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 Two 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 Two

Within the gorge, the battle for Ferelden’s survival raged endlessly, with men and darkspawn locked in merciless conflict, no quarter given by any. The deeds of heroism committed on that bloody ground were without number, undertaken by highborn nobles and common soldiers alike, each worthy of story and song. History was being written that eve in fire and blood, and each man and woman fought so that said history would be accredited to their courage.

There was Erik Longstride, a lieutenant of one of the archer companies in the gorge. He and his keen-eyed bowmen slaughtered hundreds of the darkspawn with their longbows, and when their supply of arrows ran dry, they took up the spears and poleaxes of the fallen and joined the main battleline, throwing themselves into the face of death without hesitation.

There was Arl Urien Kendalls of Denerim, holding the right wing of the Ferelden formation. He had been a disinterested ruler, a poor husband and a terrible father, but on that night, he proved that, if nothing else, he was a capable soldier. When their defenses began to falter, the Arl anchored his seven hundred knights, spearmen and men-at-arms in place, denying the enemy advance. It took a rush of ogres to break their position, and even then, the soldiers of Denerim took many of the titanic foes with them. He was amongst the last of his seven hundred to die, striking at the seething tide of darkspawn with his poleaxe, his last breath spent cursing the monsters driving their jagged swords into his chest.

And then there was Marian Hawke, a common soldier from Lothering whose destiny lay far beyond her humble origins. There were many skilled swordsmen within Third Company, but none could hold a candle to the raven-haired warrior, her greatsword slaked in darkspawn gore. She was laughing as she cut down the brutes, each slash dispatching hurlocks and genlocks with almost casual ease, and above the bloodmark, her blue eyes were bright with the savage delight of battle. Nothing could stand against her. Nothing dared.

Marian Hawke would achieve much glory that night… but it would not be remembered.

No one’s valour would be remembered when the night was done.

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

“Sagramor!” shouted Alistair, ducking a wild blow from the ogre. The creature was clumsy but vicious, and while the defenders had the advantage of numbers, it ignored their blows as if they were nothing. Roaring, it pounced on one of the tower guards, hammering him to pulp beneath its massive fists, the force of its landing staggering the former templar. More guards moved to press the attack, but a single sweep of its arms hurled them aside with bone-shattering force, and a meaty fist began to rip up the heavy granite floor stones, the ancient masonry crumbling in its grip. Worriedly, Alistair glanced over at the injured Sagramor, noticing the blood dripping from his forehead. Half-stunned by the impact, the elf seemed to be in the throes of some delirium, shakily getting to his feet… too slowly, as the ogre had found its next victim. Enduring the hail of blades, the ogre made ready to hurl the captured stones at the elf. “Sagramor, for the Maker’s sake, get up!” the templar cried out in warning, driving his longsword into the beast’s arm.

It was a well-aimed lunge, with all the strength the Warden could muster behind it, and Alistair was rewarded with the screams of the ogre, the hurled stones going wide from the dodging elf, and the monster’s lashing arm throwing him backwards, ass-over-teakettle. Encouraged by the Warden’s defiance, the surviving tower guards continued the attack, those with missile weapons peppering the beast at range even as others used long spears to strike at it from a relatively safe distance. The humans’ efforts were beginning to bear fruit, dark blood seeping from the dozens of wounds they had inflicted on the ogre, but the darkspawn horror was far from beaten. As if by way of demonstration, the beast seized a nearby spearman, his weapon still lodged into its thigh, and in one sudden motion, bit off his head.

Wincing at the violent spray of blood, Alistair charged, sword raised to put the beast down. They simply had no time for this, the signal had to be given now, and the ogre had to die. Still holding the spearman’s decapitated corpse in his hands, the ogre turned and hurled it at Alistair. Cursing, the Warden tried to block, but his shield came up too slowly, catching the body on the edge, the impact brutalizing his arm and shoulder and sending him to the blood-strewn floor. He heard rather than felt his left shoulder dislocate, and the young Warden fought to keep the pain at bay, black spots dancing at the corners of his vision.

And, through eyes numbed with shock, he witnessed not his end, but heroism worthy of the Wardens.

Forgotten in the chaos atop the Tower of Ishal, Sagramor leap back into the fray with a wild yell, the name of the Denerim Alienage and the Wardens on his lips. He was upon the ogre before it could react, greatsword biting deep into its hamstrings, slicing through the thick tendons and splattering him with gore. Injured, the ogre staggered forward, and the elf quickly clambered up its back, one hand using the beast’s horns to steady himself, the other forcing the sword into its back. Howling in pain, the darkspawn creature buckled and thrashed in hopes of dislodging its tormentor, heedlessly trampling over the living and dead alike, finally pitching forward and sending the elf tumbling, sword in hand.

Sagramor was on his feet in moments, narrowly dodging a crushing fist. Fury gave the elf speed, and quicksilver fast, he sidestepped the ogre’s clumsy grasp, bringing his greatsword down in a mighty blow that opened up its inner wrist. Truly wounded now, the beast stumbled back, too slowly to ward off a furious slash across the chest. Its roars of pain nearly drowned out Sagramor’s single demand, but Alistair heard the word, and he couldn’t help but shiver at its tone. “Die.”

Roaring his battle-cry, Sagramor leapt, driving his greatsword square into the ogre’s chest. Already off-balance with the loss of its hamstrings, the creature fell backward, the floor groaning in protest with the impact. Sagramor stayed with it, hands tightened in a white-knuckle grip around the hilt, pushing the blade deeper into the beast’s heart, his grey eyes unearthly bright in contrast to the gore staining his face. “Die!”

Screaming its last, the ogre’s head shot forward, its diseased jaws attempting to seize the Warden and rend him asunder. With a cry of effort, Sagramor twisted the blade free, raising it to meet the beast’s attack. ”Die screaming!”

There was a pneumatic hiss as the blade entered the ogre’s open maw and punched its way through into its brain. Uttering a final, pathetic moan, the darkspawn collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, convulsing once before finally going still. “Someone get that damned beacon!” demanded the elf. “We need Loghain on the field, now!”

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

Angrily, Carver Hawke struggling against his sister’s grip, ignoring the terrible gash down his upper arm. “What are you doing? I can still fight!”

“Oh, don’t be a hero, Carver!” Marian Hawke replied, shielding her wounded brother as the darkspawn pressed their attack, the mouth of the gorge now filled with a loathsome, teeming mass of evil. A genlock was the first to try her, his jagged blade stained with her brother’s blood, and she repaid the debt by taking the creature’s head. The raven-haired warrior was tiring now; indeed the entire army was beginning to falter, for as hard and skillfully as they fought, there were simply too many darkspawn, while their own numbers shrank with every passing minute. There were no reserves left either. The only ones who remained uncommitted were Loghain’s forces, waiting for the signal to launch their flanking strike… and the Tower of Ishal remained as cold and lifeless as ever.

A hurlock shoved its way into the fray, lunging with a long spear. Hawke’s parry was too slow, the crude iron spearhead cracking against her right pauldron with bruising force. Shrugging it off, Hawke slashed the darkspawn across the belly, her sword cutting through the spearshaft with ease. But there were more to fill the gap, too many, and Hawke screamed her defiance as they attacked, hoping against hope that she could protect her brother long enough for him to escape.

But her end never came. From behind the human’s ranks, coruscating white fire swept over the foremost darkspawn, the creatures barely having time to scream before they were reduced to ash. Hawke turned to see a Senior Enchanter of the Circle, eyes as white as her hair and brimming with power, another wave of her staff blasting a second clutch of darkspawn to atoms. The mage began a new incantation; the words of power floating on the night winds, and all throughout Third Company, wounds began healing, horrible injuries mending in moments, the exhausted soldiers gaining new strength. Hawke watched in amazement as Carver’s wound vanished into nothingness, and her looming exhaustion was replaced with an almost manic energy. “See, Carver? Magic isn’t always a bad thing.”

And then, like the first light of dawn, the beacon atop the Tower of Ishal burst to life. It was as if the horrors they had experienced dissipated in an instant, and as one, the King’s army cheered at the sight, rallying to face the darkspawn anew. Less than four thousand souls now, they counterattacked, the sudden ferocity of their charge halting the darkspawn advance and hurling their dead back into their endless ranks. Hawke caught a glimpse of the King in his golden armour leading the charge, a bright star steering his battered soldiers back into the fight. “Well done, Sagramor,” Hawke muttered fondly, before steeling herself and charging into the fray once more.

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

With one last, exhausted grunt, Sagramor finally wrenched his blade free of the ogre’s skull, staggering away from the lifeless corpse. Idly, a hand came up to his forehead, and the elf winced as he felt the beginnings of a goose egg start to form. He’d have one hell of a headache in the morning, and would likely have to seek magical aid to ensure the injury was nothing more serious. Even so, the injury was a minor concern given all that had transpired that night. The beacon was now lit, and Sagramor allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, content that he had not betrayed the trust of Duncan and the King.

It had come at a cost, though. Barely half a dozen of the tower guards remained alive after the harrowing melee, all of whom were wounded, but still capable of fighting. At the tower’s balcony, Alistair finished resetting his shoulder, shoving the joint back into place with an excruciating crunch. “You should get that looked at,” Sagramor told the former templar, noticing how stiffly his arm moved.

“Doubt there’s any healers or mages to spare at the moment. It’s just a little sore, I can still use it,” replied Alistair, moving to address the surviving guards. “I need all of you to head back down to the darkspawn tunnel and make sure no more have come up. We’ll join you shortly.”

Only once the soldiers had left did Sagramor sit down to rest for a moment, the throbbing in his head becoming more intense. That’ll teach me not to wear a helmet. “How’s it looking out there?”

Drawing his spyglass, Alistair cast his gaze upon the battlefield, the intensity of the fighting lit by the many fires dotting the fortress. “Pretty bad. The King’s forces are being pressed hard, but the darkspawn have been sucked right in. There’s no room to manoeuvre in that valley. Loghain attacks now, the horde will be caught in-between and trapped. Hold on…”

“What?”

Alistair didn’t hear him. He could not hear him, for in that moment, his entire world shrunk to encompass the nightmare he beheld through the spyglass. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no…”

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

The cheer that sounded from inside the gorge as the signal ignited was echoed by the three thousand fighting men and women atop the ridge to the east of Ostagar, and Ser Cauthrien of Gwaren added her voice to theirs. She had won much glory in her time as Loghain’s sworn knight; indeed, no man or woman could conceive of holding such an honoured post without constantly having to prove it, but here was an opportunity greater than any other to prove her worth to Ferelden. Cauthrien was perhaps the finest swordsman in the country, and a part of her wondered if the darkspawn would finally offer her the long-awaited challenge she craved. Beside her, Loghain was silent, and she took his taciturn demeanour as a sign that the hour of battle was truly at hand. “Captain Kiely, once we reach the valley floor, we are to move fast and strike hard,” she ordered a nearby officer. “The darkspawn must not be given time to react. Heavy horse will spearhead our strike, with infantry-”

“Sound the retreat.”

It took a moment for Cauthrien’s mind to register that Loghain had uttered that fateful order, and indecision took hold. “My lord, the King—his stratagem depends on our attack.”

“And saving Ferelden from those who would destroy her requires that sacrifices be made. The King has made his choice, and I have made mine. Sound the retreat.”

Cauthrien fought to contain the panic rising within her, realizing exactly what her liege lord intended. “My lord, please, there are thousands of men still on the field. We can win here, I know it, I--“

“Do as I command!” Loghain raged, seizing her by the upper arm, and despite herself, Cauthrien flinched in the face of this unexpected fury. Then it was gone, replaced by the hard stoic nature of the man she had sworn on her life and honour to defend and obey. “There is nothing to be gained here, and I will not throw the lives of my men away for Cailan’s vanity. Sound the retreat.”

The knight met her lord’s stony gaze with her own, and for one brief, glorious instant, she considered denying that order. But Loghain had trained her, knighted her, made her all that she was, and as much as it turned her stomach, she did not have it in her to disobey him, no matter how vile, or cruel, or stupid those might be.

Even if it meant abandoning the King and all his men to their deaths.

Shooting the Teryn a glare of pure venom, Cauthrien wrenched free of his grip. “All of you, move out! We’re pulling out of here!” The men and women of the flanking force, their units hand-picked by Loghain, did not protest. Cauthrien was the Teryn’s right hand. To disobey her was to disobey him.

And so, even as their countrymen fought and died to stem the tide of evil, Loghain and his three thousand men, their swords unbloodied, marched away from the battlefield and left King Cailan to his fate.

Just as Loghain had always intended.

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Within the gorge at Ostagar, the light of hope that had burned within Cailan and his soldiers flickered and died, the host of valiant warriors meant to ride to their rescue lost in the fog of war. Cailan’s host did not die easily, and the losses they inflicted on the raging horde would have been enough to cripple any other host, but they died all the same. Soldiers died. Nobles died.

The Wardens died.

At the forefront, Duncan and Cailan stood back to back with the remnants of Maric’s Shield, the bloodstained eye of the hurricane that raged around them. Cailan’s greatsword hacked the darkspawn down as they came, shearing through their crude armour, while Duncan’s twin blades became a whirlwind of steel, crippling and slaying the foe with pinpoint strikes. Nothing else existed for the Warden in that moment, nothing but the struggle for survival and the need to defend his royal charge, so he remained utterly ignorant of the bodies raining down from the ramparts until the first splatter of blood smeared his armour.

“Maker’s breath,” gasped Cailan, the darkspawn forgotten, his blue eyes fixed at the horror above.

Sagramor’s warning about the breach in the Tower of Ishal had gotten through, and the pack of mabari hounds had held the line for as long as they could, but it was all for naught. Atop the ramparts and heights, cackling bands of darkspawn butchered the defenders before hurtling their ravaged corpses into the gorge below. Some had the misfortune to be thrown off living, their screams introducing their compatriots below to a brand-new horror, their hearts faltering at the sound. Duncan moved to the side in time to avoid what was left of the Grand Cleric, and more than a few of the King’s bodyguards retched at the sight. Spearmen moved to aid their King, but it was clear to all that the fight had gone out of them.

“Where’s Loghain?” the King demanded, his voice barely above a whisper. “We would have known if he had been attacked. Why isn’t he here?”

“Your Majesty, what do we do?” one of the knights pleaded.

Cursing the Teryn’s name, Cailan composed himself, bowing to the inevitable. “Signal the retreat to all units. Third and Fourth Companies of the King’s Own are to lead the way; if the darkspawn get in their path, they’re to kill them and open the way for our withdrawal. The rest of the army is to follow them out, but the rest of the King’s Own and Maric’s Shield remain to hold the line until they’re away. Spread the word and do it now!” he barked, sending the appointed messengers running.

“Your Majesty, you should retreat with the Third,” urged Duncan. “Our position here is becoming untenable.”

“There are men still on the field, Duncan. I cannot leave them,” Cailan replied, taking up his greatsword once more. “Rally to me!”

Ahead of them, the First and Second Companies of the King’s Own struggled to keep the enemy at bay, hundreds of darkspawn hammering at their shieldwall. The spearmen gave a good account of themselves, cutting the frenzied monsters down, but then the emissaries brought their sorcery to play, conjuring swarms of flesh-eating insects that slipped through the gaps in the soldiers’ armour. The centre of their line began to collapse, and the darkspawn pressed the assault, cleaving their way towards the colour party and the precious hounds-rampant standard they protected. Sensing the threat, the spearmen rallied, forming a new shieldwall. The hastily-assembled formation lasted for mere moments before the darkspawn broke through, a hurlock alpha ripping the standard bearer apart with a saw-toothed greatsword and claiming their banner with a triumphant howl.

Enraged, the spearmen counterattacked with a desperate savagery, mercilessly slaughtering the darkspawn in their haste to retrieve the precious standard. To lose one’s banner was the ultimate disgrace, dwarfing even death or defeat, and even the meanest, coarsest brute of their number would die before surrendering it to enemy hands. Cailan led the charge, levelling his blade towards the alpha. “He’s mine! Mine!”

Shrieking, the alpha met the King’s challenge, wielding its greatsword in one hand while the other held the banner-pole in a deathgrip. Parrying the creature’s wild blow, Cailan responded with a high thrust, the darkspawn whirling away, blood gushing from its throat. The King’s next blow took its hand off at the wrist, and he ripped the banner free, tossing it towards the rear ranks where it might be protected.

Rushing to catch up to the King, Duncan was the only one who heard the distant roar, the vengeful howl that kindled the song in his blood and sent fear down his spine. He heard it, crawling through his mind, arrogant, self-assured, and fully aware that victory was in its grasp…

A second roar cut through Duncan’s reverie, this one immediate. It emerged from the throat of an ogre that had charged headlong into the Ferelden shieldwall, smashing their formation like a hammer through glass. Duncan moved to intercept the darkspawn, only to be swatted aside with a backhand strike, shattering ribs and throwing him clear of the fray. Cailan’s greatsword lashed out, slicing deep into its upper arm, but nothing would deter the beast from its target, and it pounced, seizing the King in its titanic grip. Spearmen moved to aid their King, but they were too few, and were quickly torn apart by the lesser darkspawn. The stench of the creature pervaded Cailan’s senses, and he winced as the creature brought him up to its face, its rank breath booming like a great drum, gobs of caustic spittle scoring the edges of his armour. Beady eyes studied the King like some exotic specimen, and the ogre’s lips curled back into an enraged snarl.

And with a forceful squeeze and a wet crunch, the ogre crushed King Cailan’s torso like a grape. Wheezing in pain, his final breath was driven out by the creature hurling his broken body into a knot of spearmen, his nobility and grandeur coming to an end amid the blood and muck of Ostagar.

The remaining soldiers of the King’s Own left on the field went mad with grief at the loss of their sovereign, and the thought of his remains being carried away as a trophy by the vile creatures was more than they could stand. They counterattacked, screaming like madmen, their sheer fury overcoming the darkspawn momentarily. Others joined them; archers bearing whatever came to hand, battered halberdiers, their weapons blunted to uselessness, spearmen abandoning the protective confines of the shieldwall, a furious rush of soldiers, beyond all reason now. But the darkspawn were simply too numerous, washing over the humans in a tide of blood, and above it all, the ogre stood triumphant, roaring boastfully over the warring darkspawn.

Perhaps it was that almost-callous attitude towards the conflict that pushed Duncan to strike; or perhaps his own anger at the loss of Cailan, or a recognition that Loghain had left them all out to dry. In the end, Duncan charged the ogre all the same, blades drawn, the tremendous pain of his wounds a distant memory. Stray darkspawn moved to intercept him, only to be swiftly cut down by his silverite weapons. The ogre turned, just in time to offer Duncan his opening. Leaping, the Warden-Commander buried his blades up to the hilt in its chest, using them to scale the beast. These were superlative blades, each enchanted to be the bane of darkspawn, and the ogre howled and thrashed in agony as Duncan drove his longsword into the beast’s heart, using it as a stepping stone to sink his dagger into its main artery. Twisting his head to avoid the scalding spray of blood, Duncan grimly held on, forcing the blades in as far as he was able, even as the ogre fell and died, crushing lesser darkspawn beneath its bulk.

The impact rattled Duncan’s broken ribs, and he fell to his knees, his blades still planted in the ogre’s body. Worse than his physical injuries was the awful realization of what had transpired, the looming spectre of defeat that overwhelmed all. I’ve failed.

Retreat became rout. The Army of Ferelden had fought hard and well, but even the finest soldiers could only do so much, and with the loss of their King and departure of their general, they had nothing more left to give. Those too slow to escape the encircling darkspawn were mercilessly hacked apart, their screams ringing out from the camps and the heights.

And Duncan was left alone in the gorge at Ostagar.

The darkspawn encircled the Warden, hissing and snapping, like hunting hounds cornering a slippery fox. Even their bestial minds understood that, despite being badly wounded, Duncan was a dangerous foe, so they kept their distance, working themselves into a frenzy, waiting for the numbers they thought they’d need to overwhelm him. Not as many as they might think, Duncan told himself. He had been badly wounded before, but nothing like this. Death would come for him this eve, whether he simply bled out or they elected finished the job. But after all, death was a Warden’s constant companion. What had he to fear on that account?

Glancing upwards with weary eyes, Duncan saw the flame of Ishal remained undimmed. Yes, there was hope left for Ferelden. The army was beaten, but Sagramor and Alistair survived. It would have to be enough.

A captured darkspawn blade in his hands, Duncan rose, each breath sending another jolt of pain through his midsection. He was strangely calm in the face of the tragedy that had befallen them. It was not his Calling, but it would serve. “So… who is to be first?”

It was a hurlock with a great spear that took up his challenge; shadowfast, Duncan deflected its lunge, his heavy darkspawn blade cutting the creature open. More darkspawn charged, but the Warden’s blade was a living thing in his hands, bringing the enemy down with precise strokes and slashes. Time slowed for the dying Warden, and at was as if he was a young man again, fighting alongside King Maric during their travels in the Deep Roads. In his mind’s eye, he saw all those he had fought beside on that journey, all those who had gone before him; Julien, torn apart by the high dragon; Nicholas, lost in the Fade of his own volition; Kell, sacrificing himself to ensure their escape; Utha, who condemned herself to a fate worse than death. Even Genevieve and Bregan, who had betrayed the Order in their mad quest, stood before him, each bearing the same question of their lips.

“Will you not join us, brother?”

The sudden snap of a dagger bouncing off his armour brought Duncan to his senses, and he turned to face his next opponent. It was a hurlock alpha, perhaps the largest of its breed he had ever encountered, a veritable monster wearing what looked like fragments of an Orlesian chevalier’s plate, and bearing a massive two-handed battleaxe. Hanging from a series of belts wrapped about its chest and torso were trophies of past victories; the insignias of six separate houses of the dwarven Warrior Caste, along with an emblem of the Legion of the Dead, Chasind tribal fetishes carved from animal bones, and the fresh scalps of knights and Wardens collected over the night’s fighting. Two witless genlocks who had made the mistake of obstructing its path were cut down, while its razor-sharp fangs tore out the throat of a third. The violent demonstration was enough to convince the others to back off. The kill would be the alpha’s alone.

Not that Duncan had any intention of making it easy for the beast. His strength fading, the Warden met the foe head-on, eager to put it down quickly before blood loss could take hold. Barely dodging a sweep of the alpha’s axe, Duncan drove his blade through a gap in its tattered armour, the jagged sword wedging fast in its gullet.

It was a blow that would have killed any other hurlock, or at least sent it away reeling and mortally wounded, but the alpha seemed barely affected. The axe-haft came up, slamming against Duncan’s temple, causing black spots to bloom in his vision. Frantically, the Warden seized the sword’s hilt, ripping it free for another strike… and leaving him exposed to the battle-axe biting deep into his chest.

The alpha howled in triumph, and Duncan stared in surprise at the blood gushing from the wound. He should have died then, but his iron will kept him standing to deliver one final strike, bring his sword down in one last slash that took out the hurlock’s right eye. The darkspawn axe twisted in his chest, and Duncan fell at last. A savage kick sent him to the ground, and he felt the kiss of steel at the back of his neck, while an iron-shod foot on his wrist kept him from striking further.

He let the sight of the beacon fill his mind, one last time, and gave a prayer for his two young Wardens, left alone to face this threat. They will triumph in the end, and succeed where I failed. Ferelden will endure, and so will they, even without me.

Duncan closed his eyes, and let the axe fall.

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

“No!” Alistair screamed, witnessing the scene in the valley with abject horror. For one insane moment, Sagramor swore that the former templar seemed intent on leaping down to the valley floor in order to join his mentor, and hastily wrestled him away from the lip of the balcony. “We have to get down there, we have to save them!” the human cried, struggling in the elf’s grip.

“There’s nothing we can do.”

“No, you’re wrong! There has to be something. Anything…” Alistair trailed off, tears cutting through the grime and blood, eyes staring blankly out into the dark. “Loghain… why would Loghain abandon us like that? I saw his forces just march away, what was he thinking?”

“I know, I saw it too,” Sagramor affirmed. “Alistair, listen to me. Listen to me!” His sharp words finally cut through Alistair’s shocked reverie, and he turned to the elf, broken and forlorn. “We need to get out of here. If Loghain has betrayed us, then we’re the only ones who can stop him and the darkspawn both. Let’s get out of the tower, link up with any survivors we can, and then head north. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

“We’ve lost,” Alistair replied dully. “The King, the Wardens, everything is lost.”

“Not Ferelden! This country still lives, Alistair, and the war isn’t over. We can avenge Duncan and the others, but not if we’re dead.”

“I’m going to kill Loghain,” the former templar stated grimly, hand closing about the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckle grip. “That bastard. That bastard.”

“Agreed. Now, let’s get out of--”

Sagramor was silenced by the three crossbow bolts that materialized in his torso, penetrating clean through the chainmail and knocking him back into the wall. Alistair gave a cry of shock as yet more darkspawn boiled up from the staircase, but Sagramor barely heard it. Everything had gone numb. Even the bolts piercing his body had ceased to hurt, and the leaden weight of his greatsword became his only connection to life as he sank to the floor. Mother, Father, I’m so sorry, he thought, the darkness closing in. I failed you all. As his life drained away, the sound of great wings was the last thing he heard, and then he knew no more.