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.

Note that this is Part One of the chapter. Due to DA’s file-size limitations, the chapter had to be separated into two distinct parts.

Also be aware that this chapter contains scenes of intense violence, and that the M/R rating for this installment is definitely justified. Reader beware!

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Chapter Eight: In Death, Sacrifice - Part One

After the Fourth Blight some four hundred years ago, most of Thedas had assumed that the darkspawn had been eradicated as a species and no long posed a threat to the surface, their evil banished to the realm of folklore, religious doctrine and children’s nightmares. Even those who would admit to their existence considered them a fading relic of a darker time, a few remaining stragglers of a dying race to be mopped up by the dwarves of Orzammar at their leisure.

That comforting lie was definitively put to rest as the darkspawn horde spilled forth from the Wilds, their endless ranks oozing between the sickly trees, and the chorus of their animalistic howls reached a fever pitch at the sight of the army assembled before them. There were thousands of the darkspawn, perhaps more, enough that beneath the cloud-leaden sky, the horde looked like a seething swarm of maggots upon a corpse. It was a true horde the men of Ferelden faced; there seemed to be no individual units within the darkspawn host, nor were they organized along lines of equipment or breed. It was a shrieking, enraged mass of bloodthirsty evil that steadily advanced down upon Ostagar’s defenders, but they held firm, grimly clutching their weapons and watching as the enemy began their approach.

Veritably leaping down the stone steps, King Cailan made his way to the assembled host, Maric’s Shield hurriedly trying to keep up in their heavy plate armour. He took one of the staircases his soldiers had used, arriving in the gorge behind the army, and the fighting men and women of Ferelden turned and cheered as their king threaded his way through their ranks. A cursory inspection proved to be quite reassuring; the troops were well-turned out, their armour and weapons in good condition, and appeared ready to endure the bloodshed to come. There were a few who looked like they might be tempted to run, but at the sight of Cailan in his golden armour, their resolve stiffened. No man would ever desire to be found wanting in front of their king.

Banner after banner, regiment after regiment, seven thousand dedicated fighting men and women stood within the gorge and upon the heights, ready to deny their enemy this eve, and Cailan felt his heart swell with pride at the sight of them. It was something that Loghain seemed incapable of understanding; he was not inspired by the thought of glory alone, but also by the fact that so many of his countrymen would willingly place their lives in his hands. They trusted their King, and Cailan would rather die than betray that trust.

Elric and the rest of Maric’s Shield caught up with their idealistic sovereign at the front ranks. “Are all prepared?” asked Cailan.

“The Army of Ferelden stands ready, Your Majesty,” Elric answered for the group, offering the king his golden helm.

“Leave it.”

“I believe the darkspawn have archers, Your Majesty,” the knight replied diffidently.

“Men should see their sovereign’s face in battle, and know that he bears the same risks as they. Leave it.” In the chaos of battle, Cailan knew his bare head and golden armour would make it easy for the soldiers to rally to him if fight turned sour. “Bring it up to the paychest in my tent. You have the key, yes?” Not giving his bodyguard a chance to respond, the King sent him on his way, barely deigning to glance at either the frustrated knight or the immense horde that threatened them. True, the enemy were here in far greater numbers than in the previous battles, but the King maintained an air of resolute confidence in the face of that threat. The darkspawn are nothing, his every gesture spoke. They’re already beaten.

“The plan will work, Your Majesty,” Duncan expressed.

“Of course it will,” retorted Cailan, joining the Warden atop a wooden platform that gave him a commanding view of the army. “The Blight ends here.” Briefly, the King wondered if he should give a speech to further rouse the men’s spirits, but to his regret, the darkspawn were advancing too quickly and there was simply no time to spare. Such a pity. I even had one prepared. “Archers!”

Signalmen conveyed the King’s command with coloured pennants, and over two thousand longbowmen and crossbowmen responded, nocking arrows and quarrels onto their bowstrings. Before them, the howls of the darkspawn crescendoed and Cailan moved to reassure his troops. “Stand firm, lads! We’ve driven these monsters off before, and tonight, we’ll do it again!”

The army gave a defiant cheer, and across the field, the darkspawn reacted to this show of resolve with an insane fury. Their endless ranks, baying like a hound straining against its leash, charged forward, thundering towards Ostagar with an avalanche’s rumble, loud enough to drown out the thunder overhead. The entire mass of the darkspawn attacked together; they did not attempt to weaken the human lines with sustained missile fire, or hold some of their forces in reserve like a normal army would, Such tactics were either beyond the feral minds of the darkspawn, or their boundless anger had overwhelmed what reason existed.

“And so it begins,” Duncan intoned, drawing his blades.

The darkspawn picked up speed as they advanced, running full-tilt towards the Ferelden lines. Immediately, they ran afoul of the trapped ground Cailan’s forces had prepared earlier. Hundreds of darkspawn fell prey to the many snares that littered the weedy terrain, or found themselves immobilized by bear traps or tumbled headlong into spiked pits carved out of the earth. No viable approach could be found to avoid them; the King’s men had planted their traps thickly in a somewhat randomized pattern, and the charge slowed. Then again, the darkspawn had no interest in anything less than a direct assault, and Cailan noted with a horrified fascination how the wounded darkspawn were simply trampled underfoot by their vile kin, the creatures rushing heedlessly on, ignorant of their losses. “Loose!”

The archer companies at the front of the human formation released their bowstrings, sending hundreds of arrows scything into the enemy ranks. They were joined by the siege engines atop Ostagar’s ramparts, the ballistae and mangonels groaning as they launched great stones at the darkspawn, reducing the beasts to pulp. A series of white-painted stones placed on the valley floor demarcated ranges, and as the horde passed each marker, Cailan ordered additional missile troops to contribute their volleys. The units to the wings of the main army joined in, then when the enemy were close enough, the archers on the heights and ramparts, until the air was alive with hissing shafts, the snap of bowstrings and the screams of dying darkspawn. Volley after volley hammered the charging horde, a veritable blizzard of arrows, each wave culling hundreds of the beasts, but the darkspawn horde simply absorbed the tremendous punishment and kept coming.

When they were one hundred yards away, Cailan ordered the fire arrows readied. Bundles of arrows, their broadheads wrapped in cotton tow and covered with pitch, were brought up, while a mage of the Circle sent sprites of flame dancing from his hands to ignite the missiles.

The darkspawn were close enough now that the Fereldans could see their blank, soulless eyes, their scabrous lips and gums, the rotten teeth filed to a razor’s edge. “Archers, loose!” Cailan cried, and the fire arrows took flight, burning like miniature stars against the black clouds.

In the time that Sagramor and the other Warden recruits journeyed into the depths of the Wilds, the King’s forces had brought down great casks of incendiaries and poured their contents over the mouth of the gorge. An exotic mixture of lamp oil, Antivan fire and an alchemical concoction devised by the Circle, the resulting solution burned easily, intensely and for great periods of time. Sparked by the fire arrows, a massive wall of flame burst to life in the midst of the massed enemy, stretching across the valley and cutting the horde in two. Hundreds of darkspawn perished in the flames, shoved to their deaths by the weight of those behind, their screams lost in the roar of the blaze. A word from the King, and the mages of the Circle contributed to the blaze, commanding the fire to burn hotter and higher, until the mouth of the gorge was all but sealed off. To the troops on the ramparts, it was as if the Maker Himself had levelled His wrath against the darkspawn. Nothing could endure the now-raging inferno, and those darkspawn ahead of the blaze found themselves cut off from their fellows on the other side, isolated… and utterly vulnerable to Ferelden’s counterattack.

“Now!” Cailan shouted, raising his greatsword high. “For Ferelden!”

The darkspawn horde had been divided.

Now they would see how Fereldans fought.

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Atop the bridge, the work of the archers and siege engines continued, raining destruction down on the isolated darkspawn vanguard, only shifting their aim to the main horde when the threat of friendly fire became too great. Sagramor and Alistair left them to their duty, focusing on reaching the Tower of Ishal with all haste, though the elf spared a glance for the battle raging below them, and a prayer for those fighting it. This was his first taste of full-scale war, and he trembled at the sight, the full gravity of their orders displayed in the raging conflict before them. “I sure hope you know what signal the King’s going to use, Alistair.”

“Trust me, I’ve been told,” the older Warden said. “Let’s cross the bridge as fast as we can. It’ll take us a few minutes to reach the top of the Tower, and I’d rather not miss it.”

Screams came from the bridge and soldiers were tossed aside as flaming boulders catapulted out of the misty Wilds, hammering the ramparts. One such missile arced into a tall stone tower and took out the upper floors, showering the ground below with broken men and stone. Ferelden’s own siege engines answered, and a vicious artillery duel erupted while the two Wardens rushed across the bridge, stopping only to bring a few shaken archers back to their feet. Sagramor glanced at the battle once more, and beyond the burning light of the firewall, he could see more darkspawn pouring in to reinforce the main horde. Maker grant they can keep that firewall up; if our lines are broken, we’ve lost.

“This way!” said Alistair, taking a left up a small rise past the bridge. Sagramor was right beside him, and noticed the dozen frightened-looking soldiers the same time he did. “What happened here?” the former templar demanded, shocked to discover that many bore wounds.

“You, you’re Grey Wardens, aren’t you?” burst their leader, a corporal by his emblems of rank, hastily tying a bandage about another man’s arm. He and the rest of his fellows bore the tabards of the White River Bannorn, and it was clear that this night had not gone well for them. “You must help us. The Tower, it’s been taken!”

“What are you talking about, man? Taken how?”

“The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers somehow; they’re everywhere! Most of our men are dead!”

A spectre of fear fell upon Sagramor, and the elf felt his guts turn to ice-water. The battle that had raged at a comparatively safe distance was now right before them, and what had seemed like a duty designed to keep them out of the way of the real fight had become the real fight. “How could this have happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alistair replied. “We have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves; Duncan and the King are counting on us!”

“Alright then!” Sagramor boomed. “I need one swift runner to inform the rampart companies of the situation! As for the rest of you, follow us! The signal must be given if we are to be victorious tonight. Alistair and myself will lead, but we will need you all to support us!”

Oaths and cries of agreement sounded from the soldiers. Perhaps they did not wish to be outdone in valour by a mere elf, or maybe their pride and sense of responsibility would not allow them to flee from their appointed post, or they were inspired by the presence of the Wardens, or perhaps they were simply eager for revenge against the darkspawn. It did not matter. When Sagramor and Alistair stormed into the courtyard surrounding the Tower of Ishal, the warriors followed, howling for the enemy’s death.

At least a dozen darkspawn had occupied the courtyard, though most were busy with mutilating the bodies of the fallen. The Wardens gave the enemy no time to consolidate their position or seal the great doors of the Tower. The first hurlock turned in time to catch Sagramor’s greatsword at its neck. Not even breaking stride, the elf was onto his next opponent, a genlock with a pair of wicked curved daggers; Sagramor brought the horror down with a quick lunge. Beside him, Alistair ploughed through the enemy, longsword singing with their blood, urging the soldiers of Ferelden to ever-greater deeds of heroism. “To the Tower!” the former templar cried. “Press on to the Tower!”

Sagramor heeded the call, cutting down another hurlock barring the ramp up to the ancient structure. He would not fail in this dread hour, and the thought of these monsters at the gates of the Alienage drove him on, relentless. “For Ferelden and the Wardens!”

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The King’s Own spearheaded the charge against the disorganized darkspawn vanguard, as expected, and they would have it no other way. They were the best of the best, every man and woman of the regiment hand-picked by the King himself from across Ferelden as some of the bravest, strongest and most resolute fighters in the entire kingdom. To be part of the regiment meant that they were part of a national host, fighting on behalf of Ferelden itself, and beneath their mabari-rampant standard, the King’s Own struck the enemy with the fury of a thunderbolt.

There was a tremendous crash, the sound of steel hammering steel, as Fereldans and darkspawn clashed with a bone-rattling impact. Then came the sound of metal striking meat, like a thousand butchers working in time, punctuated by cries of pain and the howl of bloodthirsty monsters eager for the slaughter. Yet it was the monsters that experienced death that evening as Cailan’s host carved its way through their ranks, a disciplined, solid block of warriors cutting the berserker hordes down where they stood.

At the forefront, Marian Hawke brought her greatsword down through a hurlock’s skull, kicking the darkspawn’s corpse away to buy space to parry an oncoming blow from another hurlock, its mace clanging harmlessly upon the bright steel. Not to be outdone, Carver took advantage of the opening, slashing the creature’s exposed torso. “Bet I end up slaying more than you, sister!”

“Stay focused!” Hawke shouted over the din of battle. “There’s plenty for the both of us!”

The darkspawn were inflicting losses on the human host, but the Fereldans held the initiative, and slowly but surely drove their subterranean foe back. The weight of the human advance was forcing many darkspawn back into the firewall, while at the front, they were being torn to ribbons by spear and sword and axe. Beside the King’s Own stood the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and where they walked, darkspawn fell by the dozens, the hundreds, cut down by gleaming blades, pounded by great hammers, scythed by arrows and blasted by arcane spells.

Then came a new sound onto the battlefield; the hiss of metal-fletched arrows raining down upon the humans like demonic hail. From behind the firewall, the darkspawn archers released great clouds of arrows arcing over the barrier, cutting down both Fereldans and those darkspawn unlucky enough to be caught in melee with their intended targets. Emissaries worked their magic, and entire squads of soldiers collapsed, faces erupting into agonizing blisters, bodies bursting into flame or their minds fragmenting beneath the weight of waking nightmares. The mages of the Circle turned their efforts to shielding the army from the magical onslaught, and the firewall began to recede and die as the energies sustaining it withdrew and the incendiaries were consumed.

“Pull them back!” ordered Cailan, watching the scene with growing concern. “The King’s Own and Wardens are to deal as much damage as possible to the darkspawn while the rest of the army withdraws to the first defensive position, and then they are to pull back themselves. Signal the archers; we’ll need some additional covering fire. Have the mages stoke the firewall one last time, that’ll buy us a few moments.”

The King’s orders were quickly sent down the line, and with tremendous discipline, the army began to withdraw into the gorge once more. Companies of men streamed through the narrow gap between the spiked barricades on either side of the defile, swiftly forming up into the main battleline once more. The darkspawn vanguard had been all but eradicated with thousands dead, the few survivors hurling themselves at the King’s Own in a vain attempt to break through to the assembling Ferelden host, but were quickly dispatched. Hours upon hours of practice had paid off, and the main battleline was reformed and ready for the enemy by the time the firewall, at long last, ceased burning.

With a vengeful howl, the darkspawn horde charged over the smouldering remains of the firewall. Once more, a storm of arrows and crossbow bolts met them, joined this time by the powerful magics of the Circle. Yet more darkspawn died, carpeting the ground with their bodies, and once again, the onrushing horde ignored their losses. “Stand firm, lads!” Cailan shouted from his command platform. “This is where we break them!”

“Come on, you bastards!” Hawke crowed at the charging foe. “Come get some!” Other soldiers joined in, and soon the entire army was howling curses and insults at the darkspawn, daring them to come and taste Fereldan steel.

The darkspawn accepted the challenge, and poured into the gorge, some even cutting down their brethren in front of them in their haste to bring down the humans. There was another thunderclap as the two armies met, the terrible clash of metal and flesh, but the darkspawns’ frontage was reduced by the spiked barricades and hedges of sharpened stakes, ensuring that only a relatively small number could strike the massed Ferelden host at a time. The charge shuddered against the Ferelden line like a wave crashing against a sea-cliff, the front ranks of the darkspawn breaking into bloody spray.

For those in the front ranks, their world had narrowed down to the monsters before him, the context of their fight lost in the epic struggle to stay alive. At the centre, companies of spearmen strained to hold their shieldwall against the inexorable pressure of the pushing horde, while on the flanks, the greatsworders and halberdiers cut down the darkspawn where they stood. The ground was becoming treacherous now with spilled blood and broken bodies, creating yet another obstacle hindering the attackers’ progress. Many stumbled over their slain brethren and were quickly put down by the canny Fereldans, and the gorge rang with the screams of the dying. And all the while, the mages of the Circle did their work; revitalizing injured and tired troops, sapping the strength of the foremost darkspawn, and striking out against the enemy with blasts of frost and fire and lightning alongside the volleys of the archers.

Another cry sounded, this time from the flanks, as the darkspawn finally negotiated the assembled obstacles and struck at the entire length of the King’s host. The spiked barricades had been brought down by sheer weight of numbers, hacked to pieces with axes or ripped away by the seething press, while the thickets of sharpened stakes had impaled so many darkspawn that those behind simply clambered over the bodies of the dead in relative safety. Cailan saw the danger instantly. “Hounds!”

Old Tevinter had been a vile and depraved culture, but they had known the art of fortress-building, and Ostagar had been a crowning achievement of those efforts in its heyday. Amongst the fortress’ many features included a series of hidden sally ports that opened up at the mouth of the valley, allowing the defenders to strike at the flanks of an invading host. The designs of Old Tevinter proved themselves once again that evening. At the King’s command, the sally ports were thrown open, sending forth packs of mabari warhounds streaming into the sides of the darkspawn horde. Caught in the press near the mouth of the gorge, the hurlocks and genlocks found themselves facing a brute strength and savagery equal to their own as the mabari ripped into them, bowling the darkspawn down and overwhelming them. Once more, the horde found its vast size turned against it, for the endless ranks streaming forth from the Wilds could not reinforce the crumbling flanks quickly enough, and the main advance down the gorge began to lose momentum.

Cailan saw his chance, and ordered the entire line forward. Reinforced by several companies of reserves held in waiting for such a moment, the Army of Ferelden surged forth against the ebbing darkspawn, carving their way through the densely-packed ranks, shouting their defiance all the while. They were beginning to suffer notable losses, nothing like the enemy had experienced, but then again, they had nothing like their numbers either. “To the barricades!” Cailan shouted in warning. The horde was far from beaten, and the young King knew that to advance too far and lose the protective confines of the gorge meant death. Give ground as slowly as possible and draw them in for Loghain’s charge. We can win this; we just need to hold on!

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Unbeknownst to the King, the frantic battle to reclaim the Tower of Ishal raged on. Scything down another hurlock, Sagramor led the ragged band of defenders through the darkened halls of the ancient structure, the light of fallen torches displaying the grisly scene before them. The garrison troops had been caught unawares by the invaders, and within the barracks on the first floor, their bodies had been strewn about like the aftermath of a hurricane. There were darkspawn bodies too; Sagramor was relieved to see these men had not died without a fight, but it would be for nothing if they could not give the signal in time. “Alright then, what’s the fastest way to the top of the Tower?”

“There’s a staircase on the north side, Warden,” the corporal explained. “We used to have a lift that ran up the central shaft, but it looks like the darkspawn smashed the treadmill and gears.”

“So to the staircase then. Let’s move!”

“Look at that!” Alistair declared, tossing a torch down the length of the barracks. Illuminated by the sputtering light of the fire, they could see the massive hole at the end of the room leading down to the fortress’ lower levels. “That explains how the darkspawn got in here to begin with. Must have dug a tunnel over the past few nights, then came up through the catacombs beneath the fortress.”

“We were never able to fully chart the lower levels, Wardens,” said the corporal, eyes bulging in horror at the thought of darkspawn waiting to strike beneath them. “A lot of the chambers had collapsed or were blocked off, and with all the battles, we’ve never had the men to spare. They could have been digging this for days, and we’d never have known!”

“Nothing we can do about it now,” said the elf, nervously glancing at the collapsed floor. They had neither the time nor the means to block it off, nor could they spare anyone to guard it in case any more darkspawn emerged. “Lighting that signal is our main priority. Let’s move!”

The ragged band pushed deeper into the Tower, and almost immediately came under attack from the darkspawn marauders that had laid the garrison to waste. The Wardens struck first, cutting their way through the packs of grinning genlocks and snarling hurlocks that opposed them, punching a hole through the darkspawn to allow the soldiers to lay in with their long spears. At the stairwell leading up to the second floor, a gang of genlock archers awaited them, their black-fletched arrows shrieking down the hall. The first of the soldiers fell, peppered by their shafts, and Alistair ordered the rest into a shieldwall. “Sagramor, the door!” he shouted in warning, seeing one of the genlocks break from the pack and flee towards the heavy wooden door securing the stairwell.

With a great shout, Alistair and the soldiers collided with the darkspawn, and Sagramor stormed into the breach. The genlock had just opened the door when the elf cut it down, and he allowed the momentum of the charge to carry himself through to the top of the stairs, his blade slamming against the sword of another darkspawn. More darkspawn lurked beyond, evidently planning on securing the door and keeping their counterattack from going any further, but Sagramor was there, denying them. Viciously, the monsters attacked, knowing that the elf was the only obstacle keeping them from stopping the defenders in their tracks. Ducking a wild blow, Sagramor slipped under the foe’s guard and slashed open its torso before shoulder-checking the mortally wounded darkspawn into its brethren to buy him some breathing room. Stumbling over each other, the darkspawn were easy prey for his long blade, and by the time Alistair and the others reached him, the top of the staircase was clear. “Everyone alright?” asked the elf as he flicked blood of his blade.

“We’re good,” Alistair replied for all of them. “Maker, that was desperate!”

“And we’re not done yet. Corporal, how many levels are there above us?”

“Just two more, Warden. Third floor’s mostly storerooms, then there’s the top floor where the beacon is.”

“And all of which are probably swarming with the darkspawn right now,” remarked Alistair. “There aren’t supposed to be any here anyways!”

“Well, you’re the one who wanted a fight, and I think we’ve definitely got one,” Sagramor quipped, taking up his sword once more. “Stay focused, everyone. We’ve got plenty of ground to cover, and time is against us.”

And yet, even as he spoke those words, Sagramor’s attention shifted to the broken masonry about the solid stone doorframe, barely illuminated by the sparse wall sconces. It was a large portal, able to fit two men abreast, but something had torn down or damaged several bricks on its way through.

Something big.

There was no time to consider it further. Darkspawn howls echoed in the night, and Sagramor took the lead, feeling the sands slip through the hourglass with each passing moment…

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The Army of Ferelden had a superior defensive position. They had the high ground of the fortress upon which to assail the darkspawn horde, and the magics of the Circle to keep their tired soldiers capable of fighting, and to lay waste to the tightly-massed enemy. They had superior equipment compared to their bestial foe, not to mention discipline, coordination and sheer, stubborn pride. Between the various arms of their host, the Fereldans had slain thousands of darkspawn. Tens of thousands. Enough that on some parts of the battlefield, darkspawn corpses had fallen three deep, a bumper crop of rotting meat that was being ground to pulp beneath the weight of those behind. The seven thousand soldiers of Ferelden had executed a resilient and noteworthy defense that, on any other night, would have been enough to shatter the enemy formation and send them fleeing.

On this night, it was barely sufficient. As hard as they fought, for all that it had cost the darkspawn, the Army of Ferelden was slowly being pushed back, forced down into the gorge inch by bloody inch with the horde flowing in after them. Nearly the entire horde was packed into the valley now, sucked in by the human’s fighting retreat, and at the mouth of the gorge, they were condensed so thickly they could not swing their weapons.

Almost time, King Cailan thought, observing the flow of the battle with an educated eye. “Send forth the rest of the reserve units,” he ordered a runner, his booming voice nearly lost in the roar of battle. The troops at the front line would be weary now, and there was only so much the mages to do to restore their lost strength. They’d need some fresher troops if they were to continue holding the line. There was little reason to withhold their full strength any longer. “Inform the archer companies that they are to continue their volleys for as long as possible. Should we run out of arrows, I want them out here to reinforce the battle-line, just in case.”

“It is time, Your Majesty,” said Duncan, gesturing with his sword at the milling darkspawn beyond. “See how the horde is compressing into the valley and gorge? Signal the teryn now, while they have no room to manoeuvre. We can win the day, but Loghain must strike.”

“Then strike he will. Signal the Tower of Ishal! Let the beacon be lit!”

Quickly, the army’s standard bearer placed the King’s gonfalon into the waiting hands of a knight of Maric’s Shield, and brought forth a banner of pure white silk, shining in the darkness thanks to the lyrium imbued into the threads. There was nothing else like it on the battlefield, and the army began to cheer as the standard bearer waved it about, convinced that their long ordeal was soon to be at an end.

And yet nothing happened. The beacon atop the Tower of Ishal remained dark, and Cailan felt the first tingles of fear settle in his gut. It was impossible that they might confuse the signal to light the beacon for something else; the white banner was made for that sole purpose, and they had made sure that those atop the Tower could see it clearly when planning this battle. Something was wrong, tremendously wrong, and the confident visage he had maintained throughout the evening began to crumble.

Duncan was at his side in that moment. “Sagramor and Alistair will not fail you, Your Majesty. If something has happened, they will find a way.”

“Right, right,” the King murmured in response, staring forlornly up at the tower. The screams of soldiers fighting and dying, his soldiers, brought him to his senses, and he immediately went into action. “Keep trying to signal the Tower!” he ordered, grabbing a passing messenger. “You, get back up there and inform the men on the ramparts to watch out for darkspawn flanking them from behind. Get Ser Elric too, and have him lead some men to check out the Tower of Ishal. Swiftly, messenger! Maric’s Shield, with me!”

“Your Majesty, this is a foolhardy course of action,” Duncan reminded him, falling in with the Shield. “If you were to fall…“

“Then stand with me, damn you! We’ll need every sword we can muster to hold the line until Loghain arrives.”

“Your Majesty…”

“These are my men, Duncan,” said the King, his voice quivering with sorrow and determination. “I will not let them fall for want of aid. Fighting alongside them… that’s the only difference I can make now. Not as a commander, but as a warrior.”

With that, King Cailan abandoned his position on the command platform and stormed into the melee, Duncan and his knightly bodyguard close at his heels. Men and women cheered as they saw his golden armour, and the young King went for where the fighting was fiercest without hesitation, the bright sweep of his greatsword cleaving through the darkspawn. Maric’s Shield was beside him, giving no quarter, and the battleline stiffened, hurling the front ranks of the darkspawn back. “For Ferelden! Stand firm and give them hell!” came the King’s battlecry, and those beside him took up the call as the merciless fighting continued…

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If there had been any doubts about the vile nature of the darkspawn, what Sagramor saw on the third floor erased them for good. This part of the tower had served as a kennel for a pack of mabari warhounds, and most of them were still in their pens when the darkspawn attacked. The enclosures were solidly built, and despite their best efforts, the warhounds could not escape their tormentors, their plaintive moans and howls filling the room, drowning out the sadistic chuckles of the darkspawn as they stabbed the helpless animals. The fury that had kindled in Sagramor’s heart through the long night burst into flame. “Vile creatures!” he roared, scything the foremost genlock down.

“Hit them hard while they’re disorganized!” ordered Alistair. “Someone pull the lever!”

Near the door leading to the staircase, the defenders had installed a great wooden contraption that connected to the pen doors through a system of pulleys and ropes. Breaking free of the fight, Sagramor retraced the steps of the spearmen who had fallen in the opening rush, seizing the lever and roughing yanking it downwards. With the squeak of gears and the creak of ropes, the pen doors flew open, and the vengeful hounds set upon their tormentors. In moments, the entire darkspawn warband was thrown into utter disarray, outflanked by the hounds and set up by their powerful teeth and jaws. “Payback’s a bitch, huh?” the elf snarled, eager for blood. A genlock came rushing at him, baring a short sword, but Sagramor put the longer reach of the greatsword to good use and ran it through. Out of the gloom, a darkspawn blade slashed his upper arm, his chainmail armour absorbing the worst of the blow. Fighting through the sudden pain, Sagramor charged the blade’s owner, and soon, a hurlock fell headless. “Keep pressing!”

In the eye of the hurricane, Alistair confronted the hurlock emissary leading the warband, the air around them buzzing with eldritch power. Calling upon his templar training, the human sapped the creature’s mana, its next spell fizzling away into nothingness. Shrieking in dismay, it lashed out with its staff, but with lackadaisical ease, Alistair’s longsword sliced through and into its chest, one of the warhounds pouncing on it an instant later. The warband’s coordination seemed to die along with their leader, and the rest were quickly mopped up by the combined efforts of the Wardens, soldiers and warhounds.

Hissing in pain, Sagramor permitted himself to slump against the wall for a moment, easing the strain in his aching limbs. “Are you all right, Sagramor?” Alistair asked, noticing the shredded links of chainmail on his arm.

“It’s nothing. A scratch, or maybe even less. I’ll be fine.” Wincing, Sagramor got to his feet, noticing that the surviving hounds were now clustered around him, sitting expectantly. “What’s all this about?”

“Think they’re looking to you for orders,” said Alistair, shrugging at the elf’s incredulous glance. “They’re mabari, right? They know what’s going on.”

Smart indeed, thought the elf, clearing his throat. If the circumstances were not so dire, the idea of ordering dogs around would have been laughable, but for now, they would help keep the darkspawn at bay. “Alright then, uhh, dogs. There’s a hole on the first floor that the darkspawn are coming out of. I need you to go there and keep any more from coming out.”

For a moment, Sagramor felt incredibly foolish about the whole thing, but the kennelmaster had not lied about their intelligence. Barking, the hounds streamed down the stairs to their appointed station, a river of fur and fang that passed within moments. “Didn’t think that would work, actually.”

“Well, hounds like those are smart enough to understand the situation,” Alistair reminded the elf, watching as the soldiers dashed on ahead of them. “Let’s hope they can hold the line long enough for reinforcements to get here. Last thing we need is more darkspawn coming up behind us.”

“Truly spoken,” said Sagramor, forcing the aches and pains away. The wound on his arm was the most serious he had taken that evening, but there was no loss of mobility, and he could heft the greatsword’s weight without issue. The rest of his wounds were mere bruises and scrapes, nothing worth slowing down for, and he noticed that Alistair bore similar injuries without a word on complaint. He’d rest within death; right now, they didn’t have time to spare.

Halfway up the stairs to the top level, they heard the roar, a deep, rumbling snarl that reverberated throughout the confines of the tower, the wake of its echo rattling their bones. “What in the name of Andraste’s arse was that?” one of the soldiers demanded fearfully, spear shaking in his hands.

“Whatever it is, we can kill it,” Sagramor reassured the human. “Steady yourself, warrior, and take a breath. It’s nothing worse than we’ve experienced before.”

In that, the elf was as wrong as he could possibly be.

Ascending the last few steps, the bloodied warriors could only gape in horror at the hulking nightmare that knelt near the beacon, the sound of its roars replaced by the awful rending of flesh and the snap of bones in its meaty hands. The creature was immense, at least ten feet tall, all of it brimming with corded muscles that writhed like pythons beneath the tainted, mottled skin. It wore little in the way of armour, merely a loincloth and a set of heavy steel bracers, each the size of a knight’s breastplate, though the creature looked formidable enough that more extensive armour seemed unnecessary. It turned, its footfalls causing the stone to shudder, and from beneath simian brows and a pair of stag-like horns, blank white eyes narrowed hatefully at the intruders. Each thunderous breath carried the stench of bone marrow and the taint, while its booming roar sent great gobs of spittle gushing from the maw lined with yellowed teeth. Behind him, Sagramor could hear the tower guards stumble backwards in fear, even as he forced away the tremor in his hands.

“Ogre!” cried Alistair, identifying the monster before them. “All of you, spread out! Hit it from every direction possible! If you’ve got a bow, now’s the time to use it!”

Any other useful advice Alistair might have given was lost in the ogre’s bellowed challenge. The soldiers scattered as the beast charged head-down like an angry bull, crushing men underfoot or hurling them away in the impact. Alistair shouted for the men to rally, but the darkspawn creature was upon them, shrugging off the impacts of their swords and spears, while it ripped through armour and flesh like paper. Sagramor had but a moment to react before the ogre’s lowered shoulder slammed into him, the elf’s cry of terror silenced as his head slammed into the tower wall, casting him into nightmare-ridden darkness.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO...