Title: The Grey Path
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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Chapter Fifteen: The Bann's Request - Part One

For the second time in as many weeks, Sagramor Tabris ventured into a village on the brink of destruction, its population left fearful in the face of an overwhelming threat. One of these days, I’ll visit a place that isn’t about to be annihilated by some evil force, the elf groused to himself as he walked down the cliffside path, his boots becoming caked with the rich crimson earth that gave Redcliffe its name. The term “village” was something of a misnomer for the beleaguered settlement; Redcliffe was no collection of mean huts out in the middle of nowhere, this was an Arl’s seat, prosperous and significant. On the low ground, the village embraced the shore of Lake Calenhad, boasting numerous jetties capable of sustaining a fleet of fishing ships. Upon the cliffs, homes and watermills sat next to the rushing waterfalls emptying out into the lake, and up further still, a great windmill churned endlessly, the creaking of its gears audible from the elf’s position.

Yet Redcliffe bore its share of scars. Fishing boats left holed and broken upon the shoreline, frantic barricades thrown up around the entrance to the local chantry, a great pyre consuming the dead; whatever foe had attacked the village, it had struck hard, and judging by the fearful expression on the sentry’s face, the threat was still present. In the town square, Sagramor could see militiamen preparing for battle, fatigue and desperation in their battered faces, their weapons and armour having seen better days. It was like Lothering all over again, and the guilt over leaving that village seized the elf in claws of steel. Maker, I don’t want to have to run away again. Please grant that this is a foe we can defeat.

Sagramor caught a glimpse of Alistair, looking downfallen at the terror that surrounded the village, and his heart sank. His fellow Warden had left Redcliffe under bitter circumstances, but to his credit, refused to let that shape him, still holding Arl Eamon and his fief in high regard. It had been his home for a time, and it was never easy to see such things under threat. Even for a bastard Prince of Ferelden, he told himself, shaking his head. Maker knew it would take time to come to grips with that revelation.

“This way, uhh… my lords,” said the sentry, leading them into the shadowed cool of the chantry, while the dwarves remained outside to guard their wagon. Over the great stained glass windows depicting Andraste and her martyrdom, the products of the Arl’s generosity, the pews had been stacked into makeshift barricades, preventing any ingress and clearing space to shelter the local population. Women, children, the elderly, the infirm, the badly wounded, all those who could not fight had taken shelter here; indeed, the only man of military age present and on his feet was the auburn-haired fellow by the altar, right arm bound and splinted across his chest. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I’ve brought some folk you should meet.”

“It’s… Tomas, yes?” asked the auburn-haired man, his handsome features bruised and drawn tight with pain. At first glance, Sagramor estimated him to be in his mid-thirties, while the finery of his garb marked him as a man of high status, but noble-born or not, the elf doubted he’d received those wounds tumbling down the steps. “And who are these people with you? They are obviously not simple travellers.”

“No, my lord. They just arrived, and I thought you would want to see them.”

“Well done, Tomas. Greetings, friends. I am Teagan Guerrin, Bann of Rainesfere, and brother to the Arl. You’ve come at a desperate time for both Redcliffe and Ferelden, but I bid you welcome all the same.”

“I remember you, Bann Teagan,” expressed Alistair, “though I’m sure you’ve forgotten. The last time we met, I was a lot younger and… covered in mud.”

“Covered in mud?” Teagan mused aloud, smiling brightly in recognition. “Alistair? Is that you? Oh, you’re alive! Maker’s breath, it’s wonderful to see you, lad!” he shouted in joy, embracing the former Templar as best as he could manage with his broken arm. “We had all thought you dead!”

“Still alive, yes, though not for long if Teryn Logahin has anything to say about it,” Alistair muttered darkly.

“Indeed. Loghain would have us believe all the Grey Wardens died with my nephew, amongst other things.”

Sagramor raised an eyebrow, hardly believing his luck. “You don’t believe Loghain’s lies, then?”

“What, that he pulled his men out in order to save them? That Cailan risked everything in the name of glory? Hardly,” Teagan scoffed. “Loghain calls the Grey Wardens traitors, murderers of the King. I don’t believe it, it is the act of a desperate man. And even if he was telling the truth about Ostagar, the way he’s conducting his regency is reason enough to oppose him. To impose his own tyranny after so many years spent fighting that of Orlais? Rowan would be ashamed.”

Morrigan gave a small laugh. “Finally, a man of sense in this country! I had despaired of ever finding one.”

“So, you are here to see my brother then?” Teagan asked, brown eyes glancing at each of the companions in turn. Sagramor couldn’t help but grin; no doubt the Bann hadn’t expected to see Alistair as part of such a motley band. “Unfortunately, that might be a problem; Eamon is gravely ill.”

“We’ve heard as much,” said Sagramor. “But we didn’t expect to see Redcliffe turned into a warzone. What happened here, Bann Teagan?”

If the Bann was offended by so direct a question from an elf, he didn’t show it. “Truly, I do not know. My brother has been sick from some time now, so after I left Denerim to hear Loghain’s decrees, I came here to offer my aid to Isolde and Connor. But when I arrived, I found the castle barred to me; no soldiers patrolled the ramparts, and no one responded to my shouts. And then, a few nights ago, the attacks started. Evil… things surged from the castle to attack the village. We drove them back, but many perished in the assault.”

“What manner of foes are they?” asked Sagramor.

“Some call them the walking dead, decomposing corpses returning to life with a hunger for human flesh. I don’t know how such creatures could have emerged from the castle, but whatever evil has befallen, it’s turned many of the soldiers and staff there into such monsters.”

“Hmm… undead,” Morrigan mused, pursing her full lips in thought. “Spirits possessing the dead. There are a number of possible explanations for such a thing, none of them pleasant.”

“The next night, they hit again,” Teagan continued, growing more frantic with every detail. “Each night they come, with greater numbers. With Cailan dead and Loghain starting a war over the throne, no one has responded to my urgent pleas for help. Even my attempts to summon reinforcements from my own lands in Rainesfere have met with failure.”

“We saw some farmholds that had been attacked on the way here,” explained Alistair. “It’s possible that the undead might have outflanked Redcliffe, and are intercepting your messengers.”

“Then ‘tis likely something powerful directs these creatures,” Morrigan remarked coolly. “A spirit of hunger or rage taking command of a corpse would not have the intellect for anything so cunning. Doubtless, the castle holds far greater threats still.”

“And they only attack when night falls?” asked Sagramor.

“Yes. For whatever reason, these creatures will not press their attack in the daylight. Perhaps whatever fell sorcery brought them into being only functions in darkness?”

“If I may ask, where are Redcliffe’s Templars?” asked Leliana, frowning as she looked around the chantry for any sign of the warrior-monks. “Surely, they would aid you.”

“After the first attack, my lady, the local Templars tried to storm the castle, against my instructions. The next we saw of them were their reanimated bodies at the van of the enemy’s next attack. Our situation is dire here. Alistair, I hate to ask, but I desperately need the help of you and your friends.”

“It isn’t just up to me,” Alistair proclaimed, gesturing towards Sagramor. “Though the Grey Wardens don’t stand much chance against Loghain without Arl Eamon helping us.”

“It isn’t just--” Teagan stopped short, realization dawning. “My apologies to you, ser elf,” he said, bowing in regret towards Sagramor. “I merely assumed-- I had not considered—“

“That an elf would be in command?” Sagramor remarked mildly. There had been no genuine bigotry or hatred in the nobleman’s words, just a flawed assumption, and the elf accepted the apology in the spirit with which it had been given. “That’s quite alright, my lord, it’s not the sort of thing you see every day. My companions and I have come seeking the Arl’s aid, and it would be selfish of us not to assist in kind. We stand ready to defend Redcliffe, Bann Teagan. Just tell us what you need.”

With an expression of utter relief, Teagan shook Sagramor’s hand. “Thank you! Thank you!” he said profusely, fresh hope appearing in his eyes. “This… means more to me that you can guess. Tomas, please tell Murdock what transpired, then return to your post.”

As soon as Tomas had exited the chantry and moved safely out of earshot, Morrigan sidled up to the Warden, her voice a sibilant whisper. “This is a waste of time, Sagramor. Why on earth should we allow the plight of these weaklings to delay us? Our time would be better spent elsewhere. If do not have the strength to defeat this foe without our aid, then they’ll be useless against the Blight.”

“The saarebas is correct, Warden,” Sten spoke at last. “How does this further our mission? A Warden’s duty is to fight darkspawn, nothing more.”

“And what would you know of my Order’s duty, Sten?” Sagramor snapped back, refusing to entertain the suggestion. “Alistair’s right; we need Arl Eamon’s help if we’re to beat Loghain, and we’re not likely to get it if we abandon his lands and people to the undead. We couldn’t save Lothering, but we can save Redcliffe, so that is what we will do.”

Ragnar barked in agreement, drawing Teagan’s attention. “Is everything all right, Warden?”

“Just fine, my lord. Now, where should we start?”

“I’ve put two men in charge of the defenses outside,” explained Teagan, pretending not to have heard Morrigan and Sten’s objections. “Murdock, the village mayor, is outside the chantry with the local militia. Ser Perth, one of Eamon’s knights, is just up the cliff at the windmill, keeping watch over the castle with some of his colleagues. They’ve been preparing for the next assault since daybreak, and will no doubt be in need of assistance.”

“What’s the status of your current forces?”

“As of now, we have about thirty militiamen under arms in the village under Murdock’s command,” said Teagan. “They’ve suffered heavily in the past few days. Many of their comrades have been slain, or even worse, dragged off by the monsters, while some of the villagers fled after the first attack, Maker only knows where.”

“What about the knights?” Alistair pressed him.

“Only six, those few who returned from their quest to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes. You know of this, yes?”

“Ser Donall told us about it when we met in Lothering,” explained the former Templar. “What could Eamon be suffering that only the Sacred Ashes of Andraste could cure?”

“I know no more than you do, lad, only that Isolde was desperate enough to seek the Urn as a means of restoring him. I… question her decision to send so many knights in search of this relic, but I am a practical man whereas she is a woman of great faith. With luck, some might yet return to aid us, Ser Donall among them. Ser Perth would be able to tell you more.”

“The Arl’s still in the castle, isn’t he?” Alistair demanded, laden with grief. “He’s trapped up there with no one to help him.”

“Yes, lad, Isolde and Connor too,” said Teagan, equally despairing at the notion. “I don’t know what to tell you, Alistair, only that we have yet to see them… amongst the ranks of the enemy. Once this battle is done, I intend to retake the castle and stop the source of this evil before it does any more damage. With luck, we’ll also find Eamon and be able to help him.”

“How horrible!” expressed Leliana. “To be trapped in that place, alone and helpless before such monsters… If there’s anything we can do to save them, Sagramor, we must try.”

“Agreed, Leliana,” said the elf. “We’ll do everything in our power to help, Bann Teagan, I swear it.”

Behind them, Morrigan gave an exasperated sigh. “So we are committed, then? You mean to stay here?”

“Yes, Morrigan, I do,” Sagramor remarked plainly, as if he was suggesting they stop for lunch rather than take up arms against an overwhelming foe.

Biting back a growl of irritation, Morrigan chose to nod in acknowledgement instead. “Then where are the corpses of the enemy?”

“We’ve been burning them as a precaution, my lady,” Teagan replied diffidently, uncertain as to the girl’s status, but employing the honorific for politeness’ sake. “There may be a few that we haven’t yet disposed of. Might I inquire as to your interest?”

“To examine their capabilities, of course,” the apostate scoffed, shaking her head at the Bann’s ignorance. “Attend to me anon, Warden. I will learn what I can.”

Sagramor opened his mouth to respond, but the dark-haired girl had already stridden off, ignoring the fearful mutterings of the villagers as she passed. “You keep… interesting company, Alistair,” the Bann remarked, dazed by her passage.

“Tell me about it,” Alistair grunted.

“We should get to it,” Sagramor urged them, giving the Bann a respectful nod. He had more questions for this man, and lingering reservations about trusting a noble, but those could wait. Right now, they had a village to save. “By your leave then, my lord?”

“By all means, friend. Luck and the Maker be with you.”  

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

It was amazing what a bit of bad news could do. Emerging out of the chantry, Sagramor frowned at the sight of the sun gradually approaching its zenith; what had been the harbinger of a wonderful summer’s day now a stark reminder that time was very much against them. “Let us hope their knights are better warriors than these,” Sten grunted, leveling his violet gaze at the drilling militiamen. “Is this the quality of allies we must depend upon, Warden?”

“Well, if they’ve managed to hold off the undead thus far, doubtless they’re tougher than you think,” Sagramor countered. “They’re fighting to protect their homes and families, Sten. They’ll not give up, not while the slightest hope exists.”

“And how can you be so certain of this?” demanded the Qunari.

“Because I’d do much the same in their shoes. Come, let’s see this Murdock.”

Murdock proved to be a grizzled man in his early forties, boasting a pair of drooping black mustaches and hands left scarred and worn from a life working the village fishery. “So you’re the Grey Warden, are you? I didn’t think they made elves Grey Wardens,” he remarked gruffly.

“Really?” asked the elf, arms folded across his chest. “And why would you think that?”

“For more reasons than you’d like to hear, probably. Still, no reason to think Bann Teagan’s lost his mind. We aren’t going to turn aside anyone who wants to help; don’t take me for an ingrate or nothing.”

“Well, we do want to help however we can,” Alistair reassured him. “You can trust us.”

“So the Bann says, and I’d trust him with my life. Name’s Murdock, mayor of what’s left of the village, provided we aren’t all killed and hauled off to the castle tonight.”

“Enough of such talk,” the elf chided him, ever conscious of the importance of morale. “Whatever this evil is, we will defeat it. I can promise you that.”

“I… I hope you’re right,” said the mayor, ashamed of his own defeatism. “I’ve been trying to hold things together, but it isn’t easy. The men have too many questions that I simply don’t have the answers for, what’s happened to the Arl chief among them. Anyhow, you’re here, and they tell me you’re in charge.”

“How are the men holding up?” Sagramor asked.

“About how you’d expect. They’re farmers, craftsmen, fishermen, cobblers, not warriors. They’ll fight to the last to protect Redcliffe, and most have combat experience from duty with the fyrd, but it’s not the same as having professional soldiers. Think they’re also a bit spooked by what exactly they’re facing. To fight other men is one thing, but monsters? That’s beyond their experience and mine too.”

“Well, now that we’re here, the odds are much more in Redcliffe’s favour. What do you need from us?”

“First off, we need what weapons and armour we have repaired, and quickly, or half of us will be fighting without either. Owen’s the only blacksmith in town who could do it, but that stubborn fool refuses to even talk. If we’re to be ready for tonight, we’ll need the crotchety bastard’s help.”

“Why does he not aid you?” asked Leliana. “Surely he understands that we must all work together to protect Redcliffe.”

“His daughter, Valena, is one of the Arlessa’s maids up at the castle. So he hasn’t heard from her since this whole business started. After the first attack, the fool demanded we attack the castle, break down the gate and force our way in. I said it was impossible, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s locked himself in the smithy now, and we can’t force him to do the repairs; he said he’d die first.”

“Once more, the bas show their weakness,” Sten muttered darkly. “Typical.”

“You’re sure you don’t have any spare weapons you can use?” asked Alistair.

“We’ve got plenty of bows,” Murdock explained. “And there was a good-sized stockpile of arrows in town before the first attack, but we’ve been using them up quickly; the damned monsters soak up shafts like rainwater. No, replacing broken spearshafts, straightening and honing blades, that’s something we need Owen for.”

“Alright then, Leliana, Alistair, as soon as we’re done here, go see if you can reason with Owen,” ordered Sagramor. From what he had seen, the villagers were a bit on the conservative side, so Owen would probably respond better to two humans than an elf and a Qunari. “Anything else we can do to help?”

“We could use some extra bodies,” informed Murdock. “Having a veteran like Dwyn in the militia would help a lot, but he flat-out refuses.”

“Tell me about this man,” asked the elf.

“He’s a trader, a dwarf, lives down by the lakeshore. He’s a retired mercenary from the Golden Guard, and has probably seen more action than most of the village combined, but he’s locked himself up in his home with some of his workers, says he doesn’t need any of us. He could use somebody with his fighting experience, but he won’t come out.”

“Those who would trade their honour for coin are a liability, Warden,” Sten urged him. “Such creatures cannot be trusted. He is also a merchant. Merchants do not fight. It is not their role.”

“Hate to say it, but Sten might be right,” Alistair added. “If this guy’s willing to abandon the village to save his own skin, then I’m not sure he can be relied upon in the battleline. And if half the things I’ve heard about the Golden Guard are true…”

“I know, Alistair,” Sagramor acknowledged. The Golden Guard was an infamous mercenary company comprised entirely of dwarves, mostly exiles from Orzammar, convicted criminals or the lesser sons of the Dwarven Merchants Guild. Even amongst the sellsword bands that were a staple of war in the Free Marches, the Guard were notorious for their ruthless and bloodthirsty nature. “That said, if the undead break us tonight, none of that will matter. Sten, let’s introduce Dwyn to the notion of civic responsibility, shall we?”

“Good luck to you. The dwarf’s as stubborn as they come,” said the mayor.

“Really?” the elf questioned archly. “Something we have in common then. We’ll see what we can do to help, but in the meantime, feel free to speak to Bodahn, the merchant who came into town with us. I’m not certain how much useful gear he has, but tell him I sent you, and he’ll release what he can.”

“Every little bit helps, Warden. Let’s hope-- Kaitlyn! What in the Maker’s name are you doing out here, girl?”

At the mayor’s outburst, Sagramor turned to see a young woman approach, barely eighteen by the looks of her, her pale visage and peasant’s grab stained with tears. “I’m sorry, Mayor, but--”

“Kaitlyn, we’ve discussed this,” said the mayor, clearly exasperated. “If you’re not involved with the defense of the village, you’re to stay in the chantry. Bann’s orders. We can’t have you running around when there’s evil afoot.”

“So we’re to just leave my brother lost and alone out here?” the girl wailed in distress. “What if those creatures have him? I can’t lose him like I lost Mother, I just can’t!”

“How terrible!” Leliana expressed. “You poor thing. I wish there was something we could do to help.”

Latching on to the Orlesian woman’s sympathy, Kaitlyn turned her entries to the newcomers. “And now my brother Bevin, he’s run off. I- I don’t know where he is! I’m so scared they got him too! I’ve searched and I’ve searched and I just can’t find him!”

“Any idea why he would run off?” Sagramor asked.

“He said something about saving Mother. He’s just a little boy. He doesn’t understand she’s gone. I hope he didn’t try to go to the castle. Oh, that would be awful!”

Ragnar gave Sagramor a little nudge, and the elf smiled, sensing the hound’s intention. “If Bevin was feeling scared, where would he go to feel safe, miss?”

“To our house, probably, but I’ve already looked there,” Kaitlyn explained, gesturing at a small house adjacent to the village square. “Will you—will you look for him?”

“We will, miss, fear not. Sten, Ragnar, you’re with me; we’ll see if we can find Bevin and bring Dwyn into the fold as well. Alistair, Leliana, try to convince Owen to get back to work. One of us should also talk to this Ser Perth. Let’s all meet up at the tavern in two hours, and see where we stand.”

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

With that, the company split up to their assigned tasks, with Sagramor and Sten following Ragnar to Kaitlyn’s home. “This is a mistake, Warden,” Sten grumbled as the pair trod along the wooden boardwalks crisscrossing the village.

“Anything in particular you have objections with?” sighed the elf, knowing full well what was coming.

“This… diversion. The hunt for the child, running errands for the bas, all of it. You are a Grey Warden. Your role is to fight darkspawn. So why do you waste time here when the Blight spreads further?”

“Because this is going to help us stop the Blight.”

“Is it now?” the Qunari asked with a sneer.

“Yes, it is. Trying to counterattack the main horde now would be foolish; all we’d end up doing is throwing our lives away for no real gain. We need allies to help us fight the darkspawn, Sten, and Redcliffe is to be the first.”

“These people cannot defend against a lesser evil without our aid, Warden. What use will they be against the greater one?”

“More use than they would be as corpses,” the Warden countered, becoming increasingly frustrated with Sten’s callousness indifference. “We’re facing an enemy that can lay waste to kingdoms. If we’re going to beat them, we need to understand that we’re fighting a war, not a single battle. Yes, Redcliffe is weak now, but given the chance to recover and rebuild, they could be of great help to us. Besides, as a soldier, which seems more useful to you? A well-supplied and garrisoned fortress capable of stalling the enemy’s advance, or an abandoned ruin for the ravens to peck over?”

Sagramor fixed the Qunari with a hard look. “Do you think the Wardens who stopped past Blights did so merely by charging blindly at the darkspawn? They won because they cultivated alliances. They united the peoples of Thedas against the enemy, and they ensured that when sacrifices were made, those lives were spent instead of merely wasted. It’s not enough just to kill darkspawn, Sten. Strategy is just as important, and right now, bringing down Loghain and invoking the treaties is mine. You’ll get plenty of opportunities to fight the darkspawn, just not here.”

“And retrieving a lost child? This will aid us?”

“We can spare a moment to help find a missing kid,” Sagramor chided him, opening the door to Kaitlyn’s home. It was a cramped little domicile, but stoutly built, the firm wooden joists supporting two floors packed tight with the family’s possessions, and the elf took great care not to disturb it. “There’s such a thing as winning hearts and minds, you know. Didn’t your people gain the support of much of northern Thedas during the Qunari Wars?”

“Soldiers do not convert. The priests of the Ben-Hassrath fulfill that role. Had the Tamassrans wished me to do so, then that is the role they would have chosen for me.”

Any further inquiry was interrupted by the sound of Ragnar’s great claws pawing away at a wooden cupboard dominating a small bedroom. Sagramor and Sten entered, and the elf could hear frightened whimpers emerging from behind the pine doors. “Is someone in there? Are you alright?”

“Go away!” a tremulous voice answered. “This isn’t your home!”
“A small human,” rumbled Sten. “I say burn it out.”

“Wait!” came the shrill protest, and the wooden latch barring the cupboard door scraped open to reveal a pale-looking youth of about six or seven summers, his brown eyes blinking fearfully at the two armed non-humans standing in his bedroom. “All right, I came out,” the boy said, trying not to sound frightened in front of strangers. “You won’t hurt me, will you? I’ll go back to the chantry if you really want.”

“Bevin, right?” asked Sagramor. “You shouldn’t have run off like that, boy, your sister was very worried about you. What were you even doing in there to begin with?”

“I-- I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

Sten gave a disapproving growl, but the elf ignored him, leaning down before Bevin. “Are you sure? Maybe I could help?”

“You… could?” the boy mumbled, taken aback by the unexpected support. Bevin’s parents had always taught him never to talk to strangers, but the elf seemed kind enough, and a warrior besides. Haltingly, the boy offered an explanation. “I just... Father said I could have his sword when I grew up. The Green Blade, he called it. It was Grandfather’s, and Grandfather was a great dragonslayer. I thought… if I was brave like Grandfather, I could use his sword and… kill the bad people who took Mother.”

“A bold plan, if misguided,” grunted the Qunari warrior. “The child has shown more courage than those in this place who call themselves warriors.”

“Sten speaks truly, Bevin; that was very brave of you,” said the elf. “Tell me, where is the sword now?”

“In the chest, up in Mother’s room,” Bevin informed them. “Father gave me a key, but I’m not supposed to give it to anyone.”

Well, magic swords don’t grow on trees, Sagramor told himself, clearing his throat. “Bevin, if this sword is magical, then my friends and I could use it to help protect the village. See, that’s why we’ve come, to keep people like you and your sister safe from the bad men. Would you give it to us?”

“I… guess you’re right. I should help defend the village, shouldn’t I? Father would have, if he were here.”

The elf smiled, recognizing the same impulse to live up to his own family’s courage. “He sounds like a good man, and it looks like he raised a great son. Here,” he said, passing Bevin his coin pouch, the boy’s eyes widening at the weight. There was a little over a sovereign’s worth in it; Hawke had given him some extra silvers she and her brother had looted off of the Skinner’s men, and he hoped she would approve of spending it this way. “Give this to your sister, and tell her it’s payment for your grandfather’s sword. We’ll use it well, I promise you.”

Quick as a weasel, Bevin dropped the key into Sagramor’s hands and raced off, smiling brightly. “That was an honourable act, Warden,” Sten remarked, his most heartfelt statement yet. “I had not expected such from you.”

“I’m not going to seize a family’s heirloom and given them nothing in return. And with both their parents gone, Kaitlyn and Bevin will need the help. Let’s just hope this Green Blade is worth paying for sight unseen.”

To the elf’s relief, the Green Blade was much better than he’d paid for; a curved veridium longsword, as emerald as its name suggested and far lighter than ordinary steel thanks to both the material and the runes etched along the blade. Securing it at his side for the moment, Sagramor turned to his comrade, quite content. “See? A little bit of kindness pays dividends, Sten.”

“And this cowardly dwarf? Will such tactics work on those who shirk their duty?”

“If even half of what I’ve heard about the Golden Guard are true, then kindness won’t be Dwyn’s forte. He doesn’t feel like talking, we do things your way.”

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

When Dwyn failed to respond to Sagramor knocking politely on his door, the Warden proceeded to kick the lock in, and stride into the dimly-lit house like he owned the place. At the noise, three men leapt from around the hearth to confront the newcomers; two tattooed humans, each bearing a pair of nasty looking short swords, and the dwarven trader himself, clad in finely-made leather armour, his meaty hands going for the axe at his waist. “Wonderful. Intruders,” the dwarf intoned, staring at the elf down the bridge of his flattened nose, a legacy of his mercenary career. “I hope you’ve a good reason for breaking and entering into my home.”

“You are Dwyn, correct? My name is Sagramor Tabris, and I’m working with Bann Teagan to ready the militia for tonight’s assault.”

“So what? You’re recruiting for him and Murdock, is that it?” the dwarf asked sarcastically, spitting on the floor rushes to show his opinion. “I’ll tell you what I told Murdock; I’m not risking my neck for this town.”

“Really?” the elf questioned, looking around the premises. Dwyn’s residence seemed to serve as both his home and warehouse, and crates of his goods had been piled up against either wall, making it seem far smaller than it actually was. The space was so cluttered he doubted he could find anything in the mess without the dwarf’s assistance. “Just like that? You’re a poor merchant indeed if you’re not open to cutting a deal, or hearing of an opportunity when it calls your name.”

The thugs stepped forth, blades at the ready, but Dwyn waved them back. “What kind of opportunity are we talking about here?”

Sagramor gave a lupine smile, seeing the first cracks in the dwarf’s proverbial armour. “There are a fair number of dwarven merchants on the surface. Must be hard with that much competition, and the Merchant’s Guild breathing down your neck besides.”

“I get by.”

The elf laughed at this. “You’re a trader, Dwyn; I’ve never met one content to merely ‘get by’. Here’s the thing; you have a chance to make a reputation for yourself here, and that lasts longer than mere coin. Help Bann Teagan defend Redcliffe, and both he and the villagers are going to remember that the next time they do business with you. And considering Teagan might become the new Arl of Redcliffe if his brother is dead, the smart thing to do would be to get into his good graces now.”

“You raise a fair point,” the dwarf admitted grudgingly.

“Of course, it cuts both ways. When Redcliffe is victorious, and it will be now that my companions and I are here, no one is going to want to do business with someone who hid in the face of danger while their families fought and died. Fereldans don’t like cowards, Dwyn, and neither does my friend here,” Sagramor stated bluntly, gesturing towards Sten. “He thinks it’s a waste of time talking to those who shirk battle, that if you’re this anxious to avoid fighting, you’re no damn good at it. Care to prove him wrong?”

The dwarf stared at Sten with something approaching hatred, motioning his thugs to follow. “I don’t need to prove anything to ox-men, stranger, but I’ll fight. Tell Murdock I’ll pitch in, but you lot better be out there with us too! Now, if there’s nothing else, then get out of my house.”

Smiling, the Warden gave the former mercenary a respectful bow. “We’ll see you on the field, then.”

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

The instant the door closed behind the Warden’s party, Dwyn whirled on his nearest henchman, beard bristling in fury. “It’s in a safe place, right?”

“Yeah, sure thing, boss, it’s in the back.”

With a flick of his wrist, Dwyn tossed the man a brass key. “Lock it up in the strongbox. Now, before that damned ox-man comes back!” An avaricious gleam flickered in the dwarf’s eyes, and he glanced back at the door, as if expecting his uninvited guests to return. “I paid for it, fair and square; it’s mine! I won’t be robbed by anyone, not even one of those Qunari freaks.”

“But if that ‘un finds out--” the thug dared to venture.

“He won’t, so long as you keep your mouth shut. You hear me? Breathe a word, and I’ll show you what we did to traitors in the Golden Guard. Now get out there.”

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

“Ahh, Warden, there you are,” expressed Morrigan, gesturing to the corpse laid out on the table in front of her. “Behold the enemy.”

“Seems you’ve been busy,” Sagramor remarked, recoiling at the absolutely dreadful stench emanating from the body. Beside him, Ragnar gagged in kind. Turning away momentarily to experience a taste of fresh air, Sagramor was rewarded with the sight of rushing militiamen carrying bundles of arms back and forth from the blacksmithy across the square, and over the hubbub of astonished voices came the clarion knell of a hammer pounding metal. Praise the Maker for Alistair and Leliana, thought the elf, steeling himself to endure the result of Morrigan’s dissection. “Find anything useful?”

“Indeed. Attend, if you would,” the sorceress insisted, waving him closer. “I managed to save this one before the villagers could burn it, as much as they demanded otherwise.” Her amber eyes shot daggers at a party of labourers attending the pyre, and one spat at his feet in response. “One would think they would be more grateful to those who have elected to aid them.”

“Well, they’ve certainly had better days,” Sagramor reminded her, noticing the incisions on the corpse. “I doubt they’ve ever seen anything as strange as an autopsy either.”

“Or an apostate performing it?” Morrigan asked with a sickly sweetness, smiling viciously. “No doubt they consider my presence here an offense to their god and a decent social order. Speaking of which, where is Sten?”

“Up the hill, seeing how Eamon’s knights are faring. As for the villagers, if they survive the night, I don’t they’ll hold it against you,” Sagramor reassured her, sounding much more confident than he felt. “Now then, the undead?”

“Observe,” said Morrigan, leading him over to the body. “Notice the mutations?”

“Hard to miss them,” Sagramor remarked. At first glance, the body appeared to be that of an elven servant girl, one of the many who had tended to the needs of the Arl and his family. The dark power that had taken the castle had transformed her into something monstrous, drastically aging her body, mutating it to boast shredding claws and a distended jaw brimming with fangs. Poor girl. Maker grant that she died before being twisted into… this, the Warden mused, offering a quick prayer for her soul. “What could have done this to her?”

“In all likelihood? A spirit of some kind taking possession of her corpse, likely one of hunger or rage.” A slim hand reached for a wooden plate bearing glistening organs, and Morrigan brought it up to the elf’s face. “The creature’s heart, liver and gall bladder, each bearing a magical imprint of the spirit’s essence.”

“Charming,” said the elf, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “But why would a demon seek to inhabit a corpse like this? I thought they mostly tried to possess mages.”

“True, mages are preferred, but such creatures desire to experience the material world by any means necessary. Most spirits are not strong enough to physically manifest themselves in our world; they require a vessel to inhabit so as to survive here. This spirit no doubt seized upon the nearest body for want of anything more suitable, and so became trapped in it. A lifeless body would certainly not be its first choice.”

“You call them spirits. Does this mean we can reason with them, perhaps? Convince them to stop attacking the village?”

Morrigan had a good laugh at this. “Oh, Warden, such ignorance is refreshing. The Chantry speaks of good spirits and bad demons, but such a black-and-white perspective obscures the fact that the distinction between the two is much closer than they admit. Ignore the labels, Warden. Merely understand that these creatures are beyond all reason, and even your silver tongue will do little to persuade them in their current state.”

“Very well,” Sagramor acknowledged, bowing to her superior wisdom of the arcane. “In that case, you have any idea how they came to be in Redcliffe Castle to begin with?”

“’Tis possible they were deliberately summoned into being,” suggested Morrigan. “There are some mages capable of summoning a spirit and binding it to their will, though that mostly requires the use of blood magic. More likely, ‘tis the result of a tear in the Veil between this world and the Fade allowing the spirits passage, and there could be any number of explanations for that; the use of blood magic to deliberately damage the Veil, perhaps, or the mass slaughter of a great many people.”

“Well, I’ll suppose we’ll only know for certain once we actually get into the castle. What about vulnerabilities? Anything particularly effective against such beings?”

“Being but animated corpses, these creatures do not suffer pain as we do, Warden. Because they hijack the major nerves and organs of the body in order to sustain themselves, sufficient trauma may be enough to stop them, but even so, they can endure far more than a mortal man may. ‘Tis best to destroy them utterly. Fire is rather effective in this regard, though hacking them into pieces will also serve.”

Sagramor nodded in thanks, impressed by the apostate girl’s deduction. “Well done, Morrigan. This just might give us the edge we need. We should go and let the others know what you found.”

“They will not accept you for this. You understand this, correct?” Morrigan’s words halted the Warden mid-stride, and he turned back to the beautiful sorceress, her amber eyes glancing pointedly at the militia. “The people of this place, they will not suddenly become loyal to the Wardens or the elves merely because you fight for them.”

“Perhaps not,” Sagramor permitted, recalling how the heroic deeds of the Night Elves like his grandfather were largely ignored after the end of the Rebellion. As cynical an outlook at it was, the apostate did have a point. “I’m certain that no matter what I do, there will some eager to belittle the Order’s accomplishments, or hate my people regardless.”

“Then why do this? Why risk your life for those who will not appreciate your efforts?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Morrigan gave a disbelieving scoff. “That’s not an answer, Warden.”

Flipping up his hood, the Warden turned away. “Yes, Morrigan, it really is.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO...