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 Two

“All I’m saying is that morale’s an important factor,” Alistair pleaded, caught-off guard by Leliana’s unexpected disapproval. Around them, the tavern was unusually subdued, with most of its patrons being militiamen seeking to wash away their fears beneath mug after mug of the local ale. The Warden and company had gathered here after reviewing the preparations of Redcliffe’s few surviving knights, and it was an odd request from their leader, Ser Perth, that had spark this latest debate. “If thinking that the Maker’s protecting them is what Ser Perth and the other knights need to be most effective, then let’s have the Reverend Mother say a few blessings and get them into the fight.”

“Manipulating their faith isn’t the right thing to do, Alistair,” Leliana protested from across the table, looking supremely uncomfortable with the whole notion. At her side hung the Green Blade, the lighter sword gladly accepted as a replacement for her heavy captured longsword. “What they’re asking is for the Maker to protect them in a physical sense, and that’s not something he does, no matter how noble or worthy the petitioner. It’s not something we should lie about.”

“Sure you can’t call up the Maker, and ask him to make an exception?”

“That’s not funny, Alistair, and you know it,” Leliana snapped, staring icily at him.

“And why should she indulge their childish desires?” Morrigan offered, observing the argument with a smug grin. “If such things as gods even exist, would they not help those who help themselves, or at the very least, those who retain some dignity these cretins clearly lack?”

Sten grunted in agreement. Sitting next to Leliana, Sagramor added his voice to the majority. “I understand your reasoning, Alistair, but such a blessing could end up backfiring on us.”

“What do you mean?”

“All right, let’s assume the Reverend Mother does do what Ser Perth is asking, and the knights go into battle assured that the Maker will shield them from all harm. What happens then the first time one of them dies, or takes a wound? If their morale is bad now, imagine what it’ll be like when the think the Maker’s abandoned them mid-battle.”

“Fair enough,” Alistair conceded the argument. “I’ll have a talk with Ser Perth; we know each other back from when the Arl raised me. He’ll understand.”

“Anything more he could tell us about either the Arl’s sickness, or the quest for the Urn?” asked Sagramor.

“Nothing we didn’t already know. He was actually searching for the Urn when he happened to pass by Redcliffe and hear of the attacks,” Alistair explained. “Still, Arl Eamon trains and equips his knights well. Nerves aside, the knights should prove useful tonight.”

“We shall see,” Sten muttered darkly.

“And the militia?” Sagramor questioned. “How are they fairing?”

“Better now,” Leliana assured him. “They’ve accepted our worth as fighters, and Dwyn’s presence seems to be of some comfort. The villagers aren’t that fond of him, but they do acknowledge his fighting skills.”

“And between Owen repairing their gear and Bodahn offering what little weapons he has on him, the militia is much more prepared,” declared Alistair. “Aside from needing Morrigan to heal a few injuries, I’d say the militia is ready to fight.”

“Yes, nice work on getting Owen’s assistance,” said the elf, genuinely pleased at their efforts. “Just how exactly did you convince him?”

At this, Alistair gave a nervous cough, suddenly becoming fixated on his ale. The tavern keeper, a surly, pot-bellied man by the name of Lloyd, had refused to let the Warden’s company use his business as a meeting place, even though they would be fighting to protect it before the next dawn, forcing the group to buy a round if they were to stay. “Alistair?”

“We promised Owen that we would search for Valena after the battle was done,” Leliana explained.

“He was rather adamant about it,” insisted Alistair, still shirking from the elf’s gaze. “Said his daughter was the only thing he cared about, and he’d only help us if we did our best to help her.”

The Warden was silent for a moment, considering. “You made the right call, both of you.”

“We did?” demanded Alistair, still half-expecting a lecture.

“You did. We need Owen’s skills at the forge, there’s no getting around that. And if Bann Teagan is committed to launching an eventual counterattack, we’ll have a chance to find her. I would have made the same call in your place.”

Looking rather pleased with himself, Alistair leaned back on the bench. “Well, that’s a relief. So, what now?”

“We should probably confer with Bann Teagan to see how exactly we’re to defend this place,” suggested Sagramor. “Sten, any thoughts?”

“I have spoken with the knights,” said the Qunari, as if the mere notion of engaging with them was risible. “In the previous attacks, the enemy have assaulted along two fronts; one along the cliffs towards the knights’ position, and against the chantry itself by emerging from the lake.”

“Emerging from the lake?” Morrigan repeated in disbelief. “What, are the undead hurling themselves off the castle ramparts into the lake, and attacking from the shore?”

“I do not know the ways of magic and saarebas,” Sten remarked dismissively. “Two fronts, Warden. Both may require our aid.”

“Function as a reserve, then, and go where needed?” asked the elf, receiving a nod from the hulking warrior. “That could work. And thanks to Morrigan, we know fire is effective against them. Alistair, does Redcliffe have any stores of lamp oil?”

“I’d imagine so. We can check the general store, or maybe the warehouses by the docks.”

“Good. I have a notion in mind, but we’ll have to clear it with Bann Teagan first. Let’s…” The Warden trailed off, noticing how distracted Leliana seemed. “Leliana? You okay?”

The archer woman gave a small nod. “Do you see that elven man over there? The one sitting alone?”

Sagramor glanced casually across the tavern to the corner table, noticing the elf in question. He was an older man than the Warden was, possibly in his late twenties, brown-haired, light-skinned, and bearing both a well-maintained longbow and splintmail armour. Sagramor shrugged, unconcerned. “What about him?”

“Doesn’t he strike you as a little… odd?” Leliana asked, blue eyes fixed on this new elf. “There’s something strange about him, I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“He’s probably just a forester,” suggested the Warden. In most communities, elves were not permitted to bear arms, but there were still plenty of Alienage-bred folk who worked in rural areas or out in the wilds, where such restrictions were more lax. “Or maybe a mercenary.”

“If he’s a mercenary, then why isn’t he helping protect the village?” Leliana countered. “And there’d be blood on his hands and clothing if he was a forester. He’s been here since we’ve arrived, and he hasn’t even touched his drink. He’s just been… watching.”

“He does not waste his breath on mindless chatter,” remarked Sten. “I fail to see how this is a flaw.”

Yet Leliana’s words of warning struck a chord in Sagramor, and he found himself staring at the other elf, noticing how his brown eyes were constantly scanning the room. That, in and of itself, was nothing suspicious; given how poorly most humans treated elves, the man could be forgiven for feeling a bit cagey around them. And yet the Warden’s suspicions refused to relent, like a stone caught inside his boot, nagging away at him. The tavern’s barmaid, a comely lass by the name of Bella, approached their table, and Sagramor quickly waved her over. “Excuse me, miss, but you do you know anything about that elf over there at the corner table?”

“Not much, he’s very quiet. Says his name’s Berwick and he’s here to meet his brother, but… I don’t know. Believe me when I say I don’t have anything against elves, but he seems a bit creepy to me.” The barmaid laughed bitterly. “It’s stupid, I know. There’s an entire castle full of monsters waiting to kill us, and here I am, worried about a single closed-mouthed elf.”

“True enough,” said Sagramor. As soon as Bella had walk out of earshot, the elf sighed in resignation. He hated to be so distrusting of one of his own folk; elves the world over suffered too much from undue suspicion already. But he would not be taken unawares like he was at Ostagar, and with an apologetic nod to his companions, strolled over to Berwick’s table. “Greetings, kinsman,” he said, keeping his tone casual. “Care to join me for a round?”

“Not looking for company,” Berwick stated bluntly, assiduously ignoring the newcomer.
Casually, Berwick’s right hand approached the long dagger at his belt, a movement Sagramor noticed right away. “Just wondering if you knew anything about what’s been happening in the village.”

“Why would I know anything?” Berwick protested, looking more paranoid than ever. Behind the Warden, Leliana and Ragnar approached, the hound whining anxiously. “I’m not from around here. You’d be better off asking a local.”

“Right, you’re waiting for your sister,” Sagramor remarked, idly baiting the trap.

“My sister?” Berwick demanded, hastily responding to cover up his nervousness. “Yeah, of course, my sister. I had hoped to see her a few days ago, but with all the attacks, she might have decided to avoid Redcliffe.”

“Then why did you say you were waiting for your brother?” Leliana confronted Berwick, her voice full of that calm certainty she possessed when staring down Loghain’s men back in Lothering.

“I wasn’t told to—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Berwick protested.

“Don’t bother,” said the Orlesian woman. “I know a spy when I see one.”

“Who told you to do what?” Sagramor asked, seizing on the other elf’s words. “Who sent you here?”

“No one sent me anywhere! Just because you’re a Grey Warden, that doesn’t give you the right to question people!”

Sagramor glanced down at his armour, bereft of the Warden tabard. “And exactly how did you know I’m a Warden?”

A more cunning man would have explained his foreknowledge as a local rumour, but frightened out of his wits, Berwick’s only response was to dart for the exit. Before the would-be spy got three steps, Leliana struck, feinting with a swift right jab to the face before sweeping his legs out from under him. The tavern’s patrons gasped as the elf fell to the floor, and he screamed in panic as Ragnar’s front paws pinned him down, the hound’s snarling fangs inches from his ear. “Oh, Andraste!” he wailed, going rigid with fear. “Please don’t hurt me! This isn’t what I signed up for!”

“Then what did you sign up for?” Sagramor asked, kneeling down to address the spy. The rest of the company moved in, weapons drawn, but the Warden waved them down. “Tell me what you know, and I promise you won’t be harmed.”

“This is more than I bargained for,” Berwick explained, recognizing Sagramor’s authority and eagerly trying to placate him. “Look, they just paid me to keep an eye on the castle and tell them if anything should change. But they didn’t say anything about monsters! I haven’t been able to report to them since this whole mess began, and now I’m stuck here, same as you, I swear!”

“What did they want you to report on?” questioned Alistair.

“They said that the Arl’s sick, and they wanted me to tell them if his condition changed.” An angry growl began to manifest itself amongst the tavern’s patrons, the villagers livid with the notion that their liege lord might be threatened in some manner. “I wasn’t going to hurt him!” Berwick protested, sensing the vengeful mood of the crowd. “They just wanted to know if he was getting better or not, that’s all!”

“Who told you to do this?” Alistair snapped, sharing in that anger. Berwick gulped nervously as the steel longsword embedded itself in the wooden floor an inch from his face. “Who are you spying for?!”

“A man named Howe, Arl Rendon Howe. He’s Loghain’s right-hand man.” Seeing Alistair’s face go red with fury at the traitorous Teryn’s name, the desperation in Berwick’s voice reached a fever pitch. “I have a letter with him in my pack, it has instructions and everything. Keep it! Do whatever you want with it! I just thought I was serving the Crown and making a bit of coin on the side. You have to believe me!”

A moment’s search by Leliana revealed the spy was telling the truth. “Here,” she said, passing the letter to Sagramor. “Signed by this Arl Howe himself.”

“Okay, let’s bring this to Bann Teagan’s attention. Sten, keep a close eye on him.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” Berwick whimpered.

A ghost of a smile edged across the Warden’s mouth. “Hurt you? No. I have something rather different in mind for you.”

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

“A spy?” Bann Teagan demanded incredulously, keeping his voice low so as not to incite a panic. “You are certain of this?”

“Positive,” Sagramor reassured him, following the nobleman out to the water’s edge where they could talk undisturbed. “Here’s the letter he was carrying that proves his guilt.”

Teagan accepted the document gratefully, his mien going dark as he read its contents. “Rendon Howe. I should have known he’d be connected to this.”

“You know this man?”

“He’s the Arl of Amaranthine, and a grasping, vicious, bigoted brute if there ever was one. Howe’s the sort of man who’d skin a sheep for its wool rather than shear it, and his lands and people suffer as a result. Amaranthine has the potential to be the richest and most powerful province in all of Ferelden, but under Howe’s reign, it’s become his own private sty.”

“Another prime example of Ferelden’s nobility, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it, Grey Warden,” Teagan explained. “Just before the defeat at Ostagar, he conquered the city of Highever and put all resistance to the sword. Everything I’ve heard says that he took advantage of his old friendship with Bryce Cousland to lull him into complacency before murdering his family in their beds, and now, he rules Highever with an iron fist.”

“Maker’s breath!” Sagramor swore. Guess that explains why neither province had their full forces with Cailan at Ostagar. “How could he hope to justify something like that?”

“Howe stated that the Couslands were planning to betray the kingdom to Orlais, and that he struck first to ensure Ferelden’s continued freedom,” Teagan elaborated, disbelief plain in every word. “When Loghain proclaimed his regency, he stood by Howe’s actions, and according to rumour, even gave him control of Denerim as well. The entirety of Ferelden’s northern coast is now in the hands of Loghain’s chief supporter, and a madman besides.”

“Do the other nobles believe him? About the Couslands being traitors?”

“Hardly. The Couslands were loyal beyond measure, both to Ferelden and the Theirins. Bryce would have stood against Loghain, I know it.” Pausing thoughtfully, Teagan dared to air what they were both musing. “And if Cailan had survived, the only land Howe would hold now would be the grass above his grave. Could they-- could the two of them have planned for Cailan to die?”

“It makes sense. This Howe character probably wouldn’t be as brazen in attacking a rival if he’d known the King would send him to the gallows for it,” Sagramor answered sadly, gesturing to the letter. “And it also suggests that your brother’s illness may have been arranged. You say that the Couslands would have opposed Loghain. Would Arl Eamon have as well?”

“Yes, I’ve no doubt of it. My brother believes very strongly in both the rule of law and a ruler’s duty to his people, and Loghain has trampled both underfoot in his lust for power,” Teagan reassured him. A horrified expression fell over him, his mind racing through all of the possibilities, none of them good. “Tell me, do you remember anything from the order of battle at Ostagar? Namely, who was assigned to the King’s force and who was with Loghain?”

“Very little, I’m afraid,” the elf admitted sheepishly, recalling how Loghain had snatched the map away before he could study it in greater detail. That should have been my first clue something was awry, he said inwardly, angry with himself for missing what, in hindsight, had been an obvious clue. “I do remember that Arl Urien Kendalls of Denerim was assigned to fight with the King. Does that help at all?”

Teagan stroked his beard in thought. “Urien was no friend to me or my brother, but he was loyal to the King. If he had known there was a plot afoot against Cailan, he would have opposed it with all his strength. As for his son?” he wondered, shrugging. “The criers in Denerim said that he’d been murdered about a week before Ostagar. Maker bless whoever rid us of that wretch, for at least now he’s no longer abusing the helpless. Perhaps the Landsmeet should give the killer a medal for slaying that brute?”

I prefer gold ones, thank you, the elf jested to himself, keeping his involvement in Vaughan’s death quiet. But had the depraved nobleman been part of this conspiracy as well? Sagramor remembered the rapist’s pleas, his proclamation of powerful friends and how they would change Ferelden, and he cursed himself for a fool. Had the answers been staring me in the face all this time? “The Couslands murdered, Arl Urien dead at Ostagar, and your brother fatally ill. Three of the most powerful voices in the Landsmeet gone just as Loghain makes his own bid for power? This cannot be a coincidence.”

“Agreed,” stated Teagan. “We must see to my brother’s rescue and recovery, now more than ever. And if Loghain is in any way responsible for his… illness, then I will see him destroyed, Warden, this I promise. Now what about this spy? Is he well guarded?”

“Sten and Ragnar have him secured by the tavern,” the Warden explained. The rest of his companions were supervising the militia in their final preparations for tonight’s attack. “I doubt he knows anything about the inner workings of Loghain’s plots; he’s not a professional spy, just some catspaw they enlisted to snoop on Redcliffe.”

“And, given that he’s an elf, most of the Landsmeet would not accept him as a reliable source of testimony,” the Bann admitted wryly. “What would you have me do with him?”

“Redcliffe is still under threat,” Sagramor reminded him, “and we need all the help we can get. Have him fight with the militia. He knows his survival depends on his cooperation, and he has no real loyalty to either Loghain or Howe. If he lives through the night, we can decide his fate then.”

Teagan nodded. “It seems our enemies multiply with each passing day, Warden. Maker only knows what further evil Loghain is planning…”

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

Angrily, Loghain took the latest stack of reports from his desk and hurled them into the office hearth. “Ingrates!” he snarled, watching as the fire licked away at the parchments, their vexing words consigned to the flames like the bodies of the fallen. Storming back to the desk, the Teryn reached for the wine bottle, pouring himself another goblet. Is this what Ferelden’s been reduced to? Shirkers, cowards and traitors?

Orlais was moving. The border had been sealed, and its ships were being seized or turned away, but still the Empress’ agents had managed to stir up revolt. From across Ferelden, the decrees he’d sent out for men, money and resources were being met with disloyalty. Noble after noble sent missives pleading they were unable to meet the tasks expected of them, and more still used the threat of darkspawn raids as an excuse to disobey his commands. Some, like Bann Telman, had actually rebelled outright against his new order, raising men in preparation for what was fast becoming a civil war. There were even demands that he step down from the regency, an act he was certain would play into Orlesian hands. And all this while Celene sent letter after letter demanding the border be opened, and questions about Ostagar assailed him at every turn, and beneath every rock and hovel, fresh treasons continued to be spouted by the ignorant masses. Fools. How long have I defended Ferelden against all her enemies, and this is how they repay me? Their obedience is owed to me. How dare they offer anything less?

He was not standing idly by, of course. In both Denerim and afield, his men worked tirelessly to root out the traitors wherever they raised their ugly heads. The Hard Line had proven useful, disrupting the enemy’s warmaking abilities and sowing terror throughout the Bannorn, while in Denerim, Howe’s men dragged prisoner after prisoner to the cells of Fort Drakon: intellectuals, merchants, poets, guild members, guardsmen, common citizens, anyone who sought to undermine his regency with either words or deeds.

And yet the greatest of them still remains, Loghain reminded himself, staring balefully at the wanted poster on his desk. A knock sounded on the door to his chamber, and he gave a great pull of the goblet. “Come!”

“I hope I am not intruding, my lord,” Arl Rendon Howe said obsequiously, slipping into the room with all the grace of a viper. The nobleman caught sight of the wanted poster, inspiring a cruel smile. “Does it meet with your approval?”

Loghain grunted in affirmation, looking over the descriptions of Sagramor Tabris and his company. The squad he had sent to Lothering to hunt down any fugitives had returned to the capital, chastened and beaten, but bearing information about the surviving Wardens, a small victory that kept him from ordering their painful executions for failure. “You gave him a name. Why?”

“All infamous outlaws possess sobriquets, my lord, so as increase their notoriety and inspire the common rabble to pursue them,” Howe explained, oozing over to the table. “Besides, I think ‘the Grey Wolf of Denerim’ has a good ring to it, don’t you think?”

Inwardly, Loghain had to concede the point. No beast was the source of great fear and revulsion for the ordinary Fereldan than the wolf; the great werewolf plague of the Black Age was a key fixture in the nation’s cultural memory, and even centuries later, people associated the common beasts with their lycanthropic brethren. Connecting the elven Warden with such a beast would do more to inspire would-be bounty hunters than even the greatest of monetary rewards. Still… “Raise the bounty on the Wardens to five hundred sovereigns. That should rouse the countryside against them. What of your plans involving the Chantry? Anything to report?”

“The Revered Mother Hale has expressed a desire to see me, my lord,” Howe replied smoothly. “I do believe I’ll be able to convince her to aid us.”

“Good.” Loghain was no friend of the Chantry; it was an Orlesian creation, after all, and he remembered how the Usurper’s reign had been propped up by sycophantic priests like Grand Cleric Bronach. Only the need to preserve his own reign made Howe’s suggestion an appealing one, and he was relieved at last that it was starting to bear fruit. “Anything else?”

“About the Wardens, my lord… I believe I have a more immediate solution than simply waiting for the peasantry to try and collect the bounty.”

“And what would that be, Rendon? Upon which well-considered scheme are we to place our hopes now?”

“I believe I can answer that.”

The voice was new, tinged with the smooth, foreign accent of distant Antiva, and Loghain whirled about as the newcomer entered the office, striding in with a confidence that bordered on sheer arrogance. It was an elf, slender and lanky like most of his breed, his olive skin decorated with swirling tattoos about his face and bare arms, dirty blonde hair hanging loosely to his collarbone. His leather armour looked to be of fine make, and the multiplicity of empty scabbards strapped to his swordbelt, bandoliers and across his back stood in testament to his skill and love of blades. A quartet of knights escorted the newcomer in, each with naked swords in their hands and fearful contempt in their eyes, but the elf took no notice, observing the Teryn with calm green eyes. This was a proud figure Howe had elected to present before him, and Loghain found himself wishing someone would puncture that self-assuredness and leave the elf humbled in the dust. “The Antivan Crows send their regards.”

“An assassin?” Loghain spat, not bothering to conceal his disgust for the trade. A true man, a true soldier did not have to rely on poison, or striking from the shadows against an unprepared target, or infiltrate in disguise when they should proclaim their allegiance proudly. Why am I not surprised Howe would consider employing such creatures? This one in particular seemed too smooth, too oily, more like some pampered courtesan than a trained killer, and he had serious doubts he’d be worth the expense. “You truly think this wise, Howe?”

“Against Grey Wardens, sire, we will need the very best.”

The elf chuckled, drawing every eye in the room. “And the most expensive.”

In that moment, Loghain nearly ordered Howe’s execution. He had sacrificed so much for the sake of Ferelden, but this was a step too far. To employ such creatures, as if he was some spineless Orlesian courtier looking to remove a rival, how could this be asked of him? Howe was a useful ally, but a despicable one, and he couldn’t help but think it was in his best interest to remove the simpering worm before it was too late.

Too late for what? Loghain reminded himself, taking his misgivings and burying them deep, as he had so many times before. Ferelden was at war and fighting for its very survival, not against the darkspawn threat that mostly existed in Cailan’s fancies, but against Orlais and those who would choose the Empire’s profits over Ferelden’s freedom. He had resolved to defend her whatever the cost, and better he sacrifice every principle he believed in and every life he had sworn to protect rather than permit a single chevalier to step foot on Ferelden’s soil. Better Ferelden burn to the ground than be conquered. In the face of that, his misgivings were nothing. And who knows? Maybe this foreign wretch will prove adequate for the task? “A single Crow against the Wardens? Even you might find that difficult.”

“Ahh, but I am not alone here,” said the assassin, smiling brightly. “My compatriot Taliesen and I each have our own bands of assassins at our disposal to support. I think you’ll be more than happy with the quality of service we provide.”

I’d better, Loghain thought. The Antivan Crows were a legendary assassin’s guild, and their prices reflected their infamy. But if it meant eliminating the traitorous Wardens and making Ferelden secure, then what was mere gold compared to that? “Just get it done. Make sure this ‘Grey Wolf of Denerim’ and his companions undermine my rule no longer.”

“As you will then, Teryn Loghain,” Zevran Arainai remarked with a smile, bowing low. “Those you wish slain will fall. You have my word…”

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

Time passed slowly as the inhabitants of Redcliffe Village waited for the fall of night and their ordeal to begin again. Their weapons repaired, many of the defenders took what sleep they could, while others bolstered their courage with mead and ale. Within the chantry, the Revered Mother led the congregation, knights and militiamen included, in praying to the Maker for deliverance, while other men took the time to say farewell to their families, convinced that their hour of reckoning was upon them. At the fifth bell, the defenders gathered for one last hot meal before battle, leaving only a skeleton defence watching the castle for signs of the enemy.

Sagramor and his companions had done their work well; the defenders were well-prepared given the circumstances, and thanks to Morrigan’s analysis, they now understood the true nature of their foe and had some surprises lying in wait. Her rudimentary healing magic had also done its work restoring some of the more badly-wounded fighters to fighting condition, adding more men to their ranks. Yet as Sagramor walked amongst the knights and militiamen that crowded the town square, he could sense their fear over the coming onslaught, a malaise which threatened to rob them of their spirit. “It’s the Arl,” Ser Perth explained.

“They fear for his safety,” Sagramor expressed.

“And they fear what it means if he perishes,” Perth elaborated. He was a good-looking man in his late twenties; loyal, devout and chivalrous, almost the textbook example of the chivalric ideals of knighthood. He’d accepted Sagramor’s inability to convince the Revered Mother easily enough, and now toured the ranks of the militia alongside Bann Teagan and the Warden’s company, worried with what he saw there. “The Arl has been a good ruler, Grey Warden, and he’s governed here since the end of the Rebellion, so for many, is as much a part of Redcliffe as the castle itself. And with both Loghain and the Blight threatening, they are worried what will become of this place without his wisdom and strength to guide us. I mean no disrespect, Bann Teagan, but--”

“There’s no need to apologize, Ser Perth,” admitted the Bann. “My brother works hard to win the loyalty and trust of his people. There’s no shame in saying they’d prefer it if he was here and whole again.”

“Perhaps a few words might steady their resolve, Bann Teagan?” Sagramor suggested.

Nodding, the Bann cleared his throat. “If I could have your attention?” the nobleman boomed, his voice sounding clear through the hubbub of anxious voices and drawing all eyes to him. ”Tonight, we do battle once again, for the sake of Redcliffe and all those we hold dear. I know this has not been easy for you, and like you, I fear what has become of Arl Eamon. But night after night, we have endured, and tonight, I mean to strike a blow that will send our enemy reeling back to whence it came!”

Scattered cheers sounded from amongst the defenders. As grim as the situation seemed, the people of Redcliffe still trusted Bann Teagan to get them through safely. Even so, more than a few still looked dubious about the prospect of battle, Dwyn chief among them.

“And remember that we are not alone in this fight!” Teagan exclaimed, gesturing towards Sagramor and his companions. The Bann had Sagramor and Alistair had donned their Warden tabards once again in hopes of improving morale, a request the two men, proud of their presence in the Order, were more than happy to carry out. “The Grey Wardens of Ferelden have come to our aid, and with their support, we shall defeat this evil, once and for all.”

“You mean we’re to trust a knife-ear to protect us?! Witches and heathens too?!” a voice shouted from the back of the crowd. At his side, Sagramor’s companions stared resentfully towards the speaker, fuming with indignation. To the elf’s pleasant surprise, so was Bann Teagan, looking very disappointed at such insults being thrown at the newcomers.

And then, to the astonishment of all, Sagramor began to laugh. “So you’d rather die than accept the aid of those different from you? You’d sooner taste defeat and the destruction of all you care for than deign to enlist a knife-ear to your cause? I thought the men of Redcliffe had more sense than that.”

Grumbles sounded from amongst the defenders, but Sagramor pressed home. “So, yeah, I’m a knife-ear. My father works as a servant and my mother was a seamstress. Aside from the tabard at my breast and the sword at my back, there’s nothing in me worth a tinker’s damn, but I’ll stand for Redcliffe. I’ll fight for Redcliffe. I’ll die for Redcliffe! Are you, the people who call these lands you own, willing to do anything less?!”

“No!” came voices amongst the crowd.

“The enemy that lurks in that castle believes that you’ll all sheep: weak, helpless and ready for the slaughter. Are you going to prove it right? Are you going to bow down in despair when there are foes of Redcliffe waiting to be killed?”

“No!” More voices this time, angry voices, the voices of those tired of being frightened and too proud to accept defeat.

“Tonight, you fight for the helpless, for your women and children, for who cannot protect themselves from this evil. In the long nights to come, when your children and grandchildren beg a story of you, will you regale them with tales of how you shirked your duties and abandoned them to be slain? Will you recount how you surrendered to fear when even a knife-ear, a witch and a heathen fought on?”

“No!” the crowd shouted as one, fishermen and longshoremen and farmers and woodcutters and labourers and traders and knights and millers all united in furious defiance.

“Your Arl lies trapped in that castle,” Sagramor reminded them, pointing upwards to the looming fortress. “Helpless, sick, alone. When he is freed, and his health returns to him, will you tell him of how you failed him in his time of need? Will you stand before your liege lord, and speak of how you left your oaths unfulfilled?”

“No!” came the roar of the defenders, loud enough to roust birds from the trees and echo across the still waters of Lake Calenhad.

“Then stand with us! Tonight, we remind all the enemies of Ferelden that we remain unbowed and unbroken. Tonight, we set right the wrongs that plague Redcliffe. Tonight, we write a legend that will endure until the Maker’s return. Victory to Redcliffe, and death to her foes! Death!”

“Death!” Redcliffe’s forces took up the cry, cheering and hollering, their hopes restored.

Astonished, Bann Teagan could only watch as the defenders readied themselves for battle with a fiery determination, many nodding to the Wardens in respect as they went about their duties. “I’m-- I’m impressed, Warden,” he finally managed to croak out.

Smiling bashfully, Sagramor gave a small shrug at the compliment. “It’s just what we do, Bann Teagan.”

“Apparently so,” the Bann remarked, the memories of battles past flooding over him. Over thirty years ago, he stood as a squire to his brother on another battlefield and watched as another dark-haired man of Ferelden rallied his countrymen in the face of desperate odds, and just as then, the embers of hope burst to new flame within him. “If we survive this night, it will be because of your efforts.”

“If?” questioned the elf, giving a reassuring smile. “There’s no ‘if’ here tonight, my lord. Redcliffe will be victorious. No other outcome is acceptable.”

“Then let us make it so,” the Bann replied. We’ll set things right, brother. I swear it!

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

The light began to dim.

To the west, the sun began to creep behind the endless peaks of the Frostback Mountains, throwing long shadows over Redcliffe and washing the sky red. Within the chantry, some of the village women began beseeching the Maker to bring their loved ones home, while at the barricades on the cliffs and before the chantry doors, an expectant hush fell over the several score defenders, as they waited with baited breath for the madness to begin again.

Sagramor made one final tour of the chantry, offering words of encouragement and noting with relief how the barricades within had been reinforced. They would need to be; the only fighters present were Bann Teagan and those knights and militiamen too badly injured for Morrigan’s magic to heal. “We’ll keep the enemy out of here, Bann Teagan.”

“With you aiding us, Warden, I have no doubt,” Teagan replied, gazing in shame at his broken arm. “Were it not for my injuries…”

“You don’t want to order anyone to do something you’re not capable of doing yourself, I understand. That’s what it means to be a good leader. But you have nothing to prove, my lord,” the elf consoled him. “It would be an honour to fight beside you tonight, but throwing badly wounded men into the meat grinder won’t help matters. I will look out for your people, I swear it.”

“I know, and thank you. Whatever happens this night, we won’t forget all you’ve done for us. Your Order will always have a friend in Redcliffe, I promise you.”

“And Alistair too, I hope,” said the elf, recalling the bad blood between him and the Arlessa.

“Without a doubt.” The two men shook hands. “May the Maker watch over you, Grey Warden.”

“And you, Bann of Rainesfere.”

There was one last person Sagramor needed to speak to before battle commenced, and he found her in one of the side chapels, kneeling in prayer before a votive image of Andraste. “I’m not intruding, I hope?” the Warden asked, watching as Leliana’s hair gleamed in the light of the candles.

“Not at all,” the Orlesian woman replied, genuflecting towards the serene image of the Prophet before rising to join the elf. “Are you ready?”

“More or less. The others are waiting for us by the windmill. And what about you? Prepared for a long fight?”

“I am. These people are counting on us, I have arrows enough, and the Maker is with us. You were right; victory is the only outcome worth having tonight. And thank you for the sword too, it’s a better fit for me than the one I took from Loghain’s men.”

“Happy to hear that,” said the elf, pleased with that decision, even as he keenly felt the absence of his coin pouch. Maybe Bann Teagan would be willing to keep us supplied? Assuming of course we survive this. “Something’s been puzzling me, Leliana.”

“What do you mean?”

“Back there in the tavern, how did you know that Berwick was a spy? I mean, I’m grateful that you did: we have enough to deal with before bringing agents of Loghain into the mix, but… I took a bit of a risk back there, interrogating him like that. He was a spy, but if he wasn’t?” Sagramor let the question hang for a moment as Leliana shifted uncomfortably in her leather armour. “Did you recognize Berwick from somewhere? Is that how you knew he was lying?”

“No, I’d never seen him before. It’s--” Leliana turned away from him, arms crossed beneath her breasts, and Sagramor timidly reached out to her, worried at this sudden melancholy. “Sagramor?” she whispered, his name a plea. “Have you ever made a mistake so terrible you’d do anything to change it?”

Sagramor closed his eyes, the guilt that came with the horror Shianni experienced striking with a lance’s force, as it always did. “Yes.”

“What was it?”

I don’t want to talk about it! the Warden snapped inwardly, forcing himself to remain calm. “I… let someone down, someone very close to me. I failed her when she needed me the most,” he said, throat swelling shut in grief.

Leliana accepted this, respecting his privacy enough to dig any deeper. “I once trusted someone so blindly that I let her bring me to ruin, and hurt so many people in the process. I know liars, Warden, and I know the harm they can bring.”

“I—I’m sorry,” stuttered the elf. “I should not have pried.”

“Don’t be,” Leliana responded, returning to her usual serene, composed self before he could blink. “It must have been difficult, yes? Accusing one of your own people like that?”

“It was. But Berwick chose to take Loghain’s coin, Leliana, so as far as I’m concerned, that makes him no kin of mine. Only thing worse than being killed by humans is becoming their lapdog.”

“So I see. Well, I should get in position, Sagramor. If the villagers are right, then the attack will come soon.”

“Fair enough. Maker bless and keep you, Leliana. Please, stay safe.”

“And you,” Leliana replied, squeezing his hand gently. The Warden watched her as she departed, the red-haired archer stopping to wish Kaitlyn and Bevin well on her way, before he turned back to the altar, the stern visage of Andraste staring back at him. Falling to his knees, Sagramor began to pray, screwing his eyes tight as if the sheer urgency of his prayer would speed it to the Maker’s side.

Maker, I beseech you, watch over us. Grant that my companions see the dawn, safe and unharmed from the terrors that seek to destroy this place. Grant too that the people of Redcliffe are saved, and that Leliana finds forgiveness from whatever lies in her past.

And grant us victory, Maker, I beg you. Let me taste success after so many days of failure and desperation. Give me a chance to set things right again, and prove myself worthy of Your grace and their trust. Let me be worth something again.

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

Night fell, and with it, the great doors to the Redcliffe chantry were barred. At the barricades in the village square, Murdock ordered fires lit, the oil-soaked braziers unveiling the darkness about them and casting the light in which to see the enemy. By the windmill, Ser Perth led his fellow knights in an oath of moment to Redcliffe and the Arl, armoured fists ringing harsh notes off their pauldrons in time to his words. The Warden and his companions stood beside them, and Sagramor took a second to observe how his comrades fared. At his right hand, Alistair paced nervously, gripped about his longsword, while to his left, Leliana calmly nocked an arrow to her bowstring, the broadhead bound in cotton tow and soaked with pitch. At their left flank, where the relative narrowness of the cliffside path began to open up to the clearing surrounding the mill, Sten had made his stand, as remorseless and immovable as a castle wall, murmuring a soft, dirge-like chant in the Qunari tongue. Behind them all stood Morrigan, the sorceress aloof and dispassionate, like she were assessing taxes rather than readying for battle, while Ragnar had evidently found a tree worthy of his attention.

Typical behaviour from all of them. Nothing you need to worry about, the Warden told himself, breathing evenly as he drew his greatsword, grey eyes fixed challengingly on the castle. We’re ready, and we’re not afraid of you. So come have a go if you think you’re hard enough, because you won’t win here. Not while we breathe.

And perhaps whatever malignant intelligence that now governed in Castle Redcliffe sensed his defiance, for with a thunderous crash, the drawbridge of the fortress’ outer gate came down, and the first of the shrieks split through the night air.

“Oh, wonderful,” Morrigan remarked dryly, lightning crackling from the tip of her staff. “This should be a pleasant evening.”

“They’re coming!” Ser Perth shouted, drawing his own greatsword. “Take your positions, courage now!”

“Hold the line, men of Redcliffe!” Sagramor boomed. “By their deaths, they shall know us!”
And with their shrieks echoing across the length and breadth of Redcliffe, the first of the undead charged the Warden’s position…