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, Tabris/Lady Hawke
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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Chapter Thirteen: Hawkes and Doves - Part One

By midday, Sagramor and his companions could at last call themselves prepared for the journey. Some hard work and keen bartering left them equipped with a week’s worth of rations in the form of dried meats, loose vegetables and hard-tack bread, spare waterskins, some spare clothing, heavy winter cloaks, cooking equipment, bedrolls, cloth groundsheets, ropes, torches, whetstones, the herbs Morrigan had collected on their journey north; in short, everything they would need for a trek across the country was packed and secured within five leather hiking backpacks. It had taken much of their collective coin to purchase it all, but trading most of the spare weapons and armour they had taken from Loghain’s men alleviated the burden, for even an untrained farmer would rather have an unfamiliar weapon or cumbersome suit of chainmail to protect him than nothing at all.

They had not been wholly focused on the undertaking, as there were many problems in Lothering that demanded their attention. A lost child, his mother likely slain by the bandits that stalked the township, was given a silver coin for a hot meal in a moment of charity, while some of Morrigan’s poultices were donated to the village elder, earning them some favour and spare camping equipment. Meanwhile, an unscrupulous merchant hoping to indulge in some profiteering found himself facing the Warden’s displeasure, and with a bit of negotiation was convinced to stop price-gouging. They were just some simple acts of kindness, but Leliana seemed to approve nonetheless.

And throughout this process, the red-hair Sister proved her value yet again. Her time in Lothering gave her an understanding of its people that Sagramor and the others lacked, and she knew precisely who was willing to trade, who had supplies to spare, or who could be convinced to aid them for some sundry tasks. The people of Lothering, meanwhile, trusted her, in spite of the bad blood between Ferelden and Orlais, and men who would have scorned her new-found companions as troublemaking strangers gladly opened up to her. Had Leliana not been with them, Sagramor doubted they would have gotten their supplies as quickly, or indeed at all.

Even then there were shortcomings. Every tent in the village had already been taken to shelter the ever-burgeoning refugee population, and on their way through Lothering, Loghain’s men confiscated every horse, pack animal or livestock creature they could find to supply his own forces. What few animals that remained in the village were jealously guarded by their owners, with donkeys commanding a destrier’s price, so whatever they took with them would have to be carried on their backs. They had enough supplies to reach Redcliffe or the Brecilian Forest as it was, but Sagramor doubted they could make the extended journey to either Denerim or Orzammar, even foraging on the way. The entire process of obtaining these supplies had also raised new concerns for the Warden. If provisioning a small company like their own had proven so difficult, then supplying the army they would have to create would be a challenge beyond anything they’d dreamed of, the economic devastation the Blight’s advance would cause only compounding the issue. The odds were looking poor, so with that in mind, Sagramor and company approached the felon’s cage, hoping to tilt them in their favour.

While the rest of Lothering was packed to the brim, the courtyard around the felon’s cage was utterly absent of people, the village folk too frightened of its occupant to approach. Sagramor, who had never seen a Qunari before, was a bit overawed by the sight of him; his heavily-muscled, seven-foot frame kneeling awkwardly within the too-small cage; the thick white braids bound tightly across his scalp; the immense hands that looked wholly capable of bending the iron bars; the intense violet eyes that observed the Warden with a cynical disinterest as he continued to mutter a low, repetitive chant in his people’s strange language. “You aren’t one of my captors,” the giant rumbled in the common tongue. “I have nothing to say that would amuse you, elf. Leave me in peace.” Noticing Leliana among the party, the Qunari gave a scornful grunt. “You return at last, priestess. If you’re here to bring me food, it is a wasted effort, as we have discussed. I have no desire to delay the inevitable.”

“I understand, ser Qunari. But my friend here would like to speak to you,” answered Leliana.

“For what purpose, I wonder?”

“Might I be permitted to know your name, first of all?” asked Sagramor.

After a moment’s deliberation, the prisoner deigned to answer. “I am Sten of the Beresaad, the vanguard of the Qunari people.”

“Good to meet you, Sten,” Sagramor remarked politely. The Qunari might have been a convicted murderer, but a little politeness never hurt, especially with what he was going to ask him. “My name is Sagramor Tabris, and these are my companions; Alistair, Morrigan and Leliana.” At the indignant bark, the elf rolled his eyes. “And my dog Ragnar. Can’t forget him.”

“You mock me. Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands. Though it matters little now,” the Qunari stated bluntly. “I will die soon enough.”

At this, Morrigan pushed her way to the front, fire in her eyes. “This is a proud and powerful creature, Sagramor,” she announced hotly, as if daring the others to oppose her, “trapped as prey for the darkspawn. If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy’s sake alone.”

“Mercy?” questioned Alistair. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

“I would also suggest that Alistair take his place in the cage.”

“Right, that sounds much more like you.”

“To be trapped here, left as prey for the darkspawn… no one deserves such a fate, not even a murderer,” Leliana remarked, shuddering at the notion.

“Yet it is to be my fate,” responded Sten, unmoved by their pity. “I suggest you leave me to it.”

“One question then, Sten. Why?” Sagramor inquired, staring the giant down. “What could have driven you to commit such a crime?”

“Does it matter? The deed is done and my shame is total, elf, mere words cannot change this. I will not dishonour myself yet again by attempting to rationalize the murder of children, and whatever I feel, my life is forfeit now. The dead remain so. Does the why of it truly matter?”

“Perhaps not,” mused the elf, weighing the dreadful nature of the Qunari’s crimes against their desperate need for allies. Would he be so even-handed in his judgment if the victims were elven? Likely not, but there was no use thinking about that. As much as the deaths of an innocent family made his stomach churn, Sagramor knew they could not afford to turn any help aside. “The Beresaad are soldiers, yes?”

“Such as you understand them.”

“It is said that soldiers of the Qunari are a perilous foe to face in battle; strong, disciplined, effective, each one more than a match for any warrior of Tevinter or knight of Orlais. I have need of such warriors.”

“For what purpose, exactly?” asked Sten, bemused.

“I seek allies to aid me against the Blight, to join me and my companions in protecting Ferelden from the darkspawn.”

At this, a note of energy entered the Qunari’s voice, and his stoic cynicism was swept away by a desperate, urgent hope. “The Blight! Are you a Grey Warden then?”

“That is correct. I must admit, I had no idea the Qunari knew of our Order.”

“My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens’ strength and skill,” Sten acknowledged, examining him with a critical eye. “Though it seems not every legend is true. You would offer me this chance to die in battle?”

“I’d offer you a chance to fight against an enemy that threatens us all, your people included,” answered the elf. “You would be sworn to aid our cause for as long as we have need of you, and I’d expect that you follow my orders. Are you willing to accept those conditions?”

“So long as I do not betray my people in doing so, then yes. I would accept your command, provided you are worthy of it.”

“Leliana, who should we see about freeing Sten?” asked Sagramor.

“The revered mother, certainly,” the red-haired woman replied. “I believe I’ll be able to convince her.”

“It seems as likely to bring about my death as waiting here,” Sten added matter-of-factly.

“Very well then. Leliana, you and I will talk to her,” Sagramor declared. “Alistair, Morrigan, wait here for us, it shouldn’t take too long. Once Sten is free, we’ll leave the village and make our way north. Leliana, could you point us to the Hawkes' steading?”

“I know the way well enough.”

“Good to hear. We can head there, see if they need any help or have something to trade, but after that, we’re on the road again.”

And may the Maker protect this place, for we cannot.

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Quickly, the elf and the lay sister made their way back into the chantry. It had grown only more crowded in the several hours since they parted company from Ser Donall, and the pair were forced to squeeze past fresh groups of sobbing refugees fleeing either bandit raids or the darkspawn advanced. Ragnar followed stubbornly at Sagramor’s heels; he would have preferred to leave the dog outside, where he would not have to endure such cramped conditions, but the warhound would not hear of it. Clearly, Ragnar would not allow his new master to suffer the fate of the first. “You’re doing the right thing, you know,” expressed Leliana.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Freeing this Qunari. It’s the right thing to do,” Leliana assured him, quietly enough that the villagers could not overhear. “If there is redemption to be found for him, it will not come from being left helpless before the darkspawn.”

“Do you really think that’s possible?” questioned Sagramor. “The deaths of children… I’m not entirely certain such things can be forgiven, or even should be.”

“Perhaps. But the Maker loves us all, Sagramor, even those outside the faith, and a second chance is one of His greatest gifts. I do not know if Sten will ever truly redeem himself, but it is a goal worth fighting for, and perhaps in the striving, he may yet do some good in the world.”

“I hope you’re right, Leliana. In any event, another blade to help fight against the darkspawn couldn’t hurt. Still, I must admit, it’s strange to hear someone from the Chantry, even a lay Sister, be so charitable to a Qunari. You know, differing faiths and all that.”

“Similarity is not required for the exercise of compassion, Sagramor. I was quite unlike most who serve the Maker when I first came into His light, yet a good woman chosen to trust me all the same. Doubt is too easy to embrace when times are dark, which is why we have heroes like you to rise above that.”

Blushing to the tips of his ears, the elf turned away so she could not see his reaction. “I’m hardly some knightly paragon from a courtly romance. Besides, we hardly know each other. What makes you so certain I fit the bill?”

“I’ve seen how you’ve dealt with others in Lothering. There was nothing to be gained from helping that lost child, but you did so anyway. And that merchant? It would have been easy to accept his offer to drive off Sister Julia and accept his ill-gotten coin, or even seize his goods for yourself in the name of furthering your mission, but you found a reasonable compromise, even when it would cost you more. And you spared Loghain’s men, even after they slandered your Order. I do not believe these are isolated incidents, Warden.”

“You’re making far too much of it,” Sagramor answered humbly, though in truth, she was absolutely correct. “I don't like to see children suffer, and a spare silver for a little boy to get a hot meal won’t hinder us. As for the merchant… well, I’ve just never liked profiteering. It’s interesting how many service fees, import dues and other charges the merchants of Denerim suddenly add when their customers are elven. And Loghain’s men were cowards. Wasn’t worth the effort to kill them anyways.”

“So you say. But the Maker looks kindly on even the smallest acts of compassion, Grey Warden, and He favours those who fight to protect the helpless. Perhaps that was why He wanted me to join you in your quest, for He knew it was a cause worthy of His grace.”

“I just wish His grace extended to the King and the rest of the Order. A lot of good people died in that gorge, Leliana.” And a lot of bad ones abandoned them in a mad bid for power. “You would think there’d be more important people to save than an elf from Denerim.”

“You’re wrong,” Leliana remarked with a sudden sternness. “If He did not value you, then how could you have survived such a tragedy?”

Well, Flemeth and Morrigan helped a bit, Sagramor remarked inwardly. “When we get a spare moment, I’d love to hear more about this philosophy of yours. It’s… interesting.”

“Leliana?” From the huddle masses of refugees, a woman’s voice emerged like a full moon through a stormcloud, and Leliana smiled brightly as the newcomer approached. “I didn’t know you were still in Lothering.”

“Bethany!” said Leliana, embracing the other woman. “I’ll be on the road soon, but my companion and I wished to speak to the Revered Mother before we departed.”

“She’s in her study,” Bethany replied, tucking a lock of raven-black hair behind her ear. The girl was lovely, no more than eighteen years old, blessed with a liveliness and vitality that made her generous, soft beauty all the more attractive, her womanly physique apparent in her low-cut white tunic with green sleeves and tight-fitting green labourers’ pants. Around her slim neck, she wore a scarf of fine red silk, a rich garment for an ordinary farm-girl, while a chainmail hauberk had been sown into her tunic to protect her midsection. At her back, she carried a leather bowcase much like Leliana’s, though strangely enough, there was no quiver to accompany it. Beside the girl, a black-furred mabari warhound exchanged growls with Ragnar, the pair measuring each other up, ears back and eyes locked. “I asked her to… to pray for my sister and brother’s safe return. I’ve been praying myself, every chance I get, but-”

“Do not despair, Bethany. Marian and Carver will return home, I am certain of it,” Leliana assured the girl.

“Marian?” Sagramor interrupted. “As in Marian Hawke? You’re Hawke’s sister?”

“You know my sister?” Bethany asked, brown eyes wide with a desperate hope. At Marian’s name, the black-furred hound gave an excited bark. “Please, do you have any news of her, or of Carver?”

“Regrettably not, my lady,” answered the elf. “The last time I saw your sister was at the King’s briefing before the battle. I’ve not seen her since, I’m sorry to say.”

“The King’s-” Bethany’s words died on her lips as she realized exactly what the elf was. “You’re a Grey Warden?”

“Such is my honour. My name is Sagramor Tabris, and I owe your sister a debt of gratitude for her help at Ostagar. If there is anything I can do to help your family, tell me, and my companions and I will do what we can. If you have any supplies you’d be willing to trade as well, that would be appreciated.”

“That is… a kind offer. Can you do anything to protect Lothering from the darkspawn? Can you save this place?”

Sagramor gave a sad shake of his head. “Would that we could. With the army gone and most of my brother Wardens slain at Ostagar, there is nothing we can do here. I wish… I wish that were not the case.”

“The templars have been saying as much for the past few days now, but it’s still so hard to believe,” Bethany lamented, her warhound abandoning his staring contest with Ragnar to nuzzle her comfortingly. “Well, at least I can take comfort in knowing that monster in the cage will get the punishment he deserves.”

“You mean the Qunari? Death at the hands of the darkspawn is not something to wish on anyone, my lady,” Sagramor chided her. “I would know.”

“It can’t come soon enough for that… thing,” spat Bethany. “You weren’t here to see what it did, Warden, and you didn’t know those it butchered. The darkspawn has killed so many good people, maybe even my siblings. The least they can do is rid us of a murderer in the bargain.”

“How fares Leandra?” asked Leliana, quickly changing the subject.

“Mother’s doing alright, I suppose. She’s been helping some of the village council knit blankets for the refugees. I could ask her if we have anything to spare, but with all we’ve been donating to help those fleeing the darkspawn and Loghain’s troops plundering the township on their way north, there may not be anything left to give.”

“Of course,” said the elf. “We have enough supplies to last us for a time if we’re careful; there’s no need to burden yourselves on our account.”

“Thank you. Well, I should be getting back to Mother. I’ll let her know about your offer of aid, Grey Warden. If I don’t see you again, Leliana, may the Maker watch over you.”

“You as well, Bethany. He will be with you and your family, always.”

“I hope so. Come on, Derfel,” said the young woman, giving a bashful smile at the former Sister as she went, her hound responding at the click of her fingers.

“Bethany knew the family that Sten killed,” Leliana explained once the girl departed, Ragnar cocking his heads quizzically. “She’s been taking it very hard. I’m sorry; I should have informed you earlier.”

“It’s alright,” Sagramor reassured her. “I can understand her anger, and if the situation wasn’t so dire, I might accept her logic.”

“But we need Sten’s help,” the red-haired woman finished for him.

“Indeed. And if this keeps the Hawkes from aiding us, well… let’s deal with that as it comes.”

Finally making their way through the crowds, the pair stepped into the quiet cool of the Revered Mother’s study, finding her waiting for them at her desk. “Good day, Sister Leliana,” greeted the priest, her middle-aged face careworn and lined with exhaustion; like Knight-Captain Bryant, she too had spent sleepless nights addressing the problems the village faced, and finding few solutions. “I’m surprised to find you still in Lothering.”

“It is good to see you as well, Your Reverence,” Leliana responded warmly. “My companion and I wished to speak to you of an urgent matter before we departed.”

“Greetings then,” said the Revered Mother, looking at the armed elf dubiously. “Will you be making a donation to the Chantry, my son? Our need has never been greater.”

Ever wise to the Chantry’s constant demands for tithing, Sagramor had prepared for this eventuality. Hopefully she actually spends this to help Lothering, he thought, considering what he could spare from their remaining funds. “Would thirty silvers suffice?” he asked, placing the coins in her hands.

“Very much so, child, thank you. Now, what can I do for you? I would be happy to offer you the Maker’s blessing for the road ahead.”

“That is a kind offer, Your Reverence, and would be appreciated. But we need to talk to you about the Qunari, Sten.”

At once, the Revered Mother’s gaze turned frosty, and she rose from her seat, pacing nervously around her oaken desk. “It might have been kinder to execute him, but I leave his fate in the hands of the Maker. Why does he interest you?”

“We were hoping he could be released into our custody, Your Reverence,” Sagramor explained. “Is there any way you would permit that?”

“Then his next victims might count you and me as their murderers,” the priest declared, appalled at the thought. “Why would you even want such a creature to join you? Join you for what, exactly?”

Sagramor gave a weary sigh; there was no other way around it, and he just hoped she was as accepting of the truth as Bethany was. His voice dropped to a low whisper. “To help stop the Blight, Your Reverence. I am a Grey Warden of Ferelden, and I seek allies to stand beside me against the darkspawn. I assure you, upon my honour and that of my Order, I will not permit Sten to harm any innocent while he is in my charge.”

“Teryn Loghain has declared your Order to be traitors and enemies of the kingdom,” the Revered Mother countered. “You know of this?”

“I know the slander being perpetrated by the deserter who has usurped Ferelden’s throne, yes. Your Reverence, believe me when I say that the Grey Wardens were not responsible for the King’s death. If nothing else, take comfort in the fact that it’s a Warden you’ll be releasing Sten to. Our martial reputation is well-deserved, and he will swear an oath to serve us fighting the darkspawn. Should he break that oath or harm more innocents, I’ll be there to stop him.”

“And what do you say on this, Leliana? You know your friend better than I.”

“These are… unusual times, Your Reverence,” earnestly stated the archer. “With us, the Qunari might do some good. I am sure of it, in fact.”

“Were things not so desperate…” the priest sighed, producing a brass key from one of the desk drawers. “Very well then, I give you leave to free the creature. Take this key, and may the Maker watch over you all.”

“Thank you, Your Reverence,” said Leliana, bowing respectfully as she accepted the proffered key. “Your trust is not misplaced, I swear it.”

“Let it be so, Sister Leliana, for Ferelden has suffered enough in these dark times. I will pray for-”

And then the chantry’s bells began ringing, the sudden noise halting the hubbub in the main hall and drawing a confused frown from the Revered Mother. “Did we interrupt your preparations for a formal service, Your Reverence?” Leliana asked, noticing her bewilderment.

“No, I would have ordered the bells be rung to call the faithful to prayer. They wouldn’t have done this without my permission. Not unless-”

“Unless the village needed to be warned,” Sagramor interjected. “Leliana, let’s get the others!”

And then the first of the screams came, and he knew they were too late…

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After hearing his spy’s report, Bloch the Skinner considered the idea of extorting Lothering to turn over the Wardens to him, leveraging his dread reputation in order to seize them without a fight. He discarded the notion almost as quickly as it came. Lothering had foiled his plans too often before, and even weakened as it was, he could not give the village a chance to prepare defenses, or risk allowing the Wardens to slip the net, his forces to be fought off, or worst of all, see the villagers try and seize the bounty for themselves.

And Bloch hated Lothering with an intensity that bordered on madness. For the humiliations it had heaped upon him, the village would die screaming; he would accept nothing less. There would be no reprieve, no last-minute twists of fate to thwart his ambitions, no reinforcements to turn the tide against him, nothing but smouldering ruins standing in testament to the folly of provoking the Skinner’s wrath. And so it was that the bandit lord ordered his forces into the attack, sixty men thundering down the northern slopes towards the village, his skinning knife raised to remind them of the consequences of failure.

A contingent of mounted bandits led the way, riding whatever horses they’d manage to capture over the past few weeks, a score strong, each bearing a lit torch as they thundered towards the northern palisade gate. It had been left open so that the traffic of refugees entering and leaving the village would be unimpeded, and only too late did the fearful and overworked sentries realize the danger. Militia archers posted atop the watchtowers screamed in warning, their first shots picking off a few of the bandits, but the riders were already through the open gate, trampling over militia and civilians alike in their insane charge. With a command from the lead rider, the torches were hurled into the tents of refugees and the thatch of nearby buildings, and a dozen fires quickly took, sending terrified townsfolk scrambling to save their belongings or douse the flames.

Following at the heels of the mounted raiders came yet more bandits, this time on foot. At the Skinner’s order, a howling mob of melee troops pushed towards the gate, forcing their way through before the wooden doors could be closed, hacking any opposition down. Meanwhile, a dozen bowmen sent fire arrows hurtling into the village, spreading the flames yet further. Panic quickly set in, and the Templars and militiamen found themselves hampered by the frantic crowds, the attempts to rally slowed by the mass of terrified bodies. The few remaining defenders at the gate, denied reinforcements by the growing chaos, fought on with a strength borne of desperation, but Bloch would not be denied. “Into them!” he screamed, driving his longsword through a Templar’s faceplate. “Leave the Wardens nowhere to run! Hunt them down!”

One of the bandits shouted in alarm, and Bloch saw the beginnings of a shieldwall forming down the path, their line strengthening as more defenders shoved their way through the crowds. Bloch didn’t give them any time to organize. The shieldwall was barely formed when the bandits charged with a feral yell, their weapons crashing against limewood and steel, the defenders’ thin line bending under the onslaught, but holding. At the centre, Knight-Captain Bryant urged the defenders to fight on in the Maker’s name, the voice swallowed up amidst the screaming villagers and roaring flames.

“Keep pressing!” Bloch ordered, those bandits on horses dismounting to join the battleline. From the southern end of the village, fresh screams arose, and the bandit lord’s ravaged face broke into a savage grin. Lothering had fallen for his ploy, their defenders had been outflanked, and vengeance was within his grasp, at long last.

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

A fire arrow streaked past Sagramor, missing him by inches and burying itself into the chantry’s wooden door. Quickly, the elf ripped it free, patting down the flames before they could spread, though it was a mere drop in the bucket compared to the growing blaze raging beyond. All about them, villagers and refugees alike tried to contain the blaze, a hasty bucket chain forming by the stream to douse the fires, but the fires were starting to spread, and their efforts were hampered by the stampede of those fleeing the village and the stray fire arrows that pelted down to snatch their lives at random and set more of Lothering to the torch.

“Sagramor!” came Alistair’s shout, and the elf dashed back over to the felon’s cage where the templar stood alone with the Qunari. “Are you three alright?”

“Ask me in a few minutes, and we’ll see. Where’s Morrigan?”

“Getting a bird’s eye view of things,” the human replied, wincing at the sight of the fire arrows plunging into thatched roofs. “Maker’s breath, this is getting bad fast.”

“At least it’s not darkspawn. We’d sense them otherwise.”

“Somehow, I don’t think it matters much to the villagers. You think it might be this Skinner fellow Knight-Captain Bryant told you about?”

“If it is, he picked a bad day to raid these people,” the elf vowed, greatsword drawn.

From the cage, Sten interrupted their musings. “One of your companions is saarebas.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Sagramor.

“The dark-haired girl, she is saarebas. A dangerous thing. You think it wise to allow such a creature free rein?”

“You mean Morrigan?” demanded the elf, caught flat-footed by this sudden anti-mage sentiment. Was that Sten’s personal attitude towards mages, or a belief shared amongst the broader Qunari culture? “Morrigan serves our cause faithfully, just as you promised in return for your freedom. Now, you gave me your word before. Can I trust to you keep it, even if it means working with mages?”

Sten gave a stiff nod. “You are the only means of regaining my honour, Warden. I will comply.”

“Leliana, unlock the cage, let’s get him ready to fight. Sorry we don’t have any armour your size.”

“I am a soldier of the Beresaad. I will endure.”

Beating wings and Ragnar’s barks drew Sagramor’s focus to the return of Morrigan, the young sorceress transforming out of her raven form in a burst of light. “’Tis a group of soldiers,” she explained. “Bandits, most likely, for I did not see any heraldry amongst them. Most are attacking from the north, but I saw another score climbing the palisade to the west, heading this way.”

“A flanking unit, while their main force draws away the defenders,” Sagramor suggested, privately impressed by the enemy’s cunning. If this Bloch truly commanded the attackers, then he was clearly no fool. “First target’s likely to be the chantry; even in a small village like this, it’d have something worth stealing.”

“Deal with them, then help the militia fight off the main force?” asked Alistair.

“Exactly. Let’s get to it.”

“They’re here!” came a man’s triumphant scream, and the first of the bandits stormed towards them, greatsword at the ready. “Over here, it’s the Wardens! It’s the--” His voice trailed off at the sight of Sten, now free of the felon’s cage, and his grip on the blade wavered.

With a speed that belied his size, Sten pounced on the brigand, immense hands closing about his neck and twisting hard. “A crude weapon,” the Qunari stated bluntly, discarding the dead bandit and testing the balance of his greatsword. “But it will serve.”

More bandits entered the clearing next to the felon’s cage, weapons slick with the blood of civilians they had silenced. The first man to stick his head out of the cover of the village buildings received an arrow in the face courtesy of Leliana. Morrigan commanded the winds, driving ash from the burning roofs into their eyes, blinding them as the Wardens counterattacked. “Push them back!” Sagramor shouted, the doubts fading away in the red heat of combat. We might not be able to save Lothering from the darkspawn, but I won’t allow these vultures to strip it clean either!

Sten took the lead, and despite being held in the felon’s cage for several weeks, the Qunari showed no signs of fatigue as he tore through the enemy. More of the flanking force confronted them, surging out of the village homes they were looting, and Sten met them in kind, his first slash cutting down two of the brigands in a single arc. “Watch the sides!” ordered the elf, taking down another bandit who leapt from out of an alleyway. The bandits had moved swiftly, swarming over this section of the village while the defenders were focused on the north, and Sagramor and company were soon embroiled in vicious, close quarters, street-to-street fighting, with nary an ally in sight.

As fierce as the bandits’ attack was, this unit was uncoordinated, with many of the brigands pushing through towards the Wardens in hopes of staking their claim on the prize. Sagramor took advantage of this, his blade scything down upon a bandit shoved to the ground by his fellows, while Ragnar savaged the belly of another. A spearman thrust his weapon into Sagramor’s chest, pitching the elf backwards, his chainmail absorbing the blow. Ragnar and Leliana leapt to his defense, the former bowling the bandit over to allow the latter a clean shot.

Inch by inch, the company cut its way clear of the bandits, their superior fighting skills and the aid of Morrigan’s magic putting the enemy to flight. A woman’s scream sounded down the street, near the western palisade, and the party moved to intervene, hacking down any bandits foolish enough to get in their way. Again came the scream, desperate and fearful. “Pick up the pace!” Sagramor shouted, setting the example as he stormed down the path, heedless of any danger.

Eventually, the path opened up into an impromptu courtyard bracketed by houses and the palisade wall, where Sagramor discovered the source of the screams; none other than Bethany, now bearing an intriguing-looking polearm, the butt end holding an exotic red gem with branch-like arms, while the blade was whetted bright. The family warhound was with her, straining at the proverbial leash. “Let my mother go,” the girl begged, levelling her weapon at a quartet of bandits, one of their number holding a grey-haired woman prisoner, knife at her throat.  “Please, I don’t want to hurt you. Just let her go.”

“You hear this, cullies?” one of the bandits cackled, unmoved by the girl’s words. “And what exactly will you do to make us, woman?” At the sight of the Wardens and company, the bandit pulled his hostage closer, ducking behind her as best he could, while his comrades levelled crossbows at the newcomers. “Back off, Wardens, or the old lady gets it!”

“Release her, or suffer the consequences,” demanded Sagramor, his companions murmuring in assent.

At this, the bandits laughed. “You think we’re that stupid?” asked the hostage-taker. “There’s a bounty on your heads, elf, and the Skinner means to take it. Drop your weapons if you want her to live. Same goes for you, girl. Bloch’s got a bone to pick with your sister, but he wouldn’t mind taking your hide instead.”

Behind him, Sagramor could hear Morrigan whispering the beginnings of an incantation, while Leliana’s bow creaked at full draw. “You don’t honestly expect us to comply, do you? You’re outnumbered, and my companions can put you down in the space of a heartbeat. Surrender, and I promise you’ll be treated fairly.”

“Stay calm, Mother,” Bethany reassured her, throwing Sagramor a worried glance, clearly nervous that the elf’s intervention might put her mother at risk. “Everything will be alright soon.”

“You people don’t get it,” the lead bandit sneered. “Lothering is dead. The Skinner’s not pulling any punches this time, and if we have to burn this place to the ground to collect on Loghain’s bounty, then that’s what we’ll do. A few minutes more, and Bloch’ll have broken through to us, and then it’ll be your head on a spike, Warden. What have you got to say to that, eh?”

But Sagramor wasn’t listening anymore. Neither was Bethany, her eyes wide with disbelief as she stared past the bandits, the corners of her mouth tugging up. “What?” asked the lead brigand, holding the knife steady. “What do you look so happy about?”

With a vengeful cry, Marian Hawke brought her greatsword down on the man’s shoulder, the bone splintering under the impact, sending the knife falling from his pain-ridden grasp. “Get your hands off my mother!” she howled, brutally punting him away. One of the bandit crossbowmen turned on them, and the Hawke matriarch screamed in horror as her eldest daughter took the bolt for her, the missile slamming into her chest with enough force to penetrate her battered half-plate armour. The crossbowman didn’t get the chance to enjoy his success as Carver fell upon him, greatsword burying into the man’s neck. Sagramor and his companions needed no further encouragement and charged the remaining bandits, Bethany goring the hostage-taker with her polearm, the entire clutch wiped out in moments.

“Sister!” cried Bethany, darting over to the wounded Marian, the Wardens forgotten. Derfel joined her, whimpering anxiously. “Here, let me see it.”

With a grunt, Marian ripped the bolt free, the bodkin point dark with her blood. “It’s just a scratch, Bethie,” she tried to reassure her, breathing laboured and pain-wracked. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Hold still,” said the girl, pressing her hands over the wound.

“Bethany-”

“I said hold still!” Bethany snapped, fixated solely on her sister’s injury. Emerald light suddenly burst from her hands, Alistair and Leliana gasping at the sight, and Sagramor cursed himself for not realizing the truth sooner. Her weapon was no polearm. It was a staff.

A mage’s staff.

Marian suddenly groaned in pain, and Bethany’s lip twisted in worry. “Is the spell working?”

“Bethany,” whispered Hawke, breathing easier now. “There are people here.”

Instantly, Bethany froze, realizing the full depths of her mistake. Without a word, Marian and Carver stood between the girl and the Warden’s party, blades raised to defend her. “You’re an apostate?” Leliana asked in shock, lowering her bow.

“Stay back, all of you,” Marian warned, eyes diamond-hard. The warmth and humour Sagramor had seen in her before Ostagar was missing now; their prior meetings would not keep her from killing them all to protect her family, and he resisted the compulsion to back away. “Do not test me on this.”

“Yet another saarebas,” Sten muttered darkly. “Are your people so foolish as to permit all mages to remain unbound like this?”

Bethany’s fear of her powers being exposed swiftly turned to anger at the sight of the Qunari. “You let that monster out after everything it’s done? How could you?!”

“Do not tarry, Warden,” urged Sten. “Take her hands quickly, and remove the threat.”

“Back away from my sister, freak,” Carver snarled. “Just try something, I dare you.”

“Sten, stand down!” Sagramor ordered, putting his sword away. “Everyone, just calm down; we have problems enough without fighting each other. Marian, we’re not going to hurt your family, I promise it.”

“Lots of promises have been broken lately, Warden,” the warrior woman remarked coldly. “Mother, Bethany, are you all right?”

“We’re fine, dear, for the moment,” Leandra answered. “Marian, it’s the Skinner. He’s the one attacking.”

“Oh, for Andraste’s sake!” Carver moaned. “How many times do we have to put the blighter down?”

“And he’s here for you, Wardens,” Bethany remarked, giving Sten the evil eye. “What in the world have you brought down on us?”

“Yes, girl, because we’re to blame for the actions of every petty criminal that menaces this place,” Morrigan snarked in return. “We are not the ones who threatened your mother, girl. Remember that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Marian interjected. “You know the man, sister, he never forgets a perceived insult, and considering how he’s even uglier than usual because of me, he’s not going to stop until we’re all dead. I want you both in the chantry and away from the fighting. Carver, look after them.”’

“To the Void with that!” objected Carver. “You mean to face that bastard alone? You won’t last two minutes against him, not as worn down as you are.”

“It’s not a suggestion, Carver! Bethany and Mother need to be protected, and you’re the only one I can trust to keep them safe.”

“We’re not leaving you, sister,” said Bethany, taking up her staff. “I thought I’d lost you both at Ostagar; I won’t risk losing you now. Besides… the secret’s out now, I guess.”

“This is my home too,” Carver reminded his older sibling. “And I won’t hang back while others fight to protect it.”

“Carver-”

“No arguments. We’re coming with you.”

“As are we,” said Sagramor, stepping forward. “We won’t walk away from this either.”

“This isn’t your fight, Sagramor,” Hawke answered cautiously, perplexed at the sight of Leliana armed for battle. “Lothering isn’t your home.”

“Doesn’t matter; it’s someone’s home,” argued the elf. “Lady Leandra, the chantry might be the safest place for you at the moment. I’ll have my warhound watch over you, if you’d like.”

“No, I should be safe in there. Just watch over my children, please.”

“We will, Leandra,” Leliana assured her. “May the Maker watch over you.”

“Get to safety, Mother,” Hawke said gently, giving her a comforting hug. “We’ll be alright, I promise. Now go.”

Lingering for a moment, Leandra eventually ran for the chantry, as fast as her farmwife’s gown would permit her. “So what’s the plan, Sagramor?” asked Hawke.

“I’m thinking a flank attack might be our best bet at driving the bandits off. Can you and your siblings lead us to a good place to strike from?”

“Definitely. We know this place like the backs of our hands.”

“If we stand around here much longer, we’ll get trapped on this side of the stream if those bastards advance,” Carver reminded them urgently. “Let’s get moving!”

“Then let’s make it quick and nasty,” declared the elf. “Alistair, let’s put our tabards back on. These bastards want to hunt Wardens? Then we’ll show them exactly what they’re up against.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO...