringing of hammers against metal. “Quartermaster Bagley? You have Captain Varel’s sword ready for me?”
“Just give me a moment,” the quartermaster replied irritably, engrossed in the contents of a ledger. Finally deigning to look up, the portly man gave an infuriated scowl at the sight of Sagramor. “You there, elf! Where’s that armour I asked for half-an-hour ago? And why are you dressed so preposterously?” he demanded, stabbing a stubby finger at the Warden tabard.
“Because I am a Grey Warden?” Sagramor asked dryly, seeing his face turn red with shock. “And do you treat all your servants so poorly, or is today a special occasion?”
“Oh, I, eh…” stammered the quartermaster, realizing he had said far too much. “Uh, pardon my rudeness, Grey Warden, it’s just that, well, things have been mixed up a bit, and those elves that’ve been hired are no help at all…”
Hawke gave a mocking gasp. “Truly? Workers aren’t very productive when their boss holds them in contempt? I’ve never heard of such a concept.”
“Perhaps it would be best if you treated them better in the future, ser,” the elf suggested frostily. “Now then, if you’re done insulting potential patrons, I am going to need some new armour, while Corporal Hawke here has to pick up a sword for her commander.”
“Right, of course. Give me one moment,” babbled the quartermaster, scurrying away before they took further offense.
“You definitely get results,” said Hawke. “I’m rather impressed.”
“I guess beautiful women just motivate me,” Sagramor jested, hoping he hadn’t overstepped his bounds.
Hawke laughed, flattered. “A romantic, then? Do you think that’s an advantage or a liability as a Grey Warden?”
“Suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” replied the elf. “Quartermaster Bagley, you wouldn’t happen to have any armour with additional protection over the shoulders, would you?”
The quartermaster was happy to oblige, and within the space of a few minutes, Sagramor became the proud owner of a new set of chainmail armour, with integrated plate shoulder pauldrons. The armour was flexible and relatively light, yet still tough enough to absorb a strong blow, though he imagined a strike of sufficient force could breach the interwoven steel links. Making sure that the matching gauntlets and greaves fit, Sagramor declined the offered helmets, none of which were designed to accommodate the long, tapering ears of elves. There simply wasn’t time for any of the blacksmiths to forge one designed to fit, so until he could get a helm custom-made for him, he’d just have to watch out for blows directed at his head and pray to the Maker that it was enough.
Ducking away for a moment, the quartermaster re-emerged, mumbling excuses about cluttered inventory before passing Hawke a massive greatsword, the hilt stamped with the emblem of a bear. The soldier smiled as Sagramor passed the armoury staff, elves and humans alike, some coins, oblivious to the look of contempt coming from the quartermaster. “A romantic indeed. Shall I assume that rescuing kittens from trees is next on the agenda?”
“You disapprove?”
“Hardly,” Hawke chuckled. “When the threat is this big, it’s so easy to lose sight of the little things, and the people fighting it. Good to see that not everyone is focused solely on death and glory.”
“And what about you, Corporal? What drives you?”
“My family,” Hawke stated. “My little brother is part of the Third Company as well, and watching out for him is a full-time job. My mother and younger sister are back in Lothering, and right in the horde’s path if we fail. Just another reason to fight, right?” she said, cracking a weak smile.
“We won’t fail, Hawke. If the rest of the King’s army are anything like you, we’ll have the darkspawn running for the hills in no time.”
“Flatterer,” the young woman replied with a pleased smirk. “I should return to my unit. But it was nice meeting you, Grey Warden, and good luck to you.”
“You as well, Corporal. May the Maker watch over you and yours.”
“He’d better, or I’ll have some stern words for him. Farewell.”
“Oh, don’t worry, love,” a new voice interjected, and a thin human emerged beside Hawke, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “See, I’m a Warden too, and you can count on me and my mate here keeping you safe. Of course, life is fleeting, and stranger things have been known to happen than a lovely bird like yourself getting slain by those monsters. If there are any last requests I can grant for you…”
Hawke fixed with him with a stare cold enough to snuff out an inferno. “Shall I take that as a no, then?” the newcomer asked.
A swift motion and the newcomer was on the ground, rubbing his now-tender jaw. “Interesting companions you’ll have to fight alongside, Sagramor,” said Hawke, relaxing her fist. “I’ll see you around.”
“Same to you, Hawke,” the young elf said, smiling despite himself. “Now why did you ever think that would turn out well?” he asked the human who had so rudely propositioned the young woman, even as she disappeared into the crowd.
“He who dares wins, isn’t that right?” came the reply as the human sprang to his feet. Crude as he might have been, he did not lie about one thing; the tabard of the Wardens had been draped over his leather armour for all to see. At his hip was a short sword, while a longbow and fully-stocked quiver hung across his back. His brown eyes were quick and more than a little shifty, looking around as if he was expecting danger to come from every corner, and he looked rather uncomfortable and out of place amongst so many soldiers. “Besides, ain’t people supposed to like us Wardens? Vanquishers of the Blight and knights in shining armour and all that?”
“Maybe not to that extent, Mister…”
“Daveth, just Daveth. And you’re not what I thought you’d be.”
“Sagramor Tabris. And what were you thinking I’d be?”
“I don’t know,” Daveth said, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “I was kinda hoping for someone blonde, buxom and near-sighted, though knowing my luck, you’d be some great brute of a knight, all scarred up and with a penchant for violence. I wasn’t expecting an elf, and definitely not one who’s better with women than I am. Still, good to meet you. It’s about time you came along; I was starting to think they’d cooked this ritual up for our benefit.”
“The Joining?” asked Sagramor, genuinely curious. The human might be something of a scoundrel, and likely had a rather colourful past, but he had no reason to doubt him at this juncture. ”What do you know about it?” came the inquiry as the two moved away from the depot and any potential eavesdroppers.
Daveth motioned him closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “See, I happened to be sneaking around camp last night, and I heard some of the Wardens talking a bit. Sounded like they were going to send us into the Wilds.”
“Any idea why?”
“Not sure. Might be a test of our fighting skills, see if we can cut the mustard as Wardens,” Daveth suggested. “There’s plenty of dangers in that forest; cannibals, witches, barbarians and monsters, lots of stuff to pose a challenge. Hope you’re up for it. I know Jory is.”
“Jory?”
“Ser Jory, he’s the other recruit. A decent fellow for a knight. Bit stiff though, probably needs a good woman,” Daveth said bluntly, turning to wave over a chainmail-clad human in his mid-thirties. “Oi, Jory? Come over ‘ere, the final recruit has arrived!”
“That is a relief,” the man said, giving Daveth an odious glance, resentful at being seen near the flippant rogue. Jory was a solid, heavyset man in chainmail garb, hair thinning away from his wide forehead, while his dark beard was meticulously trimmed around his chin, not a hair out of place. “How do you do? My name is Jory, knight of Redcliffe.”
“Good to meet you, Ser Jory, I’m Sagramor,” the elf answered politely. Experience had taught him to beware human nobility and their knights, but Jory seemed like a decent fellow. “Has Daveth told you about the Joining?”
“Indeed, though it’s rather strange that they would require further tests from us. We are Wardens after all, correct?” the knight posed. “That said, I was not aware that elves could even become Wardens.”
“Oh, you’ve done it now, mate!” Daveth cackled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Sagramor, instantly defensive.
“I meant no offense, good elf,” Jory stammered. “It’s just that all of the current Wardens here seem to be human. Not that I’ve had much time to meet with them; Duncan has insisted that we recruits stay up here in the King’s Camp.” It was plain as a pikestaff that Jory resented being treated like a green newcomer, and Sagramor wondered how the pair had been recruited. “I just can’t wait to prove myself on the field.”
“Well, I’m sure that we’ll be able to defeat anything we come across,” Sagramor declared. He supposed only time would tell if either of them proved reliable in combat. “By any chance, have either of you met a Warden named Alistair?”
“Yeah, he was around here just a little while ago. Had to deliver a message to the mages,” Daveth explained, shuddering visibly. “Me, I wouldn’t go near those spooky types for all the gold in Denerim, but apparently he used to be a templar, so them mages shouldn’t worry him.”
A templar. Wonderful. Sagramor had only met a templar once, and it was an experience he hoped to avoid repeating. Then again, if mages were present, then perhaps he might see Nimue again, find out if she was alright. “Thanks, I appreciate it. I think Duncan’s expecting us to join him shortly, we might be getting to the Joining soon.”
“Hope so, the waiting’s killing me,” said Daveth. “Nice to meet you, mate. And if those mages turn you into a toad, try not to come near me, okay? Can’t stand the things.”
“Best of luck to you as well,” offered Jory, frowning as a new figure approached their gathering. “Perhaps these are our orders now.”
Panting, the elven messenger skidded to a halt before the Warden recruits, leather satchel flapping at his side. “Begging your pardon, Wardens, but I--” he wheezed, doubling over. “I have--”
“Bit weedy looking, isn’t he?” remarked Daveth. “Hope you’re a bit tougher than that, Sagramor.”
Sagramor ignored the human’s jibes, handing the messenger his spare waterskin. “Stand easy, messenger. What’s your name?”
“It’s—it’s Pick, ser,” the elf answered, drinking deeply.
“My name is Sagramor, Pick, and I’m no ser. Rest for a moment; you’re no good to anyone if you’ve collapsed from exhaustion. Your message can wait for a few moments.”
“Oh, I only wish,” Pick blurted, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Teryn Loghain wants to see you, and he’s not a man to keep waiting.”
“An audience with the Teryn!” gushed Jory, visibly elated. “What a great honour! We should go to his tent right away.”
“I’m sorry, ser Warden,” the messenger spoke cautiously, “but I was told that the summons was for the elven Warden alone. He wants to see you, Sagramor.”
Well, I did hope for a chance to meet him, didn’t I? Sagramor told himself, gently refusing Pick’s attempts to return his waterskin. “Keep it, Pick, I have another. Daveth, Ser Jory, I’ll see you back at Duncan,” he said, idly glancing to make sure his new armour was presentable enough. He felt the first nervous stirrings rising in his chest, and tried to force them down. You’ve met the King, fought ghouls and slew a noble of Ferelden. Nothing should unsettle you now.
As Sagramor walked over to the old tower hosing the tents of Loghain and the King, he immediately noticed how quiet it was in comparison to the rest of the camp, the milling and chatting soldiers absent, replaced with stoic guards, hands at their weapons at all times. These were the elite knights of Maric’s Shield, the King’s personal bodyguards, and the elf felt more than one pair of suspicious eyes upon him as he approached Loghain’s billet.
Standing before the green-and-grey tent was one of the most formidable women Sagramor had ever seen; tall, strong and clad in knightly garb bearing the wyvern of Gwaren. An absolutely monstrous greatsword was slung at her back, and everything about her demeanour proclaimed that she knew how to use it effectively. Her dark brown hair had been drawn into a short ponytail, while on another woman, her high cheekbones and wide lips would have been a sign of great beauty, but she was too cold and stern to be truly beautiful. She reminded him of Hawke in a way, but whereas Hawke was a kind and even garrulous person, hers was a soul of iron; unbending and uncompromising. He was merely thankful that they were on the same side. “You approach the tent of Teryn Loghain, elf. State your business,” the knight demanded, brown eyes boring holes right through him.
“I received a message that Teryn Loghain wished to see me, Ser…”
“Cauthrien of Gwaren, champion and bodyguard to Teryn Loghain,” she declared bluntly. “You will watch your tone when speaking to him. He is not a man to be disrespected, and neither am I.”
Before Sagramor had a chance to unleash a choice retort or two back at the adamant knight, the rustling of papers within the tent and a gruff male voice stopped him cold. “That will do, Cauthrien.”
And Teryn Loghain Mac Tir stepped out into the light.
‘Hard’ was the first word to came to mind when looking upon the teryn; hard, stern, and unyielding, much like his sworn sword. Loghain had to be at least fifty, but age had not weakened him in body, mind or spirit, and Sagramor doubted if he would ever allow it to be so. From beneath great furrowed brows, dark eyes examined the Warden, looking past the bulbous nose marked with the scars of battles and sieges aplenty, while his face was pale and drawn tight, clearly unaccustomed to smiles and laughter. He was a hefty, solid man, bulked up further by the polished silverite plate armour he wore, a trophy of his triumph over the Orlesians at the Battle of River Dane. Everything about him suggested intense dedication and focus; he was the sort of man with no patience for fools, and would not accept weakness in himself or others, a man whose respect would only be earned, never given. He was a soldier’s solder and a patriot, forged on the anvil of war, best friend of the late King Maric and the Hero of River Dane, and certainly not a man to be crossed. “So, you are the elven Warden I’ve heard so much about. What is your name, ser?”
“Sagramor Tabris, my lord, from the Denerim Alienage,” answered the elf, nodding in respect. “I was told that you wished to see me.”
“I did, I did. You are curious as to why?” Loghain asked, getting a muttered affirmation. “It is because at the end of the day, armies are ultimately comprised of men. Your Order has been given a place of great honour in this host, and the patronage of the King, despite your small numbers, and I intend on making sure that respect is justified. Cailin’s fascination with the Wardens goes beyond the ordinary, so a sober second opinion of you and your fellows is needed.” The Teryn frowned, eyes narrowing. “I cannot help but feel you are familiar, ser, though I doubt we have met.”
“We have not, my lord, but my grandfather would have been known to you,” explained Sagramor. “His name was Rafen Andras, he fought alongside you as part of the Night Elves during the Rebellion.”
Loghain gave the barest flicker of a smile. “That is a name I have not heard in quite some time. A good man, your grandfather, for an Orlesian. You come from a worthy legacy, Sagramor Tabris. Make sure you live up to it.”
“Of course, my lord. And you can rest assure that all of the Grey Wardens will work to honour the King’s trust.”
“Will you now?” asked the teryn, eyebrow raised. Duncan had mentioned there were some in the army who held the Wardens in scorn, but Sagramor had hoped that Loghain wasn’t one of them. It was a vain hope, apparently; Loghain clearly didn’t trust them. “Are you aware that his father brought your Order back to Ferelden?”
“I am, my lord.”
“Maric respected the Grey Wardens, and they have an honoured place in the hearts of our people. But Maric would have understood that battles are won by strategy and discipline, not legends, particularly those so few in number. It’s not an argument I’ll repeat here. I suppose you’ll riding off into the thick of the fighting with your fellow then, will you?”
“I am a Grey Warden, my lord,” Sagramor declared, thankful for Hawke’s prior consul. “For Ferelden’s sake, I will go where I am needed, and do what must be done.”
“Fair enough,” said Loghain, turning back to his tent. “Now, I must return to my strategies for the battle tonight. You will give your commander my compliments.” Pulling the canvas flaps open, the teryn moved to enter, then paused for a moment. “Are you a religious man, Sagramor of the Grey?”
“I believe in the Maker and the Prophet Andraste, if that’s what you’re asking, my lord. Why?”
“Then pray that our king proves amiable to reason. Cauthrien, with me,” said Loghain, ducking into the tent. Sniffing in disdain at the elf, Cauthrien followed.
“Well, that was interesting,” Sagramor muttered under his breath. Grandfather Rafen had always spoken of Loghain’s stubborn nature, but to experience it firsthand was something else. Loghain might not respect the Wardens now, but for Sagramor, that was just another challenge. Now, time to move on.
*************************
“And what exactly are you doing here, young man?” the mage asked. “I am far too busy at the moment to entertain idle conversations.”
The subject of magic was not a frequently one discussed or considered by the elves of the Denerim Alienage, who had more immediate and temporal worries to consider. When one lived in such despair and utter poverty, danger usually came in the form of hunger or disease or corrupt guards, not rampaging demons. When the subject came up, few had anything good to say about it. Magic was the punishment for men’s sins, and those who possessed such powers had to be truly wicked to deserve such a curse. It was an attitude hammered home during the infrequent visits of the Chantry’s priests; with the exception of Mother Boann, they all spoke of mages and magic as evil, and admonished them to report any signs of either to the templars.
But magic had always fascinated Sagramor, yet another of his supposed eccentricities. He had studied the Chant of Light, and read every story he could get his hands on regarding mages, but aside from Nimue, he had never actually met one, at least not one in the full flower of their abilities. What were they like as people? How had their perspective changed from that of mundane society as a result of being granted such immense power, and being locked away by those who feared it?
Judging from the stern woman in front of him, perhaps very little. She was an older human, perhaps in her fifties or early sixties, and her every mannerism and word seemed deliberate, the by-product of a life of intense discipline and dedication. Sagramor could easily imagine her giving a lecture in front of a class of aspiring students, assisting those with difficulties and haranguing any shirkers in equal measure. She was… oddly normal, even grandmotherly, though it was clear she did not suffer fools lightly. “Forgive me, lady mage,” the elf spoke respectfully, “but I was wondering if you could help me find someone.”
“Ah, you are Duncan’s new recruit, are you not? He’s not a man easily impressed. You should be proud,” she replied warmly. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wynne, Senior Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle of Magi.”
“Sagramor Tabris, of the Wardens,” the elf said, giving a small bow.
“Well met, and good luck to you, Grey Warden. Good luck to us all, in fact. To defeat the darkspawn, we must all work together, though it is not a notion everyone seems able to grasp.”
“Yes, Duncan mentioned the same thing,” Sagramor reiterated, experiencing a sudden flare of worry. “Have you and the other mages been treated poorly by the rest of the army?”
“Not as much as you might think,” Wynne assured him. “For the most part, I find they are simply relieved to have our aid. Mages are feared, often with good reason, but that fear should not preclude us from helping others, and if it helps to forge a positive impression of mages, so much the better.” She gave him a curious glance. “Then again, there are few who seek to approach us without some sort of official business. Have you had any experience dealing with mages in the past?”
“Of a sort. When I was young, a friend of mine was taken to the Circle, an elven girl by the name of Nimue Surana.” Sagramor shuffled uncomfortably for a moment before continuing. “If I may ask, have you met her before? Is she alright? Is she here with the army?”
“Ah, an old friend then. Yes, I know of Miss Surana. She is one of the finest students I have had the pleasure to teach; talented, determined, if a little wild. The First Enchanter has actually taken her on as an apprentice, his first in close to a decade. You should be proud of her.”
The young Warden gave a small sigh of relief, a weight that he had never known he was carrying falling away, vanishing like sea-fog in a heavy gale. “So, she’s safe then? Thank the Maker.”
“She is safe, young man. In fact, before my fellow mages and I joined the army, it was my impression that her apprenticeship would soon be complete. In time, you may see her fighting alongside us.”
“I’d—I’d like that,” the elf confessed. “I mean, I’d like to see her again, not put her in danger. I’d never wish that. Have you fought the darkspawn yourself yet, Senior Enchanter?”
“Stragglers, yes, but not the vast horde the scouts speak of. “ Wynne pursed her lips, curious. “Tell me, what you know of the connection between darkspawn and the Fade?”
“The Fade is the realm of dreams as I understand it.”
“You are correct. Whenever your spirit leaves your earthly body, whether it be to dream or to die, it enters the Fade. It is a place home to many spirits, some benevolent, but many less so. And in the centre of it lies the Black City, once the Maker’s home-”
“Until the magisters of Tevinter breached its gates and corrupted it,” Sagramor finished, thinking back to the lectures of the Chantry. “It was the First Violation, the act that brought the darkspawn into being in the first place.”
“My, it is refreshing to see a warrior so learned,” said Wynne, pleasantly surprised. “Too many assume that scholarly knowledge somehow unmans them.”
“Well, I’ve always found it better to walk into a situation with eyes open. Besides, when you have very little, you seek advantages where you find them,” the elf reasoned, before posing the question that everyone pondered eventually. “Is the Chantry right, Wynne? Is that how the darkspawn were created?”
“I cannot say that for certain, young man,” the mage confessed. “It may simply be allegory, a reminder that our actions have consequences. Without any reasonable alternatives, it is a good enough explanation for now, I suppose. But I doubt that Duncan wanted you to spend all your time listening to my lectures; you should prepare yourself for the battle ahead.”
“Anything I can do to help you on that front?” asked Sagramor. “I’m supposed to find another Warden named Alistair, but I’m sure Duncan won’t mind it if I took a few moments to assist the mages. We are supposed to work together, right?”
“Well said,” Wynne remarked, drawing a long glass philter from a nearby backpack. “Bring this to the kennelmaster; he and the hounds under his care are nearby. You won’t need to return once that is done, just deliver it, and he’ll know what to do with it. As for Alistair, try the western ramparts. The message he was meant to deliver is for Senior Enchanter Balise, who has been preparing wards in that area for the coming battle.”
“Thank you, Wynne. I’ll deliver this right away,” the elf said, taking his leave, a spring in his step. Nimue, alive and well! He had a thousand more questions to ask, but the mage was right; he had work to do. Perhaps everything would turn out alright after all…
************************************
“This isn’t good,” mused the kennelmaster, examining the warhounds with an experienced eye. “I’d hate to waste such a promising member of the breed. Are you sure that this is all she had?”
“It was all she gave me,” grunted Sagramor, staring piteously at the beasts. His good mood had lasted as long as it took to reach the kennels, quickly dissipating at the sight of so many injured dogs, many of them stricken with festering sours and lesions. The kennelmaster had explained that those had been infected with the darkspawn taint, and that Wynne’s solution was designed to give them a fighting chance.
Briefly, the image of the rabid ghouls ambushing them on the journey flashed before Sagramor’s eyes, and he gave an unconscious shudder at the thought. The tales of past Blights had not truly conveyed the horror of the taint, and he’d hate to think of how many people were dying as a result of it seeping into their systems. Judging from the screams of agony sounding from the infirmary, far too many. “I’ll assume it’s not enough?”
“Well, I’ll try to make it stretch, but at the rate the dogs are getting infected, there’s only so much we can do. Take a look at this fellow here,” he explained, gesturing towards the mabari warhound isolated in a separate pen, brown fur marred with boils and swelling. “Prime example of a mabari here, probably cost a fortune to breed. His owner was a knight from Highever who died in the last battle, and the poor fellow swallowed darkspawn blood. One of the most valuable and loyal dogs in the world, and here he is, just wastin’ away helplessly. Bloody darkspawn,” the human spat. “It just ain’t right, Warden, it just ain’t right.”
“Forgive my ignorance, but what makes these dogs so special?” Sagramor asked. The dog was massive, thickly muscled and with a set of jaws that could crush a man’s skull like an egg, yet it whimpered in pain like a puppy, anxious to be free.
“Mabari warhounds? Well, centuries ago, a mage bred them to be intelligent; they can understand and carry out complex orders, they can interpret our language, that sort of thing. Some people say these dogs are smart enough to talk and wise enough not to. And they’re very strong; we use them in battle to rip knights from the saddle and break open enemy pike-squares and shieldwalls. Only downside is that they imprint on their owners. If he dies, then it’s difficult to get them to accept a new master.”
“Poor dogs,” the elf said, staring at the sick hound with a mixture of horror and pity. The animal gave a miserable whine from behind its muzzle. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Well, come to think of it, would you be heading into the Wilds anytime soon?”
Increasingly grateful that Daveth had chosen to confide in him, Sagramor gave a noncommittal grunt. “It all depends on where the other Wardens decide to send me. Why do you ask?”
“There’s a flower out there in the Wilds that could help improve the dog’s chances. It’s very distinctive, all-white with a blood-red centre, usually grows in ground pools around dead wood at this time of year,” the kennelmaster explained. “Bring me some of those, and I might able to stabilize their condition.”
“A cure for the Blight?” Sagramor asked incredulously.
“It’s a treatment, not a full-fledged cure. I’ve found that an ointment made from the flowers can help them get better, though it’s hit and miss. Something like the darkspawn taint, all I can do is offer what aid I can and hope for the best.”
“Then I’ll definitely keep an eye out for them,” promised Sagramor. Without hesitation, the elf knelt down before the sick mabari, meeting its eye through the bars of the pen. “Don’t worry, boy. You’ll be back to normal again in no time. I promise.”
Perhaps mabari were truly as intelligent as the kennelmaster claimed, for the dog stretched out its front legs and almost…bowed its head in acknowledgement. “I promise,” Sagramor repeated, giving a quick bow himself, then left, his course set. And I keep my promises.
******************************
Alistair of the Grey Wardens sighed in frustration at the mage continued to harangue him. It certainly wasn’t his fault that the Revered Mother had decided to make him a messenger, nor could he change his past to make it more palatable to the mage, who considered his mere existence an insult, let alone the message he had to deliver. “I simply came to deliver a message from the Revered Mother, ser mage, she desires your presence.”
“What Her Reverence desires is of no concern to me, boy,” the mage shot back. “I am helping the Grey Wardens, by the king’s orders, I might add!”
Biting back his irritation, Alistair tried to maintain a friendly tone. “Should have asked her to write a note?” he asked, almost flippantly. Instantly, he could hear Duncan chiding him in the back of his mind, reminding him of the importance of keeping good relations with the rest of Ferelden, and working together with all these diverse factions. Too late now, I suppose.
The mage gasped in dismay at this disrespect, pride obviously stung. “Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!”
“So, I was harassing you, by delivering a message?” the young human replied snarkily. Oh, Maker’s breath, I’ve done it now. I really should have just stayed in bed this morning. ‘Sorry, Duncan, but I’m feeling sick, I think I might have the Blight. Grey Wardens aren’t affected by the Blight, you say? Well, make it yellow fever then.’
“Your glibness does you no credit.”
“And here I thought we were getting along so well!” Alistair crowed. “I was planning on naming one of my children after you. The grumpy one.” How very mature, Alistair. Why Duncan didn’t want you joining the other Wardens in battle is entirely beyond me. You really do need to learn when to be quiet.
A snigger, barely stifled, cut into the argument. Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair saw an elf about his age, possessing both a greatsword and Warden tabard, smirking despite himself. Oh, wonderful, a recruit. This is hardly the best first impression I’ve ever made. It could be worse, I suppose. I could be standing around without any pants on, Alistair mused, resisting the urge to double-check. If the nineteen years of his life had taught him anything, it was that he had exactly that kind of ill luck…
*********************************
“Enough!” the mage barked, eager to have Alistair out of his sight. “I’ll speak to the woman if I must. Get out of my way, fool!” he snapped at Sagramor as he barrelled past. Shaking his head at the display, the elf walked forward to meet the Grey Warden Alistair. When Duncan sent him to find the Warden, Sagramor assumed that the man in question was some kind of drillmaster, the sort of fellow to enforce discipline upon his subordinates with curses and fists. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Alistair was a young man about his age, perhaps a little bit older, closer to a new recruit like himself than a veteran soldier. His blonde hair had been cut short in an efficient military style, while faint stubble grew on the chin of his warm, smiling face. The young human wore his splintmail armour comfortably, and wore a steel longsword at his side and a large kite shield over his back, and like the rest of the Wardens, displayed their blue and grey tabard with pride. “You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together,” Alistair said with a cheeky smirk, moving to greet the elf. “Am I right?”
“I know what you mean,” Sagramor remarked dryly, remembering his conversation with Loghain.
“It’s like a party! We could all stand in a circle and hold hands, maybe sing some jolly campfire tunes! That would certainly give the darkspawn something to think about.”
“Might work. I have a terrible singing voice,” rasped Sagramor. “It’ll strike them dead on the spot.”
The human gave a short, relieved laugh. “Ha-ha! Finally, someone agrees with my plans, dumb as they are. I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage.”
Daveth’s description of Alistair rang out in his mind, and Sagramor steeled himself for some vulgar anti-mage bigotry. “Would that be a problem?”
“Hardly, no. I just always like to know what the odds are of being turned into a toad at given moment. I’m strange like that. You must be the new recruit Duncan had found in Denerim… Sagramor, right?” he asked, snapping his fingers as the name came to him. “I apologize; I should have recognized you right away from the description he gave me.”
“No harm done. You must be Alistair then.”
“Yes, that’s me,” the young human admitted sheepishly. “As the junior member of the Order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining. Afraid you didn’t catch me at my best there, what with the mage and all; wasn’t exactly a good first impression.”
“I was wondering about that actually. What was the problem?”
“With the mage? Well, the Circle is here at the King’s request, and the Chantry doesn’t like that one bit. Which puts me in an awkward position; I was once a templar, you see.”
“Daveth had mentioned that, but I thought templars joined for life,” questioned Sagramor.
“Well, technically, I wasn’t actually a templar,” Alistair elaborated. “I had gone through all the training, but Duncan recruited me into the Wardens before I took my final vows. It’s just as well, really. I’m not exactly the Chantry type; they want obedient and unquestioning soldiers to serve in the templars, and I’m…not. Besides, I think I could do a lot more good as a Grey Warden rather than sitting in a temple somewhere. Here, I have a chance to really make a difference, to make the world a better place.”
“That’s a very noble sentiment, Alistair,” Sagramor said, looking at the human with newfound respect. “I know where you’re coming from; I’ve been given an opportunity the likes of which few of the Alienage folk see, and I don’t plan on wasting it, especially when I can use it to help others.”
“Sounds like we’ll get along just fine,” stated Alistair, feeling much more assured. “Anyways, I’m sure the Revered Mother meant it as an insult, sending me to the mages as a messenger, and he picked right up on that. I never would have agreed to help her, but Duncan says that we’re all to work together against the darkspawn. Guess he didn’t give them the same speech. Anyways, if you’re here now, then Duncan’s probably ready to get things started. We should head back.”
“Agreed,” said Sagramor, falling in step with the other Warden as the two made for Duncan’s billet. It was some distance from the western ramparts, so the elf took the time to quiz his new companion. “Alistair, could you tell me more about this Joining ritual? Duncan told me a great deal about the darkspawn and the Wardens on the journey here, but for some reason, he never mentioned this.”
“Well, I can’t tell you much. I’m sorry, but it’s one of the bigger secrets of the Order.”
“One of?”
“I’m sorry,” Alistair repeated, deliberately avoiding his gaze. “It’s secret for a reason, and rather dangerous, but that’s all I’m allowed to tell you. I’m sure you’ll get through it just fine. Duncan wouldn’t have recruited you if he didn’t think you could handle it, or the life of a Warden.”
The elf sighed, disappointed. He had wanted to know a bit more about what he was getting into, but Alistair would not be moved. He’d just have to keep his wits and courage about him, whatever the challenge. "Have you known Duncan long then?”
“Somewhat. I met him face-to-face when he recruited me about six months ago, but I had heard of him before that. He was one of the first Grey Wardens brought into Ferelden after King Maric rescinded the Order’s exile, and he’s been leading us ever since. He’s a good man; tough but fair, and I owe him a lot.”
“How so?”
“Duncan… he was the first person who actually cared about what I wanted. I had been given to the Chantry at a young age, probably because my guardians couldn’t think of anywhere else to put me. He actually stopped and asked what I wanted out of life, and a few hours after I gave him my answer, he gave me my tabard,” Alistair explained, looking down on the blue-and-grey griffon livery with pride.
“Sounds like you made a good impression on him. He doesn’t seem to be the sort to recruit simply out of sentiment.”
“Yes, I think you’re right, or at least, I hope you are. Duncan did say that my training for fighting mages would double against fighting darkspawn, especially the emissaries. So far, I haven’t any reason to doubt him.” The human’s brown eyes swung back to him, questioningly. “He’s a good man, and makes do with what he has, and that includes me, I guess.”
“That was my impression as well,” Sagramor added. “He asks a lot, but he’s nothing he wouldn’t expect of himself. You said you were given to the Chantry?”
“Yes, that’s how many people join the templars, actually. Orphans, cast-offs, younger sons of the nobility who have little hope of inheritance. The Chantry likes to recruit young, you see, and train people in seclusion so they’re more willing to accept orders. It wasn’t what I would have chosen, but I came to appreciate the training itself after a while. Besides, my guardians weren’t willing to have me back in any event.”
“What happened to your parents then, if I may ask?” Sagramor gently inquired.
“My mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle; she died giving birth to me. As for my father… well, he’s dead, let’s put it at that.”
The elf winced at the abrupt response. “My apologies.”
“Don’t worry; it’s not your fault. And on the subject of our pasts, the Wardens have an unofficial rule: your past is your own, and has no bearing on your service with us. A lot of people come to the Wardens running from something, or discarding old loyalties; some even consider their old lives dead once they finish the Joining. If you don’t want to discuss it, you don’t have to.” Alistair gave a small shrug as if it was no concern of his.
“I appreciate that, thank you,” replied Sagramor, genuinely grateful. The horror of his wedding day and the guilt surrounding it were too keen, too fresh to discuss, even with a good-natured man like Alistair. He had let his past cloud his judgement despite himself; the elf had expected a fanatical mage-hater and discovered a very earnest and generous fellow instead. It was a lesson in open-mindedness that he vowed to take to heart.
A few minutes’ walk brought the two to Duncan’s personal camp, the Warden-Commander standing next to a roaring bonfire along with Jory and Daveth. “Ah, you found Alistair, did you?” Duncan remarked dryly. “Then we can begin at once, assuming of course, you’re finished riling up mages, Alistair.”
“What can I say?” Alistair jested, trying not to wilt under Duncan’s stern gaze. “The Revered Mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army.”
A dark eyebrow rose questioningly. “She forced you to sass the mage, did she?” came the disbelieving inquiry. “You know as well as I that we cannot afford to antagonize anyone, not at this critical stage.”
“Of course, Duncan, I apologize,” Alistair said dutifully, having heard this refrain before.
“Good. Now then, the four of you will be descending into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks,” Duncan explained, drawing forth three valuable-looking glass vials from a pouch at his belt and passing them to the recruits. “First, you are to fill each of these vials with darkspawn blood, one for each recruit.”
Taking the vial gently so as not to damage it, Sagramor immediately spotted the glimmer of magical runes etched into the glasswork and the brass cap, cold to his touch. “What is the blood for? Some sort of battle trophy?”
“For the Joining itself,” Duncan answered. “I’ll explain more once you’ve returned. Secondly, there was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain and garrison such a remote holding. It has come to our attention that several scrolls were left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you and the recruits to retrieve them if you can.”
“A bunch of old scrolls?” scoffed Daveth. “Anything important?”
“Why, interested in pawning them off?” Jory demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Just asking a question,” the rogue shot back. “Bound to be plenty of darkspawn in the Wilds, and other dangers. Just want to make sure some ratty old parchment is worth us potentially getting killed.”
“They are old treaties, as a matter of fact, dating back to the Second Blight,” explained Duncan patiently. “They contain promises of support to the Grey Wardens, binding oaths of troops and support in the event of a Blight. With so many having forgotten the Order’s importance and the threat of the darkspawn, it would be good to have something to remind them with.”
“If they’re so valuable, then I don’t understand why they were abandoned, Duncan,” said Sagramor. “Surely such documents would be a prize worth keeping?”
“It was assumed that, after the outpost was abandoned, they would be retrieved at a later date, but it seems a great many assumptions have not come true,” Duncan answered. “Still, the effort must be made. I do not doubt the King’s convictions or the effectiveness of his troops, but no Blight has been beaten with little cost, and having additional allies we can call upon will prove valuable in the days to come. Watch over your charges, Alistair. Return quickly and safely.”
“We will,” came the response.
“Then may the Maker watch over you all,” Duncan intoned with all solemnity. “I will be waiting here when you return.”
So dismissed, Alistair and the recruits marched towards the wooden gate blocking the path that led into the Wilds. “I’ll take the lead once we get down there, and keep watch for darkspawn,” declared Alistair, strapping the heavy shield onto his left forearm.
“This archive, what’s it look like?” asked Sagramor.
“It’s an old Tevinter ruin from the height of the Imperium,” explained Alistair, frowning in disgust at the thought of the magisters. “Before Andraste’s time, they had built an outpost in the Wilds as a staging ground for slave raids, but when they saw what they were up against, abandoned it and established Ostagar. I think the Order took possession of it just after the First Blight. I should be able to find it, no problem. We’ll have to be quick, though. If the King’s scouts are right, then the horde will be massing for another assault tonight, and we don’t want to be caught in their path.”
“So we get in, get the blood and the scrolls, and get out. Sounds simply enough,” said Sagramor.
“Of course! We are all Wardens, are we not?” boasted Jory, testing the edge of his own greatsword. “What foe could possibly stand against us?”
What foe indeed? wondered Sagamor, setting his mind for the task at hand. Four men against any number of darkspawn, and whatever native dangers lurked within the Wilds, all prepared to destroy them given the slightest opportunity. Come what may, I will not be found wanting.