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 Sixteen: The Defense of Redcliffe

Much like the darkspawn at Ostagar, the undead that infested Redcliffe Castle did not descend towards the village in an orderly, regimented fashion. Instead, they thundered down the wide cliffside path full tilt, a seething, necrotic tide, heedless of anything but their accursed hungers and their maddened hatred against the living. Like the servant girl Morrigan had dissected, the attackers had been altered by the dark power that held the castle, their flesh twisted and mutated to better serve the Fade entities parasitically lurking within. Servants, grooms, soldiers, stablehands, kitchen staff: all taken and reforged into these nightmares, and Sagramor suppressed a shudder, uncomfortably reminded of the ghouls that had waylaid him and Duncan what seemed like a lifetime ago. Some of the enemy bore the scars of past fighting, even gaping wounds that would have incapacitated a living fighter. The first of the undead bounded towards the elf, desiccated flesh bearing the weight of a Templar’s breastplate, and the Warden’s greatsword scythed through its neck like rotten wood. “Into them!” Sagramor roared, moving to confront the next foe. “Get into them!”

Roaring, his companions and the knights stormed into the fray, the latter swiftly locking their shields together to resist the onslaught, mutated limbs clawing away at iron and wood. In the waning hours of daylight, Ser Perth and his fellows had assembled a hasty barricade from broken furniture as a chokepoint to keep the enemy at bay. It was not as sturdy as those built by Cailan’s army at Ostagar, but it served to obstruct the undead attack nonetheless, the defenders scoring easy kills as the enemy tried to clamber over it. Behind the main pack, two of the undead vanished beneath the searing eldritch touch of Morrigan’s magic, spirit energies blasting them to dust, while one hapless foe made the mistake of charging Sten’s position, and was scythed apart for its efforts. More undead surged towards the bottleneck, their sheer weight of numbers splintering the barricade, and Sagramor saw his chance. “Leliana, now!”

Of all the defenders stationed by the windmill, Leliana alone had not held the line at the barricade. Instead, as the undead approached, the Orlesian woman fell back to the mill’s second floor balcony, giving her both a commanding view of the area and a burning brazier at her side. The barricade shattered, spilling forth undead like termites from a rotten log, and the knights gave a great shout, thrusting the monsters back. Leliana remained focused, swiftly wrapping a wet cloth around her left hand, before drawing the first of her arrows and plunging the cotton-covered broadhead into the flames. Again, the undead surged forward, and Morrigan sent a wave of force crashing into the front rank, hurling them away. “Pull back!” Sagramor shouted, fearing he had left it too late, but then Leliana’s fire arrow took flight, and the trap was finally sprung.

Despite the damage it had suffered over the past few days, Redcliffe was still rich in many goods, including a great quantity of lamp oil held at the village’s general store. In the hours before nightfall, two large barrels worth had been poured all over the barricade and the surrounding ground. A sentient opponent would have noticed how sodden the ground was, caught the overpowering stench as they approached, but the undead lacked anything but the overwhelming, unstoppable need to kill, and so were conveniently bunched up and ignorant of the danger when the fire arrow buried itself into the oil-soaked wood.

With a sudden crackle, fire burst to life across the mouth of the path, swallowing dozens of the undead whole. The shrieks of the enemy were suddenly drowned out by the roar of the flames, and the defenders cheered triumphantly as those undead already aflame ran heedlessly into their fellows, spreading it yet further. “Let them burn!” Sagramor ordered, smiling proudly at the red-haired archer. “Let the fires do their work!” The knights roared in affirmation, turning their blades to the few undead who had managed to clear the barricade before it went up. The attack had stalled, those that remained of the first wave struggling to circumvent the flames, but Alistair had not stinted on the oil, and the sides of the path where the ground sloped up towards the cliff wall were ablaze as well.

But that was not the end of them. “To the right! Up on the cliffs!” Leliana cried out in warning, sending a second fire arrow towards the threat. Struck head-on by the missile, another of the undead perished, its burning body plummeting down the cliff and illuminating an additional score of the monsters scuttling down its face like spiders. More still hurled themselves off the fifty-foot cliff towards the defenders, as if an irate child was upending its toybox and scattering her dolls all over the floor, the undead ignoring their shattered limbs and ruined bodies in their haste to kill.

One of the knights, Ser Garth, was the first to die, an undead man-at-arms landing right on top of him and tearing him asunder before the others could react. “Keep that firewall going, Morrigan!” Sagramor ordered, moving to reinforce the faltering right flank. A corpse in the garb of a schoolteacher rose to meet him on broken legs, and the elf extinguished its ghastly shrieking on the point of his greatsword. The battle was shifting now, the flow of undead reinforcements diverting away from the path blocked by the firewall to attack from the cliffs, and for the next few minutes, it was all Sagramor and company could do to beat back the tide.

“Push them back!” Sagramor barked, his greatsword cleaving through limbs and heads alike, grey eyes alight with the terrible joy of battle. It was tempting to lose himself wholly in the fight, but with command came responsibility, so with great effort the elf forced himself to remain focused on the larger confrontation. At his side, Alistair called upon his Templar abilities, sudden white light blasting apart a knot of the undead and leaving them easy prey for his longsword. The agonized wails of the foe as lightning blasted them apart signalled Morrigan had shifted her magic away from the firewall, and at Sten’s feet, a growing mound of severed and broken bodies had begun to pile up. “We’re winning!” the Warden shouted above the din, cutting another zombie down. “Keep pressing!”

“Sagramor!” Leliana screamed from the windmill, and Sagramor turned to see the fire arrow arc towards the heavens before its flame guttered and died.

And it had come not from Leliana’s bow, but rather from the defenders outside the Chantry. It was the agreed upon signal to be given when the militia engaged the enemy, and Sagramor shoved aside his fear before it could take root. They had acknowledged the possibility of a battle on two fronts, and prepared for it, and Sagramor knew what must be done. “Alright, people, the village needs us! My company, with me! Ser Perth, can you and your knights hold the path?”

Grunting, the knight pinned a writhing, screeching zombie to the earth with his sword before staving in its skull with a single, vicious stomp. “We have this! Go! Protect the villagers!”

“Rally to me!” shouted the elf, making sure the rest of the company had broken free of the fight before turning to go himself, glimpsing the knights form a new shieldwall over Ser Garth’s body as the next wave of undead struck. Maker be with you, Ser Perth, he prayed inwardly, rushing down the hill alongside his companions. May He be with us all tonight.

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Bann Teagan heard the first of the shrieks from outside the chantry, and as he had every night since the attacks began, uttered a soft prayer that the lives of their protectors be spared. All around him, Redcliffe’s civilians had gone quiet, as if a single scream would invite the enemy to break through; women and children holding each other close, the badly wounded straining to rise from their sickbeds, the fervent prayers of the priestesses reduced to a desperate, frantic plea. The nobleman began to pace anxiously, left hand going for the longsword at his belt, his right arm still bound and splinted and utterly useless. Damn this arm! Would that I was whole and fit again… he growled inwardly, the sound of militiamen crying out in pain beyond the chantry’s heavy doors almost more than he could bear. He understood there was nothing more he could do for Redcliffe tonight; he was still too badly injured to survive long in the raging melee outside, and should he fall, there would be no one left to govern the arling in his brother’s stead and contest Loghain’s tyranny in the Landsmeet.

But Rendorn Guerrin had raised his sons well before the threat of Orlesian reprisal forced him to send them to the Free Marches for their protection, and nowhere in his lessons was cowering in safety while one’s subordinates fought and died deemed appropriate. Honour demanded he rush out to aid in the defense, broken arm be damned. Common sense warned him otherwise, and the nobleman continued his worried pacing, the two impulses in his soul tugging away at each other until in his mind’s eye every choice promised to end in Redcliffe’s destruction.

“Might I interest you in some pear brandy, my lord?” came the voice of Bodahn, and Teagan turned to see the merchant produce a small clay bottle. “You look like you need your nerves settled.”

“No, thank you, ser dwarf,” Teagan refused, glancing over to the bench where an exceedingly hungover Owen was cradling his head in his hands. “I should probably keep my wits about me.”

“Fair enough, my lord. Perhaps we can save it to toast our victory, then?”

The nobleman gave a grim smile. “I must say, you seem oddly composed given our situation, Bodahn.”

“Tell you the truth, my lord, I’ve shivering in my breeches, if you’ll pardon the vulgarity,” said Bodahn, giving an exaggerated shudder. “But the Wardens will see things right again, you mark my words. And the children are frightened enough without any weeping and wailing on my part.”

“Your son seems to be handling it well enough,” Teagan remarked, spotting Sandal sitting contentedly by the altar, a strange round stone in his hands.

“Oh, let Sandal work on one of his enchantments, and he hasn’t a care in the world,” Bodahn explained, Sandal jerking his head towards them at the mention of his name. “Would that we had some more lyrium with us, he could have enchanted some of your men’s weapons.”

“Enchantment!” the dwarven boy shouted gleefully, provoking a barrage of demands for silence from the terrified villagers.

“I should thank you, by the way, for donating your spare weapons to the militia. Few merchants would have parted with them without asking a heavy price.”

“Merely wish we had more to offer, my lord,” Bodahn stated, face turning ashen as the sounds of battle intensified, gaze fixed on the bottle of brandy. “Well, if you’re not going to…”

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The foul curse that had rooted itself in the heart of Redcliffe Castle had grown strong in the nights since its inception, its reach widening with every passing sunset. From the lightless waters of Lake Calenhad, the undead emerged to strike towards the chantry, the first of their number greeted with the snap of bowstrings and the hiss of arrows taking flight. Some of the undead had been servants and guards at the castle in life, Morrigan’s scornful suggestion that they were throwing themselves off the battlements and into the lake not far from the truth. Others were older still: the bodies of fishermen lost in storms or accidents over the centuries, victims of drownings, even those who had took their own lives in the face of broken hearts, failed ventures and family tragedies. All had become nothing more than decaying puppets, rotting sacks of meat to be filled by the nightmares that had seized the castle.

And then there were the dead of wars past. Redcliffe held a vital strategic position defending the Ferelden, particularly from threats to the west, and more than one enemy general had seen his dreams of conquest shattered against its walls. No foe could truly control Ferelden without taking Redcliffe in the process, and over the centuries, thousands had perished trying to do just that.

Not all of the fallen had received a proper Andrastian cremation either. When the Orlesians conquered Ferelden in the Blessed Age, the Arl of Redcliffe bent the knee to the invaders, but not all of his knights and soldiers followed their master’s example, deserting his service to continue the fight elsewhere. These men, labelled traitors by the conquerors from the west, were hunted down like beasts and executed in brutal displays meant to cow the populace into submission. One of these rebels, a knight of Redcliffe named Ser Frederic, suffered the worst out of all. The Orlesians had buried him alive, wrists and ankles bound with leather strips to keep him from fighting back, an upturned shield placed over his chest and filled with stones to halt his struggles, his greatsword sheathed and peace-bound next to him in the coffin as a final mocking gesture. It had not been a quick death, or an easy one, and between the changing of the seasons and the deliberate efforts by the Orlesians to obscure the grave, it had lain undiscovered and undisturbed all those long years, even after the Empire was forced out of Ferelden.

Ser Frederic had been a tireless servant of the Crown in his life, loved by the common folk and devoted to the people of Redcliffe. He had died defying the enemy to his last breath, never bending to the enemy’s will, and for the latest spirit to emerge from the darkened castle, nothing less would suffice to contain its majesty, its arrogance…

Its pride…

On a distant hill, a clawed, skeletal hand suddenly burst from the earth, the bindings at its wrists torn away with a strength that defied all reason. Eldritch light suffused the old bones, filling them with an unholy durability, while from beneath the decrepit helm, twin hateful pinpricks of red stared out towards the defenders. The greatsword, left rusted after all these years, was torn free from the decaying scabbard, and with a rumble like grinding metal, the beast reborn in the rebel knight’s bones slouched towards the fray. The lesser spirits would play their part, grinding the defenders’ resolve down to nothing. But the true victory would be its alone…  

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By the time Sagramor and company reached the bottom of the hill, several dozen undead had already risen from the water’s edge and were pressing hard against the defenders around the chanty. The militia fought back just as hard, the thought of their families and loved ones taken by the monsters spurring them on. Morrigan’s healing magic and the reinforcements Sagramor had recruited had bolstered their numbers to a full two score, and thanks to Owen’s repairs, they were now far better equipped than in past attacks. No oil had been poured around their defenses; their supply was not sufficient to cover the militia’s entire frontage, and the risk of accidently burning down the village was deemed too great. Instead, a multitude of torches had been mounted on poles around the sturdy barricade to illuminate the surrounding ground and offer the defenders light beneath which to fight. From behind their makeshift rampart, spears and pikes thrust out, the militiamen using their superior reach to keep the enemy back. Those undead that managed to fight their way past and clamber over the barricade faced more militiamen armed with axes, swords and hammers, Owen’s efforts paying for themselves with every strike. But such losses did not deter the undead, and still they threw themselves at the defenders, clawed hands ripping away timbers, seizing at pikeshafts, tearing through flesh.

At the militia’s right flank, some of the corpses managed to claw their way over, tearing the nearest militia fighter to shreds, only for Dwyn to beat them back in a savage counterattack, the dwarf’s blood roused for the slaughter. More arrows flew, but the undead endured the steel-tipped storm, some fighting on with four or five shafts lodged in their decaying bodies. Over the tumult of cursing men, howling monsters and striking weapons, Murdock urged his fellows on in the name of their families, their Arl and Redcliffe itself.

Such was the maddened fury of the undead that in their haste to break through to the chantry, they had utterly failed to guard against a strike from the rear. The militia cheered as the Wardens struck home, their griffon tabards illuminated by the light of the torches in the town square, Leliana’s arrows and Morrigan’s spells at the van of their counterattack. Bright steel flashed in the firelight, and more undead fell, hewn apart by greatswords and blasted away by Alistair’s Templar powers. “Let’s hope Ser Perth can hold them at the mill!” Alistair shouted, the strain of employing his anti-magics clearly taking their toll. “We won’t be able to disengage from this if he needs help!”

“Didn’t intend to,” Sagramor reminded him. “Try to draw them away from the barricade!”

The militia were taking casualties now, the sheer numbers of the undead beginning to take their toll. Yet they held firm, the anvil to the hammer of the Wardens, and caught between the two forces, the enemy began to crumble. At the rear of the undead swarm, the warriors literally carved a path through the enemy, splitting their host in two with the edge of their blades. From behind the barricades, the militia sailed forth at Murdock’s order, shields locked together at the centre, men with polearms thrusting at the flanks.

The undead still had the advantage of numbers, and would not die easily. A clawed hand slashed out at Sagramor’s eyes, and the elf dodged back, greatsword coming up to sever the offending limb. Another zombie rushed him from the corner of his eye, too fast to react to, claws shrieking upon the steel pauldron and throwing him violently onto his back. Desperately, Sagramor kicked out, knocking the beast away, but it was barely affected, scrambling back up, crawling forward on all four limbs like an animal to pounce once again. Sten’s blade reached it first, however, the Qunari warrior not even glancing at Sagramor as he clinically sliced off the assailant’s head, seemingly deaf to the Warden’s thanks as he moved onto the next target.

And then, one by one, the torches illuminating the village square guttered out and died, plunging the battle into darkness. It was one of the militiamen who saw them first; shadows that moved of their own accord, shadows that lived even with the light died, black as smoke and insubstantial as mist, save for the throbbing sickly white light that guided their passage. Said militia fighter was the first to die, their wraith-like fingers cutting with a dagger’s keenness even as they froze the very blood in his veins, and more followed, the militia starting to panic as comrades perished silently, dead before they were even aware of the danger.

Uttering words of power, Morrigan cast an orb of light into the sky, exposing the battlefield once more and revealing the creatures that had thrown their counterattack into disarray. “Shades!” spat the apostate, gathering lightning to her breast and sending it lancing forth from the tips of her fingers. Shades screeched in agony, wilting and burning at the touch of her magic, and her golden eyes turned towards the terrified militia, pitiless in their contempt. “Stand and fight! They die much as any other foe! Fight!”

In the space of moments, the fortunes of battle had turned against the defenders, the undead and their shade reinforcements threatening to overwhelm the struggling militia. Feeling their efforts wobbling on the knife’s edge between survival and disaster, Sagramor took the initiative, not waiting to see if the others were with him as he charged the nearest of the shades. Uttering a ghostly hiss, the spirit rose up to meet the challenge, and the elf gasped in shock as it raked his side, his chainmail doing nothing to protect against the sudden, vicious cold that came with the blow. With a growl, the elf plunged his greatsword into the shade’s cyclopean eye and was rewarded with a screech of agony as it folded away into nothing.

His companions too were locked in battle, mortal skill and steel tested against unliving spirit and flesh, and before them all, cut off from the rest by the encircling foe, stood Morrigan, eldritch light gathering in her hands. “Morrigan!” shouted Sagramor, battering aside undead in his haste to reach her. Another zombie attempted to blindside the girl, only for Leliana’s next arrow to send it hurtling away, ablaze. With a cry, Morrigan unleashed her spell, sending shards of spirit energy slicing through the densely-packed enemy, striking down many, but there were always more. To his horror, Sagramor watched as the first of the undead struck her to the ground, her vengeful cries continuing even as yet more descended upon her. “Morrigan!”

And then Morrigan exploded.

There was no other way to describe it. From beneath the pile of shrieking undead, the apostate girl burst outwards in a flash of light, throwing the foe like straw dolls. Morrigan had vanished, and in her place stood an immense bear, claws already wet with undead gore, great muscles writhing beneath its fur like serpents in a torrid affair to shrug off the corpses that vainly tried to restrain her. Perhaps the demons were drawn to the scent of her magic, or more likely, they simply recognized her as the greatest threat. In either event, the effect was immediate, as undead and shades alike turned their efforts on the rampaging shapeshifter.

Roaring, Morrigan took up the challenge, ploughing through walking corpses, great claws scything them apart. Leliana and Sagramor finished off those undead left scattered by the initial transformation, while the rest of the party followed in Morrigan’s wake, guarding her flanks and giving the militia a chance to rally behind the barricades. The sight of the Warden’s company holding back the tide was one that none of the defenders would ever forget, even unto the end of their days; five strangers and their dog fighting like demons for a land and people that were not their own, holding the line when too many others had run, utterly defiant in the face of death. Hope swelled with them, blocking out the fear and weariness, premature hope, perhaps, but hope all the same.

It was a hope easily crushed…

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The undead groom hurled itself at Alistair, clothes still bearing the reek of the castle stables. Grunting, he let his shield take the weight of the blow, thrusting low with his longsword beneath the rim. Squealing in agony, the creature collapsed, a follow-up slash to the neck putting it down once and for all, but there was always another will to test itself against his Warden training and Templar abilities. He had ceased to read the endless ebb and flow of the battle; whether they were winning or losing, he had no clue. The attack had become one great test of endurance for Alistair, the limits of his own strength as much a foe as the seemingly endless tide of undead and shades themselves, and with conscious effort, he forced himself to ignore the pain of his many small wounds, the ache in his upper body, how his longsword and shield seemed to be growing heavier and more unwieldy by the moment.

For an instant, he wondered if this was how Duncan and the other Wardens felt at Ostagar, overwhelmed against an ocean of monsters, and the pain of their loss returned, fresh and raw and rendered those of his wounds an irrelevancy. Maker, this isn’t the time to dwell on it! he scolded himself, countering a fresh blow, but his grief continued to hinder him, like some nagging sore that refused to heal. Angrily, he brought his Templar’s light to bear, sending iridescent shards scattering through the enemy ranks, spirits wailing and dying at their touch. I couldn’t make a difference for Duncan, but I can make one here! I won’t fail! Not again!

“Alistair, ‘ware!”  Sagramor shouted, and Alistair raised his shield, absorbing the blow of another shade. The elf’s greatsword carved a bloody trail through the creature’s back, causing it to writhe like a snake trapped beneath a hoe, and before the spirit could react to the new threat, Alistair plunged his own blade into its chest, extinguishing it for good. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” Alistair snapped, too angry with himself to recognize the elf’s concern. Here and now, his grief was a distraction, and such distractions could prove fatal on the battlefield. If Sagramor had not been there… “We need to pull back to the barricades, Sagramor; if the undead keep pressing like this, we’ll be cut off.”

“If we fall back now, they’ll be all over us,” Sagramor responded, taking down another of the undead in the process. “They stop attacking at daybreak, right? Then we need to buy some time and keep them as far away from the chantry as possible for as long as possible, if only to keep them from wearing the militia down.”

“They’re gonna wear us down if this keeps up!” the former Templar protested, muscles screaming as he brought up his shield to fend off yet another of the walking dead. There seemed no end to the enemies that poured from the castle and lake, and Alistair could see he was not the only one becoming exhausted from the relentless pace of battle. Leliana’s arrows were slowing now as the girl’s arms became tired and her quivers grew dry, while Sagramor himself had been left battered from the constant struggle himself. “Let’s pull back, and maybe we can--”

And then, in the blink of an eye, everything went terribly, disastrously wrong.

To the astonishment of the Wardens, one of the militiamen suddenly flew, catapulted outwards from amongst the packed ranks behind the barricade as if plucked away by an invisible hand, soaring over Alistair’s head with a terrified scream. From out of the darkness surrounding the village square, a skeletal hand intercepted his panicked flight, seizing him in midair, and with an almost calculated cruelty, snapping his neck. Sagramor was the first to see it; a beast shod in ancient bones and rusted steel, red light burning from where Ser Frederic’s eyes used to be, lurching into battle unburdened by the weight of greatsword and shield.

“Oh, Maker,” Alistair groaned, recognizing this newest foe from the bestiaries he’d been forced to memorize in his Templar training. With them had come warnings about the foolishness of engaging such beings unprepared, of how entire squads of Templars had gone to the Maker at the point of their blades, martyred in Andraste’s name by demons of pride cloaked in the corpses of men. Forgotten was the fate of the Wardens at Ostagar, his depleting stamina, or any grand strategy for surviving the night. If such a being was here, then none of it really mattered anymore. “Revenant!”

We’re dead. We’re so, so dead.

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The revenant’s left arm twitched, and one of Dwyn’s thugs was next to feel the touch of invisible talons, wrenching him from his employer’s side and pulling him onto the rusted blade, the old steel bisecting him in a vicious spray of gore. Murdock ordered a volley, and a dozen bows took up the call, sending arrows clattering harmlessly against its toughened bones and steed shield as it advanced towards the defenders. With a prayer to the Maker, Leliana loosed a shot of her own into the revenant’s face, but that only bought her a moment to leap away from the arcing greatsword, evading a blow that would have torn her asunder if it connected.

“Leliana!” Sagramor shouted, the threat sending him running to her aid. But with a speed its worn bones should not have possessed, the revenant brought up its shield, slamming into the elf in mid-sprint and hurtling him away to sprawl in the crimson dirt. With his last reserves of strength, Alistair brought his Templar anti-magics to bear once more. The revenant endured and retaliated in kind, greatsword biting deep into Alistair’s wooden shield with enough force to cut into the former Templar’s arm, drawing a scream of pain.

With a roar, Morrigan charged the revenant, several hundred pounds of muscle and fur and rage mercilessly bearing down on it, her sheer weight driving it back. Her right paw lashed out, the impact gouging the metal of its shield, while her second strike staggered the creature and exposed its head to a follow-up blow. The revenant recovered quickly, however, bringing its greatsword down in a massive slash that tore open the side of Morrigan’s face.

Howling in pain, the bear lashed out in a blind fury, blood pouring from the open wound. Like from something out of the practice yard, the revenant countered, shield raised to absorb the blow even as it plunged its sword into the shapeshifter’s exposed chest and out her back. To the horror of the defenders, it then lifted Morrigan over its head, limp and mortally wounded, demonic strength augmented by its telekinetic abilities to heft the massive bear like a sack of grain, and hurl her towards the defenders.

Militiamen scattered as the ursine missile crashed through the barricade, shattering it like matchwood and crushing those too slow to escape beneath the shapeshifter’s bulk. The lesser undead howled triumphantly, swarming over the defenders, filling the night with terrified screams. Rotting hands seized Sagramor’s neck, and the elf lashed out in panic, kicking the fiend away. “Get up!” Leliana cried, the Green Blade cutting down the next zombie that dared lay hands on him. The defenders’ formation had collapsed, their discipline giving way to the frantic struggle to survive, and the elf glimpsed the revenant stalking confidently towards the chantry, making a path at bladepoint, undead and shades moving to secure its passage and hold the desperate defenders back. Three more undead diverted to strike at Sagramor and Leliana, but Ragnar was at his master’s side, bestial fury unchained, tearing them to pieces. “Sagramor, look!”

For Morrigan yet lived. Badly wounded, bleeding freely, yet apparently unbowed, the shapeshifter rose on all four paws before the doors of the chantry, lips curled back in a defiant snarl as she prepared to make her last stand. “Protect her!” Sagramor barked, slashing off the arm of the nearest undead. Leliana plunged one of her last remaining fire arrows into the nearest brazier, snapping off a quick shot aimed at the revenant’s back, only for one of the lesser undead to dart in front of the missile and take the impact. At the other end of the square, Sten and Alistair came to the militia’s aid, the latter’s shield-arm hanging limply at his side.

At the foot of the chantry, the revenant drove its blade into the soil and hefted its shield at its back, facing Morrigan unarmed. Growling angrily, the shapeshifter lumbered forward into a charge, but the revenant had already brought its magicks to bear, seizing her in its telekinetic grip. Irresistible force meet immovable object, and for a moment, it seemed as if the revenant’s power would not prove sufficient. But in the end, it would not be denied. Uttering a final roar, Morrigan was cast aside a dozen feet, smashing through militia and undead alike. More undead swarmed the fallen apostate like maggots over a corpse, Alistair and Sten fighting like madmen to fend them off. “Damn it!” Sagramor raged, cutting into the press towards the revenant, zombie after zombie throwing themselves at him to buy the beast time.

Wrenching its blade free of the earth, the revenant brought it down against the chantry doors, again and again, each blow reverberating with the crack of wood and ringing of metal. The defenders redoubled their efforts to cut through the undead tide, sensing disaster near, but their numbers were too thick, too determined to hold the mortals at bay. A rotting claw burst from out of the undead horde, raking Leliana’s side; with a maddened, vengeful howl, Sagramor hacked off the offending limb. The thought of failing again, of allowing innocents to suffer or losing his friends was more than he could stand, and he embraced the heedless fury that came over him, striking hard without any concern for his own safety, greatsword cleaving through heads and limbs with every swing.

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The pounding on the doors told Bann Teagan everything he needed to know about the battle’s progress. Impact after impact sounded, one after another in a merciless cadence like the drums at a public hanging, the furniture bracing the doors shuddering with each blow. Those nearest to the entrance began to shuffle back fearfully, even as the Revered Mother led her choir in a lament for the dying, one last hymn to speed their journey to the Maker’s side.

It is the end, thought Teagan, watching in resignation as the first rents appeared in the solid oak. All that could be done had been, and while the efforts of Redcliffe’s defenders had only delayed their end, he held no recriminations for any save himself. Alistair and his companions had given their all to defend Redcliffe, and to see his brother’s ward again had been a blessing, even with such a shadow looming over them. Sagramor, Murdock, Perth, the beautiful Leliana… the fault was not theirs, but his alone. Forgive me, brother. I wasn’t strong enough. He had failed to protect his brother’s people, to put an end to the evil threatening his lands, and part of him wanted to break down and weep for that loss.

But he did not. He was a Bann of Ferelden and scion of the Guerrin line, and to give in to despair, even in the face of certain defeat, was to shame all those who had come before him. Ignoring the pain that lanced through him with every movement and the regret that he would not see his brother one last time, Teagan drew his longsword, kissing the flat of the blade. Wounded as he was, he had no illusions of surviving for long against the onslaught, but he could not stand idle and let the innocents who relied on him be slaughtered either. Uttering a final prayer for Eamon and setting aside his guilt, Teagan Guerrin readied himself to fight his last battle.

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

With a thunderous crash, the chantry doors burst open, offering the terrified civilians a glimpse of the blood-soaked horror raging outside before the first two undead spilled in, their ghastly shrieks echoing off the roof beams and drowning out the screams of the children. Teagan rushed to close the gap, his longsword taking the right arm from the first, his follow-up backswing scything through the other’s neck like it was a burlap training dummy. Howling in pain, the surviving zombie ploughed into the nobleman, its remaining hand closing about his throat. Gasping for breath, Teagan drove the red steel blade into its side until it dug into the creature’s spine, sending it down to the floor. Wheezing, his broken arm throbbing at the impact, Teagan angrily plunged his sword into its skull, putting the foul creature down for good.

The whoosh of displacing air was his only warning. Cursing, the nobleman barely avoided the revenant’s greatsword, the undead horror stalking into the chantry as if it owned it. Its second blow connected, tearing the longsword from his grasp, the force of the blow jarring his wrist to the point of injury. Slipping on the blood, Teagan scrambled away, forcing himself to stare defiantly at the foe as it loomed over him, greatsword raised for one final blow.

With a thunderbolt’s speed, bright steel suddenly burst out of the revenant’s chest, the undead creature giving a horrid scream of pain. Screeching, it began thrashing to try to remove its assailant like some uncontrollable bull, Sagramor holding onto his greatsword’s hilt for dear life. Snarling, he ripped it free of the creature’s back, interposing himself between the revenant and the wounded nobleman. “This is as far as you go, monster,” the Warden spat, blade raised to fight to the bitter end.

Roaring, the revenant took up that challenge, blades clashing, steadily driving the elf back. Behind the Warden, some of the village women rushed to haul Teagan out of the fray, while the rest began crowding at the back of the chantry, pushing and shoving their way to avoid the flashing blades. Gotta keep this from getting any further! Sagramor told himself, parrying the revenant’s next blow, his greatsword ringing from the force of it. On paper, his own sword, made of newer steel and lovingly maintained, would survive where the revenant’s rusted old blade would not, but nothing about the creature seemed to conform to reason, and as he ducked another sweeping blow, Sagramor felt helplessness descend. As monstrous as the ogre at Ostagar was, it had made some measure of sense: its strength was derived from its muscle mass, it had an anatomy that could be targeted, but this… this was nothing but an old skeleton wrapped in disintegrating mail, yet not even running it through had slowed it down.

Feeling the odds turn against him, Sagramor went for its sword arm. The revenant casually parried, its shield coming up and slamming the elf away. Grunting in pain, Sagramor was thrown back against the altar, head ringing, ribs bruised, black spots blossoming in his vision. Dimly, he felt something cold and wet trickle onto his scalp, heard the iron rasp of the revenant as it towered overhead, felt dead fingers seize him by the throat and haul him up off his feet, slowly squeezing the life from him. In desperation, Teagan attacked, his recovered sword thrusting into the revenant’s side. The beast barely felt the strike, backhanding the nobleman away with his free hand. Choking, Sagramor drew his belt knife, plunging it into the creature’s face, receiving a screech of agony and being hurled towards the western side chapel for his efforts. Stunned from the impact, the Warden struggled to regain his footing, greatsword impossibly heavy in his hands, mustering his waning strength to fight on anew as the revenant grimly approached.

And then a small voice broke through the mayhem. “Enchantment?”

The revenant turned. Before it stood Sandal, the dwarven boy seemingly uncowed by the creature’s presence. Heart pounding in fear, Sagramor came to his feet, rasping desperately. “Sandal, get back, it’s not safe!”

Towering above the boy, the revenant seemed to have wholly forgotten his battle with the Warden, red eyes staring fixatedly at the light emerging from the cracks between Sandal’s fingers. The boy’s pudgy fist opened, and Sagramor caught a glimpse of a small stone emblazoned with burning runes before the light burst forth at the dwarf’s command. “Enchantment go boom!”

A new star was born and died in the chantry’s halls. With the roar of thunder, the runestone unleashed the full sum of its magics, erupting in a torrent of eldritch light that engulfed the revenant. Screaming, the undead creature was hurled back several feet, its shield arm blasted to ruin by the force of the attack, skeleton left smouldering even as the light sputtered out and died.

Yet for all the damage it had taken, the revenant was still functional, dragging itself towards its enemy with all the speed its battered form could muster. “Get back, Sandal!” the Warden ordered, watching the dwarven boy leap back to his father’s side, the enchantment’s power spent. His eyes darted to the altar, witnessing the prize it held, and the first glimmers of a plan began to take root. “Sten, keep it busy!”

From out the doorway charged Sten, ignorant of the dozen small wounds that scarred his upper body and stained his now tattered shirt, his greatsword marred by enemy gore as it clashed with the revenant’s own. Ragnar was there too, fangs bared, furious that such a beast would dare threaten his master, brute animal rage driving the lifeless horror back. With the revenant distracted, Sagramor seized the opportunity, darting over to the altar, hands desperately grasping a great copper bowl. “Hey, ugly!”

The revenant turned with an iron snarl, and Sagramor hurled the vessel’s considerable contents into its face. Blessed oil, the kind used for anointing mourners and keeping the Chantry’s eternal flames alight, drenched the beast, and Sagramor stepped back, praying his hastily-conjured plan would work. “Leliana, burn it!”

Hair reflected in the light of her last remaining fire arrow, Leliana entered the chantry with bow at full draw, the wound at her side sending a flare of pain across her beautiful features. The bowstring gave a snap, and the revenant was suddenly incandescent, the fires catching before they had a chance to blink. Screaming in pain, the beast thrashed about, frantically trying to extinguish itself, only to be hemmed in by blades at every turn. At Leliana’s side, Morrigan appeared, restored to human form absent the wounds the revenant had inflicted on her, beautiful in her fury. With a vengeful shriek, she sent lightning boiling from her hands, hammering the undead creature. Badly wounded now, it tried to strike the sorceress down, but Sten’s own blade cleaved off its remaining arm at the shoulder, bones crumbling to dust as they hit the floor.

Crippled, battered and in flames, the enormous will of the demon possessing Ser Frederic’s corpse faltered at long last, its skeleton disintegrating before their eyes. Sagramor moved to complete its destruction, his greatsword cleaving through helm and skull alike, the fires that had consumed it dying as the beast crumbled into dust at long last. “Everyone, back outside! Let’s make sure no more undead manage to get in here!” ordered the Warden, oblivious to the shocked stares of Redcliffe’s non-combatants, even Bann Teagan left awestruck by the heroic fury the elf and his companions had displayed. “The rest of you, close the sodding door behind us!”

The tide had turned. Under Alistair’s direction, the militia had rallied once more, pushing back the undead inch by bloody inch. From down the hill came Ser Perth and his knights, summoned by the fury of the battle below while the fighting at the cliffs had subsided, their arrival catching the undead in a vice of blades. Sagramor led his companions into a counterattack, their weariness forgotten in the rush of combat, the sight of the chantry doors being sealed behind them met with a triumphant cheer.

He did not know for how long they fought before the chantry steps, the passage of time lost in the bloody struggle, in the grunts of the defenders as they sunk blades into undead flesh, in the need to continue fighting on past all limits of endurance. So focused was the Warden on cutting the enemy down that he failed to notice how the tide of their reinforcements had slackened, how their numbers had dwindled, until suddenly, there were no more targets to fight against.

To everyone’s astonishment, it was done. For the next few minutes, no one dared hope it was over, and dozens of anxious eyes peered out into the dark, fully expecting yet another wave of horrors. But there were no more left to oppose them. The forces of Redcliffe had hacked their way through the entire horde, bleeding it dry and leaving nothing but ruined bodies littering the village square and atop the cliffs. The monsters sent forth from Castle Redcliffe had been decisively annihilated, not one remaining on the field of battle to contest the defenders’ victory.

The first of the defenders began whooping in joy. Disbelief gave way to the ecstasy of victory, and men began turning to their friends and kinsmen, embracing them in relief. “Long live Redcliffe!” Murdock roared, fist raised in pride. “Long live the Grey Wardens!”

As one, the knights and militiamen of Redcliffe took up the cry, and Sagramor allowed himself a brief chuckle. “Is it over?” asked Alistair.

“Seems like it,” Sagramor permitted, heart swelling with pride at the cheers of the townsfolk, some of his doubts fading in the glow of success. The Maker had heard his prayers; he, at last, had his victory.

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

And with it, came the dead. For the dozens of demons and undead they slew, the defenders of Redcliffe had paid for the victory with seven of their own fallen, and another six more badly injured. The knight Ser Garth and six of the militiamen lay in state within one of the chantry’s side-chapels, watched over by their comrades in silent vigil both out of respect and to prevent them from rising anew. Sagramor was one of them, the Warden lingering behind even as Bann Teagan eventually ordered most of the defenders back to their posts. The undead attack had been decisively quashed, but the nobleman had experienced too many horrors in the past few days to relax his guard now. Only at the break of day would he stand easy.

Yet he had permitted the Warden and his company to rest, even as the rest of the defenders prepared to endure renewed attack. The Bann had been genuine and heartfelt in his thanks, acknowledging each of them for their heroism, but his words plainly bore the hope of their future cooperation. Teagan had come to respect their skills, and clearly had a plan in mind for them come the morrow.

If it ends this threat once and for all… Sagramor left the thought incomplete, blinking away fatigue. The others were resting in a second side-chapel; Morrigan had used her last reserves of strength to heal the worst of their injuries and ensure they were in fighting condition, but they’d all have their share of aches and bruises come the dawn. It was a rest well-earned, but despite his weariness, the elf could not join them in sleep. He had hoped for a meaningful victory in battle, prayed for it, and after a tremendous struggle, finally achieved it. Indeed, by any estimation, they had delivered a hard blow to the enemy, and all of his companions had survived largely unscathed.  Yet the triumph of victory offered no comfort when staring at the bodies of the fallen, the joy lost in the price they had paid to obtain it.

At his side, Ragnar gave him a worried nudge. “I’m alright, boy,” Sagramor assured the hound, petting him fondly. “You did a great job today. Good boy.” The warhound’s stubby tail wagged in glee at his master’s praise, coaxing out a small smile from the elf. The cries of the wounded echoed from around the corner, and the smile vanished. They’d come to within a hair’s breadth of disaster tonight, and Sagramor knew that without Sandal’s runecrafting skill (a skill that demanded some further explanation, he reckoned), things might have turned out very differently. Worst still, the evil responsible for this madness yet endured within the halls of Redcliffe Castle, and beyond that, the greater conflict against Loghain and the Blight loomed. How much more will victory there cost us? What price will be extracted next time? Alistair? Morrigan? Leliana…

“Grey Warden?” came the Bann’s voice, and Sagramor turned to see Teagan approach, still in his blood-splattered finery. “The Orlesian woman-- Leliana, was it? She told me I’d find you here. Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m—I’m fine,” Sagramor responded, gesturing wearily towards the fallen. “Just… making sure they rest easy, is all.”

“I see,” the Bann remarked, quickly glancing about for any stray listeners before closing the chapel’s door behind him. “Forgive me, Sagramor, for I have no wish to question your competence after your actions tonight, but… how long have you been a Grey Warden, exactly?”

“Ostagar was my first battle,” Sagramor admitted, giving a lupine smile at the shock on Teagan’s face. “It wasn’t my ideal introduction to the whole business, I’ll admit. I am not a veteran by any means, my lord.”

“And yet, to survive such a tragedy and led us to victory tonight demonstrates an uncommon skill, Warden. You may be young, but you’re clearly a soldier of some ability, and a leader others gladly follow.”

“It’s just luck, that’s all.”

The nobleman would not hear such self-depreciation. “Luck is what men invoked when they wish to remain modest and avoid boasting about their triumphs… or when they doubt their own skills. Warden, it needs to be said: your efforts tonight may have very well saved all of Redcliffe. I know for a fact that revenant creature would have killed me had you not intervened. Every man, woman and child in this village ascribes their survival to you, and that is no small thing,” said Teagan, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “For my part, I will always owe you and your Order a debt of gratitude, no matter what comes in the future, and when my brother recovers, he shall hear of your deeds this eve.”

“It wasn’t just me,” Sagramor reminded him, the enmity Alistair had suffered in his upbringing at the castle coming to mind. “My companions fought just as hard as I did to keep Redcliffe safe, as did its people. They deserve to be recognized too.”

“And they shall, I swear it.” The Bann gestured at the fallen laid out before him. “Do you blame yourself for their loss?”

Something in the nobleman’s tone made him pause. “Should I not?”

“Not when you are not responsible for their deaths, no. These men, Sagramor… you are not at fault here. You did not kill these men. The enemy did.”

“But I didn’t find a way to keep them alive either!” the elf spat back, too bitter to be courteous, all attempts to maintain some stoic resolve abandoned. “What does it say about me if I cannot obtain victory without leading men to their deaths?”

Teagan sighed, having experienced what the Warden was going through in his younger days. “Did you run in the face of the enemy, Sagramor? Did you callously order others to die to preserve your own life? Did you ask anyone to do something you weren’t willing to do yourself?”

“You know I did not.”

“Then you have nothing to blame yourself for, any more than Alistair should blame himself for the deaths of your comrades at Ostagar. Grey Warden, death is the constant companion of every soldier, no matter what banner he fights behind, and even the best commanders can expect to lose good people. This is something that must be accepted. All you can do is try to minimize those losses, and ensure that when men die in battle, their lives are spent, not squandered. These men,” Teagan intoned emphatically, gesturing once more to the fallen, “did not die in vain. They knew what was being asked for them and they accepted that risk, and in return for their sacrifice, many more lives were saved.”

“Perhaps. But it still feels like I should have done more,” Sagramor expressed, measuring the truth of his words. “I don’t think it will make a difference to the families left behind.”

“Nothing ever will. Your compassion is to be admired, Sagramor, and I am grateful to know that leadership is not something you take lightly. But you are not the Maker. No one expects that of you, and you do yourself a disservice by believing otherwise. You’re a good man, Sagramor Tabris, and a good soldier. That will serve.” The Bann smiled warmly. “Now, please, take some rest while you can. At first light, I mean to seek out the source of this evil and destroy it, and I will need your aid to do so. You have given us a victory worth remembering, Grey Warden. When dawn breaks, we make it count.”

“Very— very well then, my lord,” Sagramor replied, stewing over the nobleman’s advice. There was wisdom in there, but try as he might, the Warden could not accept it. Merely doing your best was not good enough, not with lives at sake and a world hanging in the balance. And moreover, he was a Grey Warden of Ferelden, one of the last, and in the name of that duty, he could not accept his limitations, only push beyond them. Clicking his fingers so Ragnar would follow, Sagramor wandered over to his cot. The morning would come, and with it, the hope that he would never be found wanting again.