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 Six: Where the Wild Things Are
Lumbering down the slick and moss-covered stone steps into the valley, the four Wardens entered the Korcari Wilds. Dead and warped trees greeted them from the marshy ground, bent in homage by the inexorable march of decay, while the cold mist embraced them like long-lost lovers, desperate for their warmth. Even those pines standing tall and straight showed signs of sickness, with various mosses and fungi marring rain-slick bark. Most disturbing of all was the near-complete lack of ambient noise Sagramor had come to expect from wild places like this. No birds sang in the trees, and no beasts stalked through the festering undergrowth of leaf mould to hunt. Only the distant howling of wolves suggested that the Wilds were even inhabited at all. Death owned the Wilds; patient, merciless and eager for the unwary to fall into its clutches. It was an utterly miserable place, devoid of warmth or cheer, and a part of him wished he was back at the King’s Camp, with a hot meal and a roaring fire to chase away the damp.
So, naturally while in a strange land populated by any number of potential horrors and with only three strange humans at his side, Sagramor took the time to pick some flowers. “You’ll catch your death of cold doing that,” Jory chided the elf as he stood in a puddle of groundwater, swiftly plucking a handful of the white flowers the kennelmaster required.
“It’s for a sick dog,” answered the elf, folding the blossoms into one of the leather pouches on his belt. “Besides, maybe it works on people as well? If the darkspawn taint is anything close to as virulent as I’ve seen, we might need some antidotes for ourselves soon.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Alistair stated, drawing a few incredulous stares. “The Order has developed ways to make people resistant to the taint. Once the Joining is completed, we’ll be able to keep you from getting sick.”
“Really?” asked Sagramor. “Then why isn’t this something the entire army has access to?”
“A lot of the ingredients are a bit hard to come by,” explained the former templar, “and it’s generally impractical to produce a lot of it. You should ask Duncan about it, I’m not that much of an expert.”
It had not been the first time that Alistair had shrugged off a question with a declaration that answers would come after the Joining, and Sagramor was quickly getting tired of that response. He didn’t blame the former templar; Alistair was a man of duty, bound to obey orders, but the fact that the Wardens kept secrets from their own aspirants was troubling. Surely being better informed and prepared would make them better Wardens?
“Let’s just get this done,” Daveth suggested, arrow nocked and ready. “The Wilds ain’t exactly a healthy environment, you know.”
“Have you been here before then?” asked Sagramor.
“Grew up in a village just a few miles from here, a little blot of a place you couldn’t even find on a map. My pa took me to the Wilds from time to time, taught me how to hunt, but I always hated it. As soon as I could outrun him, I was off to Denerim. Didn’t really like the place much, but there were more pockets to pick than anywhere else, and I was good enough to get by.”
“So you’re a thief then?” Jory asked, disgusted to be in the presence of a confessed criminal. “What exactly made Duncan think you’re fit to join this noble Order?”
“Well, you’ll have to ask him that, ser knight. But yeah, I cut purses, burglarized merchants, the usual stuff. Didn’t kill on the job; that’s just unprofessional, but I had fights aplenty holding on to what I had. There are a bunch of thieves’ guilds in Denerim, all of them pretty cutthroat, and every one of them wants the whole damn pie. Wouldn’t have lasted long if I couldn’t fight.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” the elf inquired, stepping out of the chilling pool and retrieving his blue cloak, “how did Duncan recruit you?”
“He actually caught me nicking his purse in the market,” Daveth explained ruefully. “Turns out, he’s pretty fast for an old bugger. The guard had wanted to string me up right then and there, but Duncan invoked the Right of Conscription before they could even finish tying the noose. Not exactly sure why he’d want someone like me; but for what it’s worth, I’m quick with a blade, a decent bowman and a good tracker as well.”
“Those skills would come in handy against the darkspawn, certainly,” stated Sagramor. They were back on the march now, the ground squelching beneath their boots as they ventured deeper and deeper into the swamp. “I thought I wasn’t Warden material when Duncan conscripted me too; I just hope I get a chance to prove him right. What about you, Jory? If I may ask, were you a conscript?”
“Me? Hardly!” Jory boasted, disdaining the notion. “Duncan found me in Highever. The local bann had hosted a tournament in his honour, and I was champion of the grand melee. It is a great honour to serve in the Wardens, and I know that I shall return to my Helena with glory.”
“And here I thought you hadn’t had a woman before! ”Daveth laughed. “Always nice having a young filly back home.”
Jory’s visage became stony. “Helena is my wife, ser, and I will not hear her disrespected by any. And she bears my child; all the more reason to defend her honour.”
“My congratulations,” interjected Sagramor before Daveth could contribute another crude inference. “Have you two been married long?”
“No, only a few months. It pains me to leave her, but…”
“Ferelden calls, ser knight,” the elf murmured in sympathy, recognizing his own homesickness in those words. “There’s no shame in that.”
“And what of you, good elf?” the knight asked. “Do you have a woman of your people waiting for you?”
Nesiara’s face flashed before his eyes for a moment, and Sagramor mentally shoved the image away. He was a recruit of the Wardens, and he could not think about her now. “No, not anymore. I still have close family in the Denerim Alienage, but no wife.”
“A wife would just get in the way, mate,” Daveth declared, slapping him on the back. “Seriously, Jory, you should have seen that lovely lass with the blue eyes chatting with our bold Sagramor here; she was just about panting for him, I swear.”
“She was hardly panting. We were just having a civil conversation,” Sagramor protested. The idea of having a relationship with a human was intriguing, if contrary to the social conventions of the Alienage folk, but it was all hypothetical. They were Grey Wardens, humanity’s defenders against the Blight; he doubted he’d have time for a relationship, even if he felt inclined to one. “You can be considerate to a woman without wanting to take her to bed.”
“Sure, right,” Daveth remarked dismissively. “Keep that earnest charm handy, mate. If we do ever encounter any witches in this nasty place, they’ll be so smitten with you that our resident templar here will be able to chop off their heads, no problem.”
Jory gave a giant scoff of contempt. “You don’t really believe those old wives’ tales, do you?”
“What tales?” asked the elf, genuinely curious.
“Some nonsense about children-stealing witches that live in the Wilds,” Jory answered, dismissive of the whole notion. “There’s no way these Witches of the Wilds could last out here, Daveth. The templars would have hunted them down long ago.”
“Shows what you know, ser,” Daveth snapped, deathly serious and looking more nervous than ever. “They have strange magics, more so than usual, and transform into birds and beasts to hunt any man they come across. If they catch us, they bring us to their camp, take our seed, and then leave us hanging for the crows to peck at!”
“Then keep your pants on, and you’ll be fine!” Jory shook his head in mock despair. “Perhaps the Wardens should start seeking recruits from places other than Denerim’s slums if they end up being such cowards. Err, no offense to you, ser elf.”
“What do you say, Daveth?” asked Sagramor, irritated with Jory’s arrogant presumptions. “How about when battle arrives, we Denerim lads show him how it’s done?”
“Sounds like a plan, mate. Just so long as no witches show up.”
“Whatever comes our way, we’ll deal with it,” Alistair reassured the group, rummaging around in his pack and obtaining a strange brass tube. A gentle tug caused the device to extend to twice its original length, and the former templar peered through into the shrouded forest. “We should pick up the pace. The outpost is further into the Wilds, and the marsh makes it tougher going than you might think.”
“What is that?” Sagramor asked, gesturing towards the tube. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“Oh, this? It’s a spyglass that Duncan gave me. Let’s you see great distances, assuming there’s no fog in the way. He said it was a trophy of the New Exalted Marches against the Qunari; not sure how the Order got a hold of it.”
“Heathen technology,” Jory growled.
“Useful technology,” amended Alistair, closing the spyglass with a sigh. “But again, not very handy in this fog. Let’s keep an eye out, we’re bound to run into the darkspawn sooner or later.”
“Well, with luck, we might catch them off guard,” Sagramor suggested, coming to a halt in the muck, head cocked at an angle. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Daveth asked.
“Listen!” The elf stood there, silent and still, ears straining to catch every stray sound in the apparent quiet of the Wilds. Then the noise came again, louder this time, a strangled, agonized cry. “Over there,” he gestured to the right, drawing his greatsword. “Sounds like someone in trouble, possibly injured.”
“Then let’s get over there, but stay cautious,” Alistair cautioned the group, baring his own blade. “If you’re right, then whatever hurt him might still be around.”
Quickening their pace, the four men advanced through the swamp, weapons levelled, scrambling up a soggy hill onto a promontory of drier ground, the overgrown path marked with the imprint of men’s footsteps. Twice more the cry echoed from the deep mists, now loud enough for them to hear clearly, the anguish in the man’s voice spurring them on.
Breaking through the mist at a breakneck pace, the recruits caught their first glimpse of the enemy’s handiwork. The patrol had been expecting a fight, judging by the weapons clutched firmly in their cold hands, but they had been overwhelmed and brought down all the same, a dozen men wearing the tabard of Highever ripped to pieces at the hands of the darkspawn. They had not gone quietly, however, and Sagramor noticed fallen darkspawn in the ranks of the slain, their twisted bodies and crude weapons side by side with their victims on the dew and gore moistened ground. Only one survivor remained, the owner of the screams that sounded through the mist, and Sagramor knelt to the man’s side, examining the horrible gash across his chest that had ripped through tabard and chainmail before gouging flesh. “Grey Wardens?” the soldier croaked.
“Well, he’s not as half as dead as he looks,” remarked Alistair.
“My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn,” the man croaked, blood staining his jaw. “We tried to fight, but there were simply too many! I… I need to warn the others, there are hundreds of the monsters out here!”
“Hundreds?” Jory gasped.
“Easy,” Sagramor reassured him, grabbing the last of Valora’s poultices. In more considered times, Sagramor would have relished the irony of a human soldier being saved by medicines created by an elven woman who had long suffered at the hands of his ilk, but there was no time for that now. The human groaned as Sagramor placed the poultices onto the grievous wound, binding them in place with some linen bandages and dousing it with a potion Alistair offered. “Just take it easy there, soldier. That’ll help keep you alive, but you should see a better healer than me when you get back to the camp.”
“No, I can’t! Lord Cousland is out there, and he has no idea what happened to us! They have to be warned.”
“They will be, I promise you,” the elf declared, trying to calm the hysterical warrior. “But you’re in no shape to trek through the Wilds, not with that wound. We’ll take care of it. Just rest here for a moment, then head back to camp.”
Groaning in pain, the human complied, lying back against an ancient oak, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Ultimately, Sagramor was no healer. The best he could do was make him more comfortable until help arrived… or he perished. “Any chance we could send for aid?”
“I wish,” Alistair sighed. “But we have our duty, and not a lot of time to complete it. Hopefully, some patrols from the fortress will find him, but right now, we need to find those treaties.”
“Didn’t you hear him?” Jory demanded fearfully. It was clear this first taste of the darkspawns’ handiwork had shaken the knight, and he kept glanced back towards the fallen creatures as if expecting them to rise from the grave. “An entire patrol of seasoned men wiped out by darkspawn!”
“Calm down, Ser Jory, we’ll be fine if we’re careful,” Alistair reassured.
“Those soldiers were careful!” snapped Jory. “I know the Couslands, and they do not bring ill-trained men into the fight! How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There’s an entire army out there!”
“There are darkspawn about, but we’re in no danger of walking right into the bulk of the horde. We’re a small party as well, smaller than the King’s scouting bands at any rate. If we move quickly and carefully, we should be able to avoid any fights we can’t handle.”
“How do you know that?” came the knight’s petulant inquiry. “I am no coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should turn back.”
“Facing these dangers is part of our test, Ser Jory,” Sagramor reminded him, eyes full of steel. “Listen, if Duncan is right and this truly is a Blight, then we’re going to face far sterner odds then this to save Ferelden. And what about the other scouting parties? They should at least know what happened to their comrades here.”
“Too right, mate,” added Daveth. “I haven’t gotten my boots all muddy just to back out now, but if you want to turn tail, ser knight, that’s your business.”
“Know this, Jory,” Alistair said, each word burdened with the gravity of this newest revelation, “all Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. I promise you, no matter their number or their cunning, they won’t take us by surprise. That’s why I’m here.”
“Another Warden talent?” inquired Sagramor.
“Yes, I’ll be able to show you how it works once the Joining is done.”
“Of course you will.”
“You see, ser knight? We might die, but we’ll be warned about it first,” the former thief quipped with an undisguised grin.
“That is…reassuring?” remarked Jory, anything but reassured.
“That doesn’t mean I’m here to make it easy for you,” Alistair stated bluntly. “Let’s get a move on. We have a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of time.”
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Well, we’re off to a swimming start, thought Alistair as the four Wardens continued their mission. He had half-expected that under his command, all of the new recruits would die in the first five minutes, but it seemed his lackluster leadership skills weren’t yet that terrible. The former templar was a bundle of nerves; he hated the responsibilities and worries that came with taking command, and never would have agreed to escort the recruits if not for Duncan requesting it. “I know you do not find such things easy, Alistair,” the Warden-Commander had told him privately, “but such things are not meant to be easy. You will do well.” Shows what you know, old timer.
The fear of failure haunted him more than he would like to admit. Death wasn’t nearly as scary; he was a Grey Warden, and would die eventually, but the thought of betraying Duncan’s trust or screwing up somehow and compromising their mission was where real terror lay. He would not make a mess of things like he had so often before. He would not. One way or another, he would find the treaties and bring the recruits out safely.
Of course, he could only do so much without the recruits giving their own best efforts. Privately, Alistair was disappointed in Jory. The man was a knight, skilled in arms and experienced in battle, yet he seemed to shirk away from danger in spite of these advantages. He was no poor fighter, Duncan would never have recruited him otherwise, but his reluctance to fight darkspawn was worrying. With luck, it was just his nerves speaking, and once he had fought and slain a few of the monsters, they would settle.
Daveth was a mixed bag. Alistair had been raised by nobles, fairly decent ones all things considered, and further tutored by the Templar Order, neither of which held much love or sympathy for career criminals. Still, the former thief had not shown the same trepidation as his knightly colleague, and his tracking skills might prove useful in the days ahead.
That left the elf, Sagramor. Alistair had only a basic understanding of what life was like for the elves of Ferelden, enough to understand that that as much as he might have complained about his own circumstances, he had it easy by comparison. Most of the elves he had met were either slavishly meek or self-destructively angry, but Sagramor seemed determined to defy such stereotypes. He had expected to find one or the other but discovered neither, a pleasant sensation. He would make a good Warden.
But the Joining had claimed the worthy before…
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Ten minutes after they had left the slaughtered patrol behind, Alistair froze beneath a canopy of mouldering pines, drawing his longsword. “Alistair? Everything alright?” asked Sagramor.
“To cover, everyone. Now!” came the urgent hiss. “Get ready to fight!”
Swordbelts flapping, the four Wardens darted left, further into the swamp , concealing themselves behind an ancient tree, its exposed roots plunging deep into the mire. Without thinking, Sagramor drew his own blade, keeping it low so it would not catch the stray light and betray their position. The Wilds were quiet and still under the blanket of fog, and Sagramor shivered in the knee-high water. It would be easy to declare Alistair’s warning an overreaction, but he remembered how Duncan had anticipated the ghoul ambush, and he steeled himself for the approach of the foe.
“What’s going on?” Jory demanded. A stern glare silenced him, so he had to be content with leaning against the fungus-ridden bark and peering vainly into the mist.
Then that terrible and distinctive stench wafted in, and instinctively Sagramor clamped his mouth shut to avoid gagging. Jory was looking especially pale and unsteady, while Daveth was visibly restraining himself from vomiting in disgust. Uttering a quiet prayer to the Maker to look after his friends and family should he fall, Sagramor glanced from behind the tree at the loathsome figures that emerged from the mist.
The darkspawn were here.
There were a dozen of the monsters, each a twisted mockery of Thedas’ mortal races, made obscene by whatever fell power had spawned them. Their flesh was an unhealthy shade of brown brimming with weeping sores and lesions, while veins of black blood pumped visibly under the muscle. Festering scars covered many, the result of battle wounds or some form of ritualistic self-mutilation, and from hairless heads, blank white eyes stared outwards. None of the darkspawn was equipped in the same manner; their armour was mostly a crude patchwork of leather and rusted chainmail, while their weapons were heavy, clumsy instruments of black iron. Even so, some of them had augmented their arsenals with gear looted from the dead; one of the larger darkspawn wore a shoulder pauldron that looked like it came from a knight’s plate, while another wielded an infantryman’s longsword alongside its own curved blade. They shuffled forward not in disciplined ranks, but as a shambling mass, snarling and growling, displaying rows of crooked, knife-sharpened teeth.
Abruptly, their leader brought his hooked blade skywards and hissed through razor-sharp teeth, halting those behind. It was what Duncan had described as a “hurlock”, one of the more common breeds of darkspawn. Vaguely, it resembled a human, if a human had been flayed of all his skin and forced to stand in a dung pit, while this particularly example also possessed a bloated left arm upon which a leather-bound shield hung. Examining it closely, Sagramor realized to his growing horror that the leather was in fact human skin, the bloodied skull hanging from its belt a sign of the victim’s fate. Behind the creature came three “genlocks”, dwarf-sized darkspawn that scuttled in their leader’s wake with death’s-head grins, bat-like ears listening for any stray sound, sunken blank eyes studying the landscape. They weren’t patrolling.
They were hunting.
Behind the foliage, the Wardens were deathly silent, though not without conscious effort. The seconds crept by like hours, and for Sagramor, the taste of battle against the ghouls was little comfort. The old tales had not conveyed a tenth of the horror of the darkspawn, and the elf clenched his trembling hands around the greatsword’s hilt.
“Daveth.” Alistair’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Take the big one when he comes.”
Nodding, Daveth nocked an arrow onto the longbow’s string. In the quiet of the Wilds, the creak of the yew as he drew the cord past his ear seemed loud enough to wake the dead. The hurlock heard it clearly, letting out a serpentine hiss as it made to strike at the prey.
Daveth’s arrow hammered into the beast’s throat before it could take two steps, falling backwards, black blood gushing. An instant later, the Wardens burst from their concealment, ripping their legs free of the muck and charging the darkspawn ranks, war cries drowning out the angry howls of the enemy.
Lighter and faster than the humans, first blood went to Sagramor as he took down a genlock with a scything blow. It was strange how the fear vanished in the presence of action, swept away in the exhilaration of combat and all the guilty feelings that came with it. There would be no moral ambiguity in this fight; no lingering concerns about leaving widows and orphans behind, or that he’d be slaying otherwise good men just following cruel orders. The darkspawn were a menace against all life, unworthy of the mercy they refused to give others, and the elf gave a sharp laugh as he hacked and thrust into their ranks, begging the monsters to come and be killed.
Another hurlock rose to meet that challenge, swinging a pair of brutal, black-bladed axes. Blocking one blow with the edge of his sword, the impact reverberating along the steel, Sagramor leapt back so the next blow struck only air. The elf seized the given opportunity, and the darkspawn shrieking in agony as the greatsword slammed home into its heart. “Is that the best you can do? Come on!”
Beside him, the rest of the Wardens fought with equal fury, trying to bring down as many of the darkspawn as possible before they could bring their superior numbers to bear. For all his prior trepidation, Jory was no mean soldier, fending off two darkspawn simultaneously before scything the head off one of his attackers. Alistair took point, longsword dancing in his left hand. Not content to simply cower behind his heavy shield, the former templar used it as an offensive weapon, bashing down a hurlock and then extinguishing its life with a swift thrust. Those darkspawn equipped with bows found themselves in an archery duel with Daveth, the rogue sniping them off before they could target those Wardens occupied in melee. The Wardens’ ambush had paid off; half of the darkspawn were dead or dying as they pressed the assault, and as Sagramor brought down a genlock with a vicious slash, he allowed himself to think that they could succeed.
And then a new roar cut into the din of inhuman screams and the clashing of blades. To the east, more darkspawn emerging from the mist, bounding atop a small, damp hill. Their leader was the largest of the creatures Sagramor had seen yet, a Hurlock seven feet tall, black iron chestplate decorated with severed hands and other trophies of its kills, its brute hands brandishing a massive two-handed maul. With a barked command, the darkspawn at its flank sent a flurry of arrows at the embattled Wardens, black-fletched shafts hissing like rain.
Yelling in pain as an arrow slashed open his right cheek, Sagramor locked blades with a hurlock, grimly holding on against the darkspawn’s inhuman strength. The creature’s throat swelled, pulsing obscenely, and the dark-haired elf disengaged and leapt away just as the foe vomited forth a stream of thick black bile. A stray arrow, fired by the darkspawn into the dense melee, slammed into the hurlock’s side. Never one to pass up a good opportunity, Sagramor cut the beast down.
“Alpha!” Alistair bellowed, pointing at the large darkspawn. A garden of spent arrows had blossomed on the flat of his shield. “Daveth, put it down!”
“Sorry!” the former thief yelled, barely parrying a genlock’s wild blow. “In a bit of a fix here, mate!”
“We have to pull back to cover!” Jory declared, putting his opponent down. “We’re going to be slaughtered out here!”
In that moment, Sagramor made his decision, taking off towards the archers in full sprint. Dimly, he heard Alistair shout in dismay, but there was no choice; they were pinned between the two groups of darkspawn like a hare in a wolf’s mouth. The only way out of this trap was to break the jaws. It was a risk, but to stand there under the murderous fire of the darkspawn archers was certain death, and by the time the others finished off the first group, they would be torn to pieces.
The alpha must have realized the elf’s intentions, for the beast immediately began howling at his fellows, wrenching their arms to warn them of the danger. Sagramor kept going, running up the hill as quick as he was able, springing to his feet every time his boots slipped on the sodden ground. An arrow glanced off his left pauldron, but fear and anger gave the elf speed, a lupine snarl bursting from his lips as he cut the first of the archers down.
Howling its own bestial cry, the alpha moved to intercept the would-be Warden. The maul fell, barely missing Sagramor and pounding into the turf. Parrying a blow from one of the archers, the elf brought up his blade just in time to block the alpha’s next strike, the metal ringing from the impact. Arms screaming in protest, Sagramor stabbed low, only for the darkspawn to casually parry it away one-handed, its free hand delivering a punishing blow to his face.
Falling onto his back, Sagramor rolled away from the maul’s next strike. The ghastly shrieking of the darkspawn and the clash of blades suggested that Alistair and the other recruits had finally put the first group down and come to his aid, but at that moment, the alpha looming over him, lipless mouth twisted into a freakish parody of a grin, was the only thing that mattered. The maul fell and the greatsword rose to meet it, Sagramor holding the blade horizontally before his chest to block. Screaming in rage, the alpha lashed out in a frenzy, bringing the hammer down again and again and again to break through the elf’s impudent defense. Sagramor could hardly rise from this position, and the darkspawn had both gravity and superior strength on its side.
It was going to kill him.
That’s when Sagramor decided to change the rules.
Rearing back, the darkspawn brought the maul over its head and behind its back, preparing to unleash a blow of such force the weakening elf could not withstand. Like a striking snake, Sagramor acted, his right leg shooting out like a piston, slamming into the alpha’s kneecap with a sickening crunch. Off-balance, the darkspawn staggered backwards, trying to dig its feet into the soil for purchase, but the turf that had given Sagramor such trouble going up the hill was more than happy to help the creature tumble downwards. Screeching, it fell a dozen feet down the slope, the elf following in its wake.
The hill was a small one and while it had landed hard, the alpha was no more than stunned for a brief moment. A moment was all Sagramor needed. The mist seemed to mingle with and cleanse the black blood from the polished steel of his blade as it slashed clean and true, slicing the darkspawn’s right hand off at the wrist. Howling in pain, the alpha tried to rise, only to receive the blade’s full measure piercing the crude plate and burying itself in its black heart. “Welcome to Ferelden!” Sagramor shouted, ripping his sword free and finally bringing it down on the creature’s neck.
And then the Wilds were still once more. The remaining few darkspawn had been brought down by Alistair and the other recruits, and Sagramor paused to catch his breath and survey the carnage before him. Between them, the four had slain seventeen darkspawn with no losses of their own, though all had been injured in some fashion; Jory held his side gingerly, nursing a blow from a darkspawn mace, while Alistair and Daveth boasted numerous minor cuts. “First blood,” the elf breathed, wiping off the worst of the darkspawn gore with a handful of long grass. Hopefully none of it’s in that wound, he mused, trying to ignore the throbbing of his cheek.
“Maker, that was… I can’t believe we actually did that!” Jory crowed.
Daveth gave a small smirk at this. “Told you, mate. We are supposed to be Wardens, after all.”
“Well done, everyone,” said Alistair, pleased as punch. “Now, we should see about getting that blood. Plenty of darkspawn to choose from. ”When the other two recruits turned to gather their trophies, Alistair’s expression grew serious. “Are you alright, Sagramor? That was rather risky of you, wasn’t it?”
“Necessary, though,” Sagramor replied, sheathing his greatsword. “Sorry if I gave you a fright there.”
“Well, we’re all standing, so that’s the important thing. Just try not to run off by yourself in the future; Duncan wouldn’t exactly be pleased if I had lost a recruit so soon after his recruitment.”
“Deal.”
Donning leather gloves Alistair had provided for this purpose, the Warden recruits set about the grisly task of gathering up the darkspawn blood. At the encouragement of the others, Sagramor filled his vial with the blood of the hurlock alpha. Smiling in satisfaction, Sagramor slipped the vial into his belt pouch and tossed the contaminated gloves away. “Come on. Those treaties aren’t going to find themselves.”
***********************************
“Stand firm, sons of Highever!” boomed Fergus Cousland, son of Teryn Bryce Cousland and heir to the terynir of Highever, the embattled soldiers beside him rallying to the sound of his voice. “We will not fall here! Stand firm!”
The men of Highever roared in acknowledgement, and the thin shieldwall braced themselves for the darkspawn’s next rush, a score of the beasts charging at them full-tilt. Behind the melee infantry, Fergus had gathered the few archers and crossbowmen under his command on a wooded slope, peppering the advancing darkspawn with their missiles. Oblivious to their losses, the creatures slammed into the human formation with a thunderous crack, shields ringing with the impact of darkspawn blades. “Strike!” the nobleman ordered, and the dozen men with him in the shieldwall thrust their spears home into darkspawn flesh, the swampy glade alive with cries of pain and terse oaths. “Strike!” More darkspawn fell backwards, bleeding and screaming. “Strike!” Spears tore into crude armour and twisted flesh, ripping free in gouts of black ichor. One of the spearmen collapsed, skull crushed by a hurlock’s mace, and Fergus ordered them to close up, extinguishing the beast’s life on his spearpoint. “Hold, my brave lads, hold!”
They held. They were Highever men, sworn to the service of House Cousland and proud to count themselves amongst its soldiers, and they would not let the Teryn’s heir fall to these monsters. Fergus was a good man for a noble, the veteran spearmen whispered to the new recruits as set they out towards Ostagar, not too proud to train and drink and fight alongside his men, the sort who would defend any one of his vassals to his dying breath. Void, all the Couslands were good folk, and the soldiers of Highever counted themselves fortunate that they were in the service of decent and wise rulers, not like the cruel Arl Urien Kendalls of Denerim or the avaricious Arl Howe of Amaranthine. They knew the Couslands, loved them, and when the order was given, they held despite their exhaustion, confident that the Teryn’s son would see them through.
Fergus was far less confident. When he departed Castle Cousland with his vanguard of a hundred men, he knew full well that the fight ahead of them would be bloody, and for all the confident boasts he gave his wife and child, the possibility of death was a likely one. That had not stopped him from accepting the King’s command to scout out the Wilds and examine the horde’s approach, or from dividing his company into smaller parties to cover more ground. Anything they could learn about the advancing foe was worth the cost in blood, but only if a report could be made back to the army. On three separate occasions, they had engaged packs of darkspawn hunting the human scouts. Fergus and his squad had triumphed each time thanks to their superior fighting skills and numbers, but they took losses each time, and worst of all, there seemed to be no end to the enemy’s patrols. This was the largest one that had faced, and the way things were going, it would be their last.
The shieldwall crumpled, three of the spearmen stumbling away in agony, their flesh running like hot wax. “Bring down that emissary!” Fergus roared at the archers, gesturing frantically at the genlock preparing another spell. The darkspawn poured into the gaps of their shattered line, and it took all their skill and determination to prevent the Highever soldiers from being overrun. “Stand firm!”
Chanting in its dark tongue, the emissary drew fire to him, embers forming and gathering in its palms, growing into a large orb of flame. Realizing what was about to happen, Fergus ordered his men to brace themselves, hoping against hope that they would not suffer when they fell.
With a keening scream, the fireball detonated in the emissary’s hands, consuming the beast and many of its fellows in a whirlwind of flame. The darkspawn’s dying howls left their fellows distracted for a moment and the humans redoubled their efforts with a cheer of defiance. Arrows began descending on the devastated ranks of the darkspawn from behind, and the soldiers cheered as four newcomers charged the foe, the hammer to Highever’s anvil. Their leader took point, enwreathed in the gleaming anti-magics employed by the templars, and Fergus’ heart swelled when he saw their blood-splattered tabards. “The Wardens come to aid us, lads! Drive the brutes back!”
Their emissary dead, and more than half their number slain, the darkspawn began to lose coordination, their attack becoming a frantic rush. Slamming a genlock away with his shield, Fergus lead the countercharge, longsword drawn, his spear left in the side of another darkspawn. Bryce Cousland had trained his children well, and when Fergus has finally beaten the older man in a practice duel, it had been a proud day for the both of them.
Of course, Jessica had teased him for finally getting around to it, after she had bested their father some six months earlier. She was never one to let a little friendly sibling rivalry go unremarked, after all.
A hurlock rose out of the mists, axe sweeping in a tremendous arc, taking off the head of the man next to Fergus and drenching him in blood. The nobleman retaliated by burying his sword in its gut, but it barely slowed the monstrosity. The shield came up in the nick of time to block the next blow, metal screeching upon metal. Howling, it hammered at him repeatedly, threatening to knock him out of the hastily re-aligned shieldwall.
Weaponless, Fergus tried to use his shield to force it back, but the hurlock would simply not relent, and the tide threatened to shift against the humans.
Then the greatsword burst from the darkspawn’s chest, spraying black blood against the nobleman’s shield. With a grunt, Sagramor tore his blade free, kicking the monster’s body away for good measure. “Are you all right?”
Nodding in shock at the sudden rescue, Fergus retrieved his sword. “Thanks to you, Grey Warden. My men and I owe you our lives. Is that Ser Jory I see?”
“My Lord Cousland!” Jory burst, pausing only to cut down the last darkspawn before bending his knee to the nobleman. Between the two groups, the darkspawn had been crushed, and with the danger past, Jory felt confident enough to indulge in the finer points of noble etiquette. “I’m overjoyed to see you alive. After what happened to one of your scouting parties--”
“What? In the Maker’s name, has something happened?”
“One of your scouting bands was attacked and brought down by the darkspawn close to the fortress,” Sagramor explained. “Only one man survived, but was in no shape to press on.”
“Damn!” cursed Fergus, quickly composing himself before his men could notice anything amiss. “I was hoping that they would be able to preserve our path of retreat. Have you seen any more of my men?”
“A few left dead and strung up by the darkspawn, but none living.”
“Seriously, why do they do that?” Alistair quipped, his attempts to break the tension falling flat. “I mean, it just seems so excessive, that’s all.”
Fergus gave an involuntary groan of dismay at the news. “We knew this would be a costly fight, but I had hoped that somehow we’d all get through. With luck, at least some of my scouts have survived to return safely to camp. Again, Wardens, you have my thanks. It is better than not knowing, right?”
“I only wish we could do more for them, my Lord,” Alistair explained. “Will you and your men be alright heading back to the fortress by yourselves?”
“What are you saying?” Jory demanded, aghast at the notion. “We can’t simply leave them out here, not with those creatures lurking about!”
“Still got to find those treaties, mate,” Daveth reminded the knight. “Duncan’s counting on us.”
“I will not abandon good men just for the sake of some words on old pages!” snapped Jory. “How do we even know these treaties have survived? We should be focusing on protecting those fighters we have.”
“These treaties might bring in even more troops to help fight the darkspawn. That might be kinda handy, but then again, I’m just a thief, right? What in the Maker’s name do I know about strategy?”
“I’ll not be mocked by the likes of you, you wast-”
“Enough!” Sagramor barked, silencing the argument with a glare. “Could we please try to remain professional here?”
“It’s alright, Wardens,” Fergus assured them, watching his surviving troops bind their wounds and prepare for further action. “If you have a mission in this blighted place, I won’t keep you from it. The King gave standing orders that your Order was to be aided whenever possible, and I am happy to obey that command. But if you get back to camp before us, could you give Teryn Loghain this report?” he asked, passing Sagramor a leather satchel. “It contains a map detailing the horde’s movements, and he’ll need to see it right away.”
Sagramor accepted the burden, visibly impressed that the humans were willing to take such risks. “What kind of numbers are we talking about?”
“Tens of thousands,” said Fergus. “More than we could count accurately, at any rate, all heading right for the fortress. The darkspawn will not attack with subtlety. It’s just going to be a big hammerblow aimed right at our lines. You tell the King that, and that we’ll be back as soon as we can. Sergeant-at-arms!” the nobleman bellowed at a greying veteran salvaging weapons from the dead. “Form the men up to march!”
“What do you plan to do, my Lord?” asked Jory.
“I sent some men westwards, in case the darkspawn marched to outflank Ostagar, but from everything I’ve seen, all I’ve done is send them into danger. I cannot leave them behind, Wardens.”
Glancing over at the battered scouting band, Sagramor could see how worn-down they all were. The sensible thing for the Highever men to do would be to cut their losses and head back while they still could, but the elf understood that these men were driven by pride and loyalty towards one another and to their lord. They would not abandon their fellows, even exhausted as they were, and he could only marvel at that courage, no matter the source. “We’ll deliver your report, Lord Cousland, I give you my word. Just be sure you make it out of this place. Ferelden needs warriors of your calibre.”
“That’s high praise, Warden, I’ll try to live up to it,” said Fergus, rather pleased with the compliment. “Just make sure that report finds its way into the Teryn’s hands. The army needs to be warned.”
“Upon my honour, they will be.”
Fergus gave the elf a strange look, as if questioning what he saw before him. “What is your name, Warden?”
“Sagramor Tabris, of the Denerim Alienage.”
Then, quite unexpectedly, Fergus reached out and shook Sagramor’s hand. “Thank you for this, Sagramor, and for saving my life. I’m indebted to you.”
“You’ll find that I am a man who calls in his debts, my Lord.”
“And you’ll find that I am one who pays them. We’ll meet again, Warden, I’m certain of it.” Saluting their rescuers, Fergus and the scouts turned and vanished into the mist, leaving only their dead behind.
As the Wardens continued on their way, Sagramor heard Daveth mumbling under his breath. “Everything all right there, Daveth?”
“Just tryin’ to figure out a way of saying this without sounding like a right fool,” the former thief admitted. “Listen, Sagramor, I ain’t gonna stand here and say I know how the elves have been mistreated, but I have a vague sense. My life hasn’t exactly been all sunshine and tavern wenches, but I’m smart enough to realize that I’ve had it easy compared to you lot. I just find it hard to believe that a guy like you would stick your neck out for a guy like him. Don’t mean to upset you, mate, it’s just… strange, that’s all.”
“There are a lot of elves who would condemn others simply for being human, but I’ve experienced enough persecution because of my birth that I’d never treat others the same,” Sagramor explained. “Maybe I can’t change the mind of every bigot out there, but I am a better man than they, and I won’t sink to their level, no matter what. If I had seen Lord Cousland mistreat elves, then I’d be more than happy to let him have it, but I judge men for what they do, not who they are.”
“And you’ve never once treated a man differently because he was human?” Jory questioned, clearly sceptical. “You’ve not even considered it?”
Bann Vaughan’s face flashed before his eyes, and Sagramor shoved the image away. “Never, though… some days are harder than others. And you’re right, Daveth, my people have suffered at the hands of humans, myself included, but that does not give me the right to vilify an entire race. No man has that right. Besides, we need all the allies we can get in order to stop the Blight. On that note, let’s see about finding these treaties, shall we? With any luck, we’ve seen the end of the darkspawn trackers.”
***********************************
That was not the end. The numbers of the darkspawn grew ever-thicker as the four Wardens pressed deeper into the Wilds, and twice more, they engaged scouting parties patrolling the swamps for fresh prey. Luckily enough, they had managed to eliminate them all without suffering serious injury, but Sagramor was not foolish enough to believe that their luck would hold. So when Alistair finally announced that the abandoned outpost was just ahead, he had to restrain himself from cheering.
It wasn’t much to look at; an old, ruined tower rising out of the swampy muck, the roof brought down by time and the elements, the outer walls covered in slick moss. The floor was covered with rot and rubble, and try as he might, Sagramor could not envision it had ever been a base for the Wardens. Whatever martial glory that had been here was long gone, and only the echoes of what had been remained. “Are we sure the treaties survived after all this time?”
“They should have,” said Alistair. “The chest and lock were designed to absorb a lot of punishment, and like Duncan said, the treaties themselves were enchanted. They’ll be in here somewhere, I know it.”
“Uh, Alistair?” Daveth asked, pointing towards the debris. “Did the chest happen to look anything like that?”
Within the epicentre of the debris sat the chest, broken beyond repair. The heavy oak had been shattered by some immensely powerful force, and judging from how the wood had decayed, it happened some time ago. Of the treaties, there was no sign, and a search through the rubble proved to be fruitless. “Waste of bloody time,” Jory griped, kicking away a rotten beam. “To think that we risked our lives for nothing!”
“Let me guess; you can’t track the treaties down?” Alistair asked Daveth in a vain gesture against the inevitable.
“Sorry, mate; I’m a good tracker, but not that good. There’s no way to tell when the chest was broken, and unless those treaties are witchified to keep any old filcher from nabbing them, I’d say they’re long gone.”
Alistair’s temper darkened, and Sagramor recognized the look of frustration that passed over him, that resentment that so much valour and effort could be for naught. It was clear that Alistair blamed himself, believed he had betrayed his mentor’s trust, and the elf tried to turn him from that dark path.“It’s not your fault, Alistair.”
“If not me, then who?” the Warden retorted hotly.
“Whoever took the scrolls? Whoever decided to leave them out here in the first place? Maybe the Circle could send a mage to help us. After all, if the treaties are enchanted, perhaps a mage could track them with a spell, possibly?”
“Would such a thing ever be possible?” asked Jory.
Sagramor shrugged. “Might be worth a shot. We’re out of options anyway. Let’s head back to the camp and let Duncan and the Circle know. If we’re quick enough, we might even-”
“Well, well, what we have here?”
The Wardens turned at the strange voice, and that was when Sagramor first saw her, descending down the ruined steps of the tower. It was a girl— no, “girl” implied a weakness and fragility that the intruder striding calmly towards them did not possess. Her pale body was hard and lithe, the product of a harsh existence that did not allow for many comforts, and despite himself, Sagramor felt his gaze travel to the deep swell of her breasts, barely concealed behind a vest of purple cloth that left most of her upper body bare and exposed the jeweled amulet adorning the curves of her neck. A sheath of velvet covered her left arm up to her wrist, her shoulder protected by a leather pauldron decorated with raven’s feathers,while her slender hands bore black leather fingerless gloves. She walked with a considerable self-assurance, black leggings peeking out from beneath a skirt designed out of old belts that had been sewn together, and the elf could only marvel at her confidence. The newcomer’s hair was dark, as dark as his own, and her lips were as wide and full as any man could want, her cheekbones high and noble.
But it was her eyes that struck Sagramor the most; amber to the point of being golden beneath her dark lashes, gazing upon the four companions with an intensity that was unsettling. They were a hawk’s eyes, calculating and cold as they darted from Warden to Warden, seeking to determine their intentions or their utility… or their weaknesses. No, “girl” truly was the wrong word to describe her, for no mere girl would consider approaching four strange, heavily armed and potentially hostile men so openly. She was a reflection of the wilderness around her; beautiful yet terrible, capable of being challenged but never to be disrespected, and Sagramor watched with a wary eye as she paced about them, a wolf prowling around sheep. “Are you a vulture, I wonder?” she mused in a lilting, almost melodious voice. “A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones have been long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?”
It was then that Sagramor noticed the blackened staff hanging from a sheath at her back, and unconsciously, his breath caught in his throat. The young woman was a mage. It made sense, he supposed. Who would dare approach a strange band of warriors unless they had skills of their own to protect them? The others must have realized it too, given how swiftly Alistair tensed and Daveth whimpered. “What say you, hmmm?” the young woman demanded. “Scavenger or intruder?”
“Neither, as a matter of fact,” Sagramor stated calmly. “We are Grey Wardens, on a mission for our Order. In truth, considering this was once one of the Order’s towers, I could ask you the same question.”
“’Tis a tower no longer,” she remarked, as if they had not noticed its current state of decay. “The Wilds have long claimed this desiccated corpse. And I know these Wilds only as one who owns them could. Can you say the same?” Her hooded eyes darted back and forth. “I have watched your progress for some time. ‘Where do they go?’ I wondered. ‘Why are they here?’ And now you disturb ashes that none have touched in so long. Why is that?”
“Don’t answer her,” Alistair hissed in warning before the elf could reply. “She looks Chasind, and that means others might be nearby.”
“Ooh!” the mage mocked. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you!”
“Yes,” the former templar remarked dryly. “Swooping is…bad.”
“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, I tells you!” Daveth squawked, eyes bulging wide with fright. “We shouldn’t be talking to her.”
“Witch of the Wilds?” repeated the young woman, eyebrow raised in a gesture of obvious disdain. “Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?” Her raptors gaze settled on Sagramor. “You there. Elves are not frightened little boys. Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine.”
“Don’t do it, mate! Once she knows your name, then she’ll be able to ensorcel you for sure!” protested Daveth.
It was well-meaning advice, and considering Sagramor had no idea of what powers the young woman wielded, or what her intentions were, he could understand the need for caution. But time was running out. Within the space of a few hours, the darkspawn horde would pass through this region of the Wilds and destroy everything in their path, including any clue of where the treaties were. “I am Sagramor Tabris of the Denerim Alienage, milady, and a recruit of the Grey Wardens. Might I know your name?”
“Now, that is a proper greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan, if you wish,” the mage responded, giving the briefest hint of a smile at the respectful title. “Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something within that chest, something here no longer?”
“Here no longer!” snarled Alistair, fixing her with the fiercest glare he could muster. “You stole them, didn’t you? You’re some kind of sneaky… witch-thief!”
Morrigan scoffed at this. “How very eloquent. Tell me, how exactly does one steal from dead men?”
“Quite easily, it would seem. Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them.”
“I will not, for ‘twas not I who removed them!” Morrigan responded hotly, meeting Alistair’s glare in kind. “Invoke a name that means nothing here if you wish, I am not threatened.”
Quickly, Sagramor moved to de-escalate the situation. “Lady Morrigan, if you know anything about the fate of our treaties, then might we trouble you to aid us? You are right, it is our mission to recover what was in that chest. Those treaties might make all the difference in the days to come, and save many lives in the bargain.”
“Truly?” the young woman asked, those exotic eyes of hers fixed on Sagramor once more.
“Indeed. And if it is a reward you seek, I am certain that our commander would be more than happy to compensate you for your assistance.” Alistair opened his mouth to protest, but evidently thought better of it. “To begin with, my fellows and I would be happy to escort you from the Wilds and out of danger, if you so desire.”
With a casual gesture, Morrigan summoning lightning in the palm of her right hand, the overpowering smell of the swamps now tinged with the scent of ozone as it danced in her grasp. “Do I appear to be the sort of weakling who requires protection? The Wilds are my home, Warden, and there is nothing within them I need fear.”
“Even the mighty can be brought down by the darkspawn, milady,” the elf gently reminded her. “And in the end, it is your decision, but we could use your aid all the same.”
“A fair point. In truth, my mother possesses that which you seek, though I am certain she would be willing to come to an arrangement.”
Behind him, Sagramor could hear Alistair barely stifle a snigger. “Your mother?”
“Yes, you oaf, my mother,” came the sorceress’ retort. “Why, you assume I spawned from a log?”
“Could you take us to her?” Sagramor asked.
“Now there is a sensible request,” said Morrigan with a smirk. “I like you.”
“I’d be careful if I were you,” Alistair whispered, fingers tensing around the hilt of his sword. “First it’s ‘I like you’, and then zap! Frog time.”
Turning on her heel, Morrigan began to walk deeper into the morass of the Wilds. “Follow me then, if it pleases you. Or not. ‘Tis meaningless to me either way.”
Without hesitation, Sagramor followed after her. “Let’s go, everyone.”
“Hold on just a second. Are we sure this is a good idea?” asked Alistair, falling in behind swiftly. “I want to get those treaties too, but following a strange woman deeper into a swamp filled with darkspawn doesn’t seem like the smartest move. I mean, she is an apostate, after all. If the Chantry knew she were out here, they’d have templars combing through the Wilds to find her, and rightly so.”
“You think that all apostates are untrustworthy?” Sagramor asked with a frown.
“I think this one definitely is.”
“She’s a Witch of the Wilds!” Daveth repeated. “She’ll have us all in a pot for sure!”
“If the pot’s warmer than this forest, it’ll be a nice change,” remarked Jory, taking up the rear. “I have heard it said that the Wilders are deceitful and cowardly by nature, but if this woman can bring us to the treaties, what choice do we have?”
“None at all, Ser Jory,” said Sagramor, lengthening his stride to keep up with the dark-haired sorceress making her way through the marsh. In the end, they were committed, and if his instincts about the apostate were wrong, then the Wilds would be the last thing they would ever see. “None at all.”