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 Twenty-One: Heart of Darkness - Part One

Once more, she came to him, voice as silken as the flattering robes she wore, the very sight of her reigniting that fire in his blood he’d long tried to quench. Moaning in dismay, Cullen tried to turn away, gaze shifting to the violet energy barrier keeping him prisoner, the festering meat-fungus that had wholly consumed the antechamber leading up to the Harrowing Chamber, even the severed limbs left behind when his fellow Templars were rent asunder, anything to avoid the pleasure promised in her pale blue eyes. She should not be there, could not have be there, and he desperately prayed to the Maker for strength. “Why do you struggle so, Cullen? Isn’t this what you wanted? You and I, together at last?”

“No, I—my oath…”

“Words, mere words invoked in the name of an absent and feeble god,” she mocked, her lithe figure pressed against him. “Why trust in the Maker when I’m right here and waiting for you?” The Templar gave a little whimper, and she nuzzled against him even closer, full red lips soft and warm against the exposed flesh of his neck. Desperate screams erupted from the Harrowing Chamber, morphing into a guttural howl of anguish, and Cullen began to shudder uncontrollably, courage banished by the sound and her touch. “Don’t worry, my pet, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“Go away!” he finally managed to force out, eyes squeezed tight. For too long, his soul had been left riven by his lust for her, every longing glance and soft-spoken word threatening to undermine his holy oath, until recent events had lifted seemingly that burden forever. Now, his desires returned stronger than ever, and angrily, he shoved her away, an inhuman hiss ripping its way out of her throat. “I am a servant of the Maker, and will not fall to temptation! Begone! Begone!”

The hiss faded, and Cullen dared open his eyes. She was gone, the illusion that had so tormented him momentarily driven off, but in its place was something no less improbable. The demons had assumed many forms in hopes of breaking his spirit, but he never thought they’d try to imitate Grey Wardens… “This trick again? I know what you are! It won’t work! I will stay strong!”

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There’s actually a survivor, Sagramor marvelled inwardly, grey eyes checking the captured Templar for any signs of obvious injury and finding none. After all this time, after finding nothing but twisted abominations and the reanimated corpses of their victims, to see any still alive was an encouraging sign, and one that not even the man’s increasingly desperate rants could sour. Upon seeing the prisoner, Wynne gasped in recognition. “Cullen…”

“You know him, Wynne?” asked Alistair.

“He’s one of the junior-most Templars overseeing the Circle, recently raised to full knighthood,” Wynne explained, giving the imprisoned Templar a pitying glance. “Poor boy, he must be exhausted. And this cage… I’ve never seen its like before. Rest easy, Cullen, help is here.”

“Enough visions!” Cullen spat in reply, head clutched in mailed hands. “If anything in you is still human, kill me now and stop this game!”

“He’s delirious and traumatized from all he’s endured,” Leliana expressed. “He’s probably been tortured and denied food and water, I can tell.” Frowning, the Orlesian girl reached for the waterskin hanging at her waist. “Wynne, is there any way you can bring this down so we can help him?”

“Don’t touch me, stay away!” the Templar cried out, edging away from the barrier. “Filthy blood mages, getting in my head! I’ll not break—I’d sooner die!”

“Calm down, Templar, you’re safe now,” Sagramor assured him. The halls of Kinloch Hold had been oddly deserted since the defeat of Sloth, the monstrous hosts that had assailed them throughout the lower floors absent, and while he took comfort in the belief they’d winnowed the enemy’s numbers down, the true test still lay before them. “Have you seen Uldred?”

“Silence! I’ll not listen to anything you have to say! Now, begone!” shouted Cullen, confusion settling over his handsome features when they failed to comply. “You’re still here? But that’s always worked before. I close my eyes, yet you are still here when I open them…”

“We’re real, Cullen, and like Wynne said, we’re here to help. Everything will be fine, I swear it.”

At last, Cullen began to calm down, rising from amidst the filth and gore lining his prison to address his would-be saviors. “You can’t blame me for being cautious. The voices, the images… it’s all been so real,” he explained, looking askance at the blood-splattered griffon tabards. “What are Grey Wardens even doing here to begin with? Did Greagoir send you?”

“Yes, we’re here to save the tower.”

“Good. Kill Uldred. Kill them all for what they’ve done.” There was no disguising the raw hatred in the Templar’s voice, and before Sagramor could inquire further, Cullen let it flow forth, becoming more impassioned with every word. “They caged us like animals, looked for ways to break us, even turned some into monsters for their own sick amusement. There was nothing I could do, and I—I think I’m the only one left.”

“And what of First Enchanter Irving and the other mages?”

“What? What others? What are you talking about?”

“Irving and the other mages who fought Uldred,” Wynne explained patiently. “Where are they?”

“They are in the Harrowing Chamber,” moaned Cullen, casting a terrified glance up the stairs left slick and treacherous by the pervasive meat-fungus. “The sounds coming from within… oh, Maker.”

“We must hurry, Sagramor,” urged the mage. “They are in grave danger, I’m sure of it.”

“Agreed. We’ve come too far to forsake them now.”

“No!” Cullen yelled, the force of his outburst stopping the party in their tracks. ”You can’t save them! You don’t know what they’ve become! They’ve been surrounded b—by blood mages whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts. They’ve become the monsters we always should have known them for!”

“We can’t be certain of that,” proclaimed Alistair. “Believe me, I know how much it hurts to lose your friends and comrades. But we need those mages to help us fight the darkspawn. It might be hard to hear, but if we lose the Circle, Ferelden may very well follow.”

“Alistair’s right,” Sagramor added. “I’m not going to kill those mages out of fear of what might happen. We’re saving all who can be saved, Templar, them and you.”

Cullen scoffed at this. “Are you really saving anyone by taking this risk? To ensure this horror is ended, to guarantee no abomination or blood mage lives, you have to kill everyone up there, Warden, every last damned mage! It’s the only way to ensure the threat does not spread beyond these walls.”

“And what of those who fought against Uldred, who took no part in his atrocities?” countered the Warden. “Should their defiance against this monster be repaid only with an executioner’s blade? I will not be party to a purge, ser, no matter the nature of the threat, and I would far sooner spare maleficarum than risk harming an innocent.”

Wynne uttered a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Warden. I knew you would make the rational decision.”

“Rational?!” Cullen demanded. “How is this rational? Do you not understand the danger?!”

“I know full well the dangers of magic,” Wynne said calmly, resolute in the face of the Templar’s hatred, “but killing innocents because they might be maleficarum is neither justice nor an appropriate response to this crisis. I know you are angry--”

“You know nothing, mage!” The Templar spat out the word as if it was poison, the hatred that had grown in him over the course of his imprisonment finally finding a target to vent itself upon. “I am thinking of the future of the Circle! Of Ferelden! You can’t be trusted, none of you can! Not you, not those in the Harrowing Chamber, and certainly not her!”

“Mind your tongue, ser,” Sagramor growled, his patience running thin. Trauma could only excuse the Templar’s hostility so far, and after all that Wynne had done to aid them in this trying gauntlet, he was in no mood to let her be insulted. “Wynne has earned my trust and my respect. If she believes some of her colleagues can be saved, that’s good enough for me.”

“And for me as well,” added Leliana, her calm strength juxtaposed with Cullen’s increasing hysteria. “The Maker is with us, ser Templar. The Circle will be saved.”

For a moment, Cullen could not speak, shock at last giving way to rage. “You’re trusting a mage, after all they’ve have done?! You’ll see the truth soon enough, just like I did, and you’ll realize what a fool you are, Warden. I was stupid enough to care for one, but she showed her true colours just like they always do. May she rot, and all the other mages with her!”

Disgusted, Sagramor turned away. “Don’t bother trying to free the bastard, Wynne,” he insisted, the mage’s counterspell dying unspoken. “We’ve wasted more than enough time on him as it is.”

“As you wish, Warden,” Wynne assented, her pity for the tortured Templar morphing to a cool disdain as the party made their way up the stairs, the imprisoned Templar’s paranoid mutterings drowned out beneath the agonized screams that echoed ceaselessly beyond. The Warden never even broke stride at the hellish noise, the door to the Harrowing Chamber giving way with a forceful shove, and without hesitation, the valiant company strode headlong into the heart of darkness…

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After the nightmare that Ostagar had devolved into, Sagramor had dared hope he’d become inured to all the horror the world had to offer, that nothing was capable of frightening him anymore. The desperate struggle to save the Circle put an end to that belief, each new room and tower exposing it for the arrogant conceit it was. In that regard, the Harrowing Chamber was no different. It was an immense space, a veritable amphitheatre large enough that both the entire Circle and their Templar watchers could assemble for special ceremonies, with the latter viewing the proceedings from the second level balconies supported atop the finely carved marble columns, but Uldred’s corruption had left its grandeur defiled, like the rest of Kinloch Hold. Bright moonlight streamed through the great stained glass windows, bathing the pervasive meat-fungus that had subsumed the room in colour and illuminating the close to two-score mages sitting bound and gagged against the far wall, eyes wet with tears. More mages, wrists bound behind their backs, had been dragged into the centre of the chamber and forced to their knees by a clutch of abominations, their desperate pleas unheeded by the thin, bald Senior Enchanter standing in their midst.

It was the mage from the King’s briefing at Ostagar, the one who had spoken so passionately in defense of the Circle’s efforts, now lording over his brethren like a farmer examining prize livestock at a village auction. Guttural vowels spilled forth from his lips as he made his choice, the very sound sending waves of nausea rolling over the assembly and provoking fresh screams from the nearest prisoners. Before the Warden and company could intercede, the closest mage screamed in unbearable agony as the incantation took hold, flesh warping and twisting, the demon’s entry into his soul stripping away his humanity until all that was left was another abomination, rising on malformed legs to join its tortured fellows, blackened spikes jutting from puckered flesh. “Ahh… look what we have here,” came the sly, cultured whisper, and the mage turned to face the party, unperturbed by the drawn blades levelled in his direction. “I bid you welcome to my domain, intruders. Care to join in our revels?”

“I take it you’re Uldred?” demanded Sagramor.

“Oh, how very observant,” the mage replied with an unnerving calm, detached from the atrocities he’d inflicted as he observed the newcomers with a viper’s stillness. For Uldred, all the pain and suffering he’d wrought was of no more concern than a distant occurrence of inclement weather, the sheer callous dismissal of any trace of guilt or conscience rendering him more monstrous than the mutated abominations he’d brought into being. “I’m quite impressed you’re still alive, though I assume that means you’ve killed my servants. A shame. Still, they are probably better off dying in the service of their betters than having to live with the terrible responsibility of independence.”

“What gives you the right to speak of independence?” Sagramor demanded, appalled. “How many of your fellow mages have you reduced to slavery at the hands of demons?” The elf gestured with his blade towards the silent clutch of abominations, hanging motionless like a puppeteers’ dolls waiting for fresh hands to take up the strings. “Do they look free to you?”

“You know nothing of what you speak,” Uldred retorted venomously. “A mage is but the larval form of something greater, the seed of what had been stolen finally come to bloom! Your Chantry vilifies us, calls us abominations and monsters, when we have truly reached our full potential!” The maleficar scornfully waved towards the imprisoned mages, lips curling up in disgust at their fear. “Look at them all! The Chantry has them convinced. They deny themselves the pleasure of becoming something glorious, too enfeebled by ancient dogma to accept the truth of what is!”

“You’re mad!” countered Wynne. “There’s nothing glorious about what you’ve become, Uldred!”

At this, Uldred gave a harsh cackle, brimming with malice. “Uldred? He is gone,” he replied, eyes reflecting the endless black void that lay within. “I am Uldred and yet not Uldred. I am more than he was, greater beyond anything you could conceive. This is a gift I could give to you, Wynne, you and all mages. It would be so much easier if you just accepted it.” The maleficar pointed towards the assembled prisoners, and invisible hands dragged a bound, struggling figure from out of their midst, his haggard, bearded face covered with bruises. “But some people can be so stubborn.”

“Irving!” Wynne cried out in shock, the tip of his staff glowing white-hot to match her anger at seeing the First Enchanter in such dire straits. “What have you done to him, Uldred?!”

“Merely tried to educate our dear First Enchanter, Wynne, nothing to get upset about,” Uldred replied silkily, a quick wave of his hands removing the prisoner’s gag. “As a teacher yourself, you understand the need to put a recalcitrant pupil in his place, don’t you?”

“Stop him…” wheezed Irving, every word made a struggle by the pain of his injuries. “He… he is building an army. He will… destroy the Templars, and…”

Whatever secrets the First Enchanter had to impart died as the gag was restored. “You’re a sly little fox, telling on me like that. And here I thought you were just about to turn! But that’s enough out of you,” Uldred remarked mockingly, an absentminded flick of his wrist telekinetically hurling Irving against the wall, provoking a muffled scream of pain. “He’ll serve me eventually, as will you.”

“Oh, we’d love to accept, but killing you seems like the much better option here, thanks,” Alistair quipped defiantly.

“You speak as if there is a choice in the matter. That is what I have decided, and that is what shall be done. You are but thorns in my side, and I intend to remove you before you fester! Take them!”

The puppets had waited long enough. At Uldred’s command, the abominations sprung into motion, leaping for the Warden’s party with fangs and claws bared. Templar anti-magics hurled them back, screeching in agony, and Sagramor seized the advantage, greatsword descending on the first of the abominations to part its head from its shoulders. White fire erupted from Wynne’s staff, drowning the second in flames, and it was joined a moment later by a third as Leliana put a rune-enchanted arrow between its eyes, the enchanted missile burning the creature from the inside out. The surviving abominations took no heed of their losses, however, and rallied quickly, mortal skill countered by demonic strength, forcing the party onto the defensive. “Do you see, Wynne?” Uldred crowed maniacally, animated by the raging conflict. “This is the power you naively reject! This is the power you are denied!”

Growling, Sagramor went for the maleficar, only for another abomination to bar his path, the elf barely avoiding a swipe of its disembowelling claws. An oaken shaft suddenly sprouted from its right eye, and Sagramor ended its agony with a savage slash through the skull, leaping over the decapitated corpse as it fell, crossing the distance to his true target in the space of heartbeats. Uldred’s eyes widened in shock, hands splayed outwards to cast a spell, but the elf was far quicker, uttering a triumphant shout as the sword came down through the left shoulder, tearing through flesh and bone. The maleficar screamed in pain, whatever incantation he’d planned fizzling away to nothingness, and as the last of the abominations perished behind him, Sagramor put all his strength into one last killing blow, honed steel hewing deep into Uldred’s neck.

Uldred swayed for a moment, body propped up by the long blade in his throat. With a curse, Sagramor ripped it free, driving it down into the falling corpse to leave the corrupted stone drenched in blood, the maleficar giving one last violent spasm before going still. “Everyone all right?”

“I think that’s the last of them,” Alistair replied as he braced against one of the wide columns, the long trial they’d endured finally catching up to him. “Andraste, what a mess.”

The elf nodded in agreement, grateful to see none had taken any serious injuries in the fight. They had done what not even an entire garrison of Templars could accomplish, and with the tower cleansed, the surviving mages could be spared the Right of Annulment. But how many people died before we could achieve that? the elf wondered sadly, staring out at the terrified captives left broken by their ordeal. “Let’s get the mages unbound. They’ve suffered enough today.”

“Damn you, Uldred,” Wynne hissed, staring down at the maleficar’s corpse with every bit of hatred she possessed. “I just wish your death could bring back all those you hurt.”

Dead eyes snapped open. “Die.”

Baleful corposant burst to life, rippling off the maleficar’s corpse and throwing the Warden’s party off their feet and away from the prone figure, the screams of the imprisoned mages renewed at the sudden blast. From deep with Uldred, a voice like a bottomless pit laughed as it strained and pressed against the prison of flesh, the blood mage’s skin splitting open like a fibrous seed-pod as his mass swelled ten, twenty times his normal size. Gargantuan muscles, like those of an ogre, exploded into being, worm-like tendons visibly writhing beneath the skinless flesh, while along the massive forearms emerged jagged, scything blades of bone, each a shield’s-width across and looking capable of tearing a plate-armoured knight in half with a single sweep. Hands mutated into ripping claws like those the abominations had borne, and clawed feet stepped forward to land with a crash of thunder. Flesh tore, permitting twisted, spiked horns to crown its head, while a lipless mouth pulled back in a sneer, revealing jagged fangs dripping with caustic ichor.

Worst of all were its eyes. Over a dozen black, compound orbs, sunk deep into the sickly violet flesh of its skull like a bubonic rash, observed Sagramor as a man might a cockroach, the sheer malignant intensity of their gaze casting a shadow of terror over the Warden’s heart, courage faltering at the boundless cruelty contained within their soulless depths. This was a creature of degenerate arrogance and infinite depravity, the evil that radiated from its very being matched only by its potential for destruction, and it raised the shredded flesh that had once been its human form in a clawed fist, examining the disgusting bundle for a moment before hurling it aside like one would discard a tattered waistcoat. “A pride demon!” Wynne cried out in horror as she came to her feet, the others following suit. “Oh, Uldred, you always did have more confidence than sense!”

Eldritch flames burst to life in the pride demon’s hands. “This is what we were meant to be! What he took from us!” the creature howled, sending them hurtling towards the party. Wynne slammed the butt of her staff against the floor, and the spell rippled off her arcane shield, the mage gasping in exertion at the sheer, unbridled power of the attack. “And when he rises, everyone will see!”

Visibly straining to maintain the shield, Wynne shifted tactics, rapid-fire syllables causing the shield to expand outwards, knocking the demon back. Its fires died, and the rest of the party seized the opportunity, explosions bursting along its upper body from Leliana’s fire arrows as Sagramor and Alistair charged the horror. The elf took point, darting beneath the sweep of its immense arms, blade scything towards its ankles, only for its resilient flesh to turn the blow aside, barely grazed by the Warden’s strike. Templar anti-magics blasted Uldred, Alistair’s own sword finding some small purchase in their wake, but the transformed maleficar was far too strong to be laid low by such minor wounds, and with a shrug of its powerful frame, battered the two Wardens aside. Witchfire sprang to life once more, filling the Harrowing Chamber with the stench of ozone and burning corpses, and Leliana barely managed to dart behind the nearest column before a sheet of emerald flame enveloped where she’d been standing.

Bolts of spirit energy peppered the skinless flesh, but Uldred paid no heed, malicious gaze turned towards the clutch of imprisoned mages near the centre of the chamber. “Do you accept the gift I offer?” it boomed, motes of violet light settling over them in time to the putrid vowels that dripped from its maw.

Instantly, the prisoners began to shake as if caught in the grip of some palsy, shuddering and screaming at the touch of Uldred’s sorcery. “He’s trying to take control of the mages!” Sagramor proclaimed, cursing as yet again his greatsword failed to puncture the demon’s tough hide. “Wynne, use the Litany!”

The Litany of Andralla, kept safe in Wynne’s belt pouch for just such a moment, was drawn forth, the air around the magic shimmering with arcane power as she confidently recited the ancient words. As one, the imprisoned mages collapsed like puppets with their strings cut, the foul aura that had settled over them dispersed in an instant, and Uldred screamed in genuine pain as his spell collapsed, stricken by the incantation’s feedback, soulless eyes widening in what could only be shock. Boldly, Wynne chanted another verse of the Litany, and the demon howled once more, its physical form wavering like desert air, leaking violet flames as its hold on the material world began to waver. The Warden’s company struck with renewed vigor, and Sagramor let out a shout of triumph as his blade finally drew violet, tar-like blood. Another rune-arrow sailed forth from Leliana’s bow, striking Uldred’s right horn with a thunderbolt’s force and sending sizzling chips of bones flying, while Alistair’s longsword found a nesting place within the demon’s abdomen, the Templar cursing as he worked the steel through its muscular guts.

Growling angrily, the demon lashed out, a clawed appendage backhanding Alistair a dozen feet along the corruption-ridden stone. The words of the Litany faltered as Wynne instinctively moved to aid the wounded warrior, and Uldred pounced, flames licking ravenously at her arcane shield. Sagramor moved to intercept, but the demon was prepared for him, a single word of power sending the elven Warden hurtling through a gap between the pillars and into the wall, driving the wind from his lungs and knocking him to the floor.

“Sagramor!” Leliana cried, rushing to his side, leather-clad hand leading him into cover behind the nearest pillar.

“I’m all right,” he weakly assured her, trying to keep a brave face as he shakily came to his feet. How do we stop this thing? he asked himself, fighting back the growing despair. The Litany could hurt the demon, leave it vulnerable to their blades and spells, but it was still a pride demon, and had physical and magical might to spare. The same could not be said of the party either; the epic gauntlet they’d run to reach this place had left them worn down, their efforts sustained mostly by sheer determination and Wynne’s restorative magic. Another gout of witchfire gnawed away at Wynne’s defenses, the mage forced to her knees as she strained to maintain the shield, and Sagramor forced the fear away. He’d slain the seemingly invincible before, defeated foes logic alone dictated could not be beaten, and after all they’d accomplished, he’d no intention of giving up. “How many rune-arrows do you have left?”

“Plenty, but—Sagramor, do you trust me?”

“Of course,” insisted the elf impatiently. Were they not stuck in a battle for survival, he might have been grateful she put such stock in his opinion, but as it was, could only express his bemusement. “Why do you ask?”

Rich blue eyes fixed on him. “Then buy me some time, please. I know how to defeat Uldred, but you must keep him distracted, or else all our lives are forfeit.”

“All?” Sagramor questioned, understanding finally dawning. “Do what you have to do, Leliana. I’ll buy you the time.”

Leliana graced him with a smile and the briefest of hugs before she darted into the shadows, creeping behind the cover of the pillars with cat-like quickness. From the centre of the chamber came Uldred’s roar, claws scraping at Wynne’s arcane shield, her staff raised above her head as if to brace the crushing weight. “Is that the secret you’ve been hiding from me, Wynne?” the creature growled with the voice of madness, ignorant of the wounds it had endured. “I know what you’ve done, and I--”

Four feet of skillfully-wielded steel cut off the demon’s utterance, scything deep into the gargantuan tendons of its left leg. Roaring, Uldred kicked out towards its attacker, but Sagramor was already moving, darting about its legs like a wolf in a paddock, the bite of his sword drawing black bile and further enraging the horror, the others forgotten as it sought to end his defiance. Lightning coalesced in its right hand, lashing out like a taskmaster’s whip; forewarned by the stench of ozone, the Warden dodged the blow, a smouldering scar carved deep into the stone where he once stood. With a snarl of rage, Uldred lashed out again and again, his whip tasting nothing but stone and air and the dreadful meat-fungus that had subsumed the chamber. “Is that the best you can do, creature?” taunted the elf, ducking another wild swipe. “I had thought the great Uldred to be more capable than that.”

Witchfire surged forth, hot enough to melt steel plate. Sagramor darted to his left with his customary swiftness, ducking beneath the blades on its outstretched arms to drive his sword into the demon’s right ankle, more putrid vitae gushing forth. Again, Uldred lunged for him, but the elf’s superior agility kept him beyond the grasp of its maddened attacks, stinging the demon with both words and steel. Restored by Wynne’s magic, Alistair rejoined the fray, taking advantage of Uldred’s focus on Sagramor to strike its unguarded left side, while Wynne continued to recite the Litany, the damage inflicted by the arcane words far eclipsing that of cold steel. Jaw clenched in exertion, the elf pressed the assault, resisting the urge to see how Leliana was faring. Against such a powerful foe as a pride demon, the slightest distraction could prove fatal, and he dared not inadvertently draw attention to the Orlesian girl, not when so much relied upon her efforts.

With a howl of frustration, Uldred slammed his hands against the floor, a shockwave of arcane light catching Wynne in its wake and hurling her away like a leaf caught in a hurricane. Cursing, the two Wardens struck simultaneously, Alistair planting his longsword through Uldred’s right arm while Sagramor went low to continue trying to cripple its legs. Up came the demon’s right arm to smack the former Templar away, the glancing blow of its arm-blade gouging a ragged scar through his shield. Magic flared to life along its forearms, and bands of light settled around Alistair to freeze him in place, the spell of paralysis that Morrigan had employed against Connor equally effective when conjured by the titanic demon. A second spell, and Sagramor cried out in pain as savage heat burst along the length of his greatsword, smouldering hands instinctively releasing their grip. Uldred was on him in an instant, clawed hands seizing the bold elf and slamming him into the nearest column with the awful crack of ribs breaking. “Caught you, insect.”

Ignoring the searing agony within his torso, Sagramor spat headlong into the creature’s face. “Such defiance!” Uldred crowed, dashing the elf against the floor. “I will remember you fondly when I cull your degenerate species to extinction!”

Groaning in pain, Sagramor attempted to rise as fast as his injuries would permit. Uldred’s kick caught him first, pitching him across to the entrance of the chamber and leaving his right arm bent in a way nature never intended. “Did you truly believe you were capable of bringing down a god, elf? That you could defy my will and survive? You are nothing, mortal, nothing but a gnat to be crushed! You can’t even stand!”

His every ragged breath a torment and his mind fogged with pain, Sagramor nevertheless managed to get to his feet, the pride that had consumed his adversary forcing him to die standing. “I…” he wheezed, each word forced out with only the greatest of struggles, “can do this all day.”

With the crack of thunder, the lightning whip materialized in the demon’s claws once more. “Then pay the price for that defiance,” Uldred intoned, rearing back to deliver the killing strike.

Fire suddenly blossomed across the demon’s right hand, the wounded Warden forgotten in the sudden pain. From out of the shadows came Leliana, lovelier than she’d ever been as she leapt to Sagramor’s defense, proud and undaunted by the malignant power of her foe, a hymn to the Maker on her lips. Rune-arrow blazing with arcane light, she sent her next shot into Uldred’s face, and the demon howled in pain as the explosion popped the right-most cluster of eyes like blisters, weeping acidic pus. Up came the lightning whip, writhing like a living thing in pursuit of the agile Orlesian girl, the putrefying floors and columns scored black with each missed strike.

Roaring, Uldred brought the whip down in a massive blow capable of sheering her in twain. Cat-quick, Leliana side-stepped, the Chant never halting, her next arrow striking with a thunderbolt’s force, stray arcs of electricity leaping from the demon’s smouldering flesh. “You cannot evade me forever, mortal,” the demon snarled, weathering the one-woman volley. “You will beg to recant your weakling god before I am done with you.”

“Never,” hissed Leliana, sending another shot hurtling for the demon’s face. A clawed hand raised, disintegrating the arrow in mid-flight. A second spell, and Leliana gasped as her bow began to warp, the polished yew twisting into deadwood and crumbling to dust in her grasp. Uldred leapt, feet raised to crush her like a bug, and the Orlesian girl barely managed to roll out of the way before he landed, the thunderous impact rattling the very stones beneath his feet and pitching the unsteady Sagramor away. “You will not win here, demon,” she declared, the Green Blade singing free of her scabbard. “The Maker is with us, and He will not permit it.”

Uldred cackled, summoning witchfire afresh. “Do you not understand, ephemeral? I have won here. I have laid this Circle low and bent it to my immortal will, while the Templars who sought to deny me my ascension are but festering meat, fit only to house my minions. Your brave companions have been broken, their strength nothing compared to mine,” he proclaimed, gesturing to the badly wounded Sagramor, kept conscious and moving by force of will alone. “Even the Litany of Adralla could not destroy me! What hope does a single mewling woman possess?”

Full lips curved into a victorious smile. “By myself? Very little. I’m just keeping you occupied.”

Raw, undistilled magical force hammered into Uldred, provoking a shocked, agonized scream from the immense demon and slamming it into the nearest wall, the entire tower convulsing with the titanic impact. A sonorous choir sang their incantation, and Sagramor gasped as a gentle blue light fell over him, his shattered ribs mending and returning to their proper place, broken arm resetting itself, torn flesh and bone weaving together, all in the space of moments. New vitality surged through his restored limbs, and judging from the triumphant smiles of his companion, the spell was having a similar effect on them as well. “Yes…”

“No!” Uldred howled in dismay, readying a fresh burst of eldritch flame. A second wave of force caught him first, and once again, the tower convulsed like a wounded beast, echoing with demonic screams. “You dare challenge my magnificence?! You still seek to oppose me?!”

“We will always stand against monsters like you, Uldred!” First Enchanter Irving proclaimed, forearms suffused with blue light. Behind him, the entire Ferelden Circle of Magi stood at the ready, eyes fixed hatefully upon the architect of their woes, Sagramor’s efforts at distracting the pride demon giving Leliana the opportunity she’d needed to secure their release. “And so long as one of us survives, this Circle will endure!”

The bands of light holding him in place vanished, and the light of the Templars flared into being hotter and brighter than Alistair had ever manifested it before, so powerful it eclipsed the moon’s glow, outstripping all memory of daylight, and Uldred screamed as its full force fell upon him like a bolt from the Maker, violet smoke streaming off the horror’s flesh. The mages needed no encouragement to seize advantage of their enemy’s weakened state, and struck as one, a veritable barrage of elemental attacks pounding away at the horror, fear excised from their hearts with every bolt of lightning or burst of flame sent hurtling at their tormentor. Around thirty mages remained within the Harrowing Chamber, some younger apprentices still learning to master their powers, others older mages who’d managed to resist becoming possessed, all of them brutalized, worn down and deprived of their staffs, but there was a reason the Chantry accepted the monstrous expense of raising armies of Templars to keep their Circles secure. Thirty mages was a force that could lay waste to a city, devastate a kingdom… perhaps even turn back a Blight.

It was a power that Uldred now experienced first-hand. Irving led the attack, the more powerful mages at his side, spirit energies blasting outwards, their arcane shields blunting the frantic tide of voidfire thrown up in their direction. At the rear, one of the Enchanters directed the younger mages to continue the elemental barrage, guiding them through the spell like a Chantry choirmaster directing her congregation in song. Once more, Uldred attempted to use his blood magic to disrupt his opponents and turn them into abominations, and once more, Wynne’s invocation of the Litany was enough to shield the mages from his fell influence and wound the demon further. Beneath the sorcerous assault, Sagramor, Alistair and Leliana laid into Uldred with blades shrouded in fire generated by another mage, the magically-augmented swords cutting true where plain steel had faltered and cauterizing the wounds left in the wake of their bloody passage. Shouting her praises to the Maker, Leliana planted the Green Blade through the thick corded tendons of its left ankle, forcing the pride demon to its knees. Uldred’s left arm reached black, grasping vengefully for the Orlesian girl, but the Wardens were there, Alistair blocking its wrist with his shield and leaving it open for Sagramor’s scything blow, his greatsword nearly taking its hand off completely.

“No! This cannot be!” Uldred protested, demonic physiology vainly trying to heal the wound even as its right arm lashed out wildly around it in vain attempt to keep its adversaries at bay. Still the Circle’s onslaught continued, the demon wilting beneath blasts of frost and flame, arcing lightning bolts and bursts of spirit energy, choking gases and shifting gravities, crippling weakness and maddening nightmares, and not even its immense magical power could preserve it from the endless barrage, from dying by a thousand sorcerous cuts. Bands of light seized it by the wrists and throat, dragging its arms backward and exposing its belly to Sagramor’s steel wrath, unnatural shapes slithering free of its gut. Alistair’s longsword rooted itself in its chest up to the hilt, and the demon’s remaining eyes widened in what could only be terror. “I am a god! I am the true sovereign of this place!”

“Then let your reign end!” Alistair spat, armoured fists seizing the hilt in a death-grip. Light enshrouded him, more radiant than the midsummer sun, and with a savage cry, the former Templar sent it lancing forth, the disruptive anti-magics arcing along the conduit of the blade and into Uldred’s twisted heart. “For the Wardens!”

A god died that night. Uldred howled in agony as the light burst free from every orifice and wound, consuming it from the inside out. Simultaneously, the Green Blade slipped in between its vertebrae while Sagramor’s greatsword punched up through the softer flesh of its lower jaw until it scraped roughly against the bone, the beast’s thrashing agony stilled by the twin thrusts. The Templar’s light stoked itself one last time, sending blinding rays erupting from soulless eyes, and the pride demon began to denature, its horrifying form bubbling down into nothingness. Forth came Irving with the strongest of the surviving mages at his side, Wynne among them, voices unified in a singular incantation, the air about them thrumming with arcane power. Voidfire, its heat putting the greatest forge to shame, swept over the disintegrating demon, and the mages did not relent until the very stone beneath its corpse ran like lava and every last speck of its evil had been obliterated, the heat lingering even as the spell faded and the Circle’s survivors collapsed from exhaustion. “Maker, I’m too old for this,” Irving grumbled, wavering unsteadily.

Wynne was at his side in an instant, bracing him before he fell. “Irving, are you all right?”

A flicker of agony crossed the First Enchanter’s face, beaten back by supreme force of will. “I’ve… been better,” he admitted, clutching his side. “But I am thankful to be alive because of you, Wynne.”

“I wasn’t alone in this,” Wynne reminded him, gesturing gratefully over to her newfound allies. “I had a great deal of help.”

Despite the battering he’d suffered over the course of Uldred’s rebellion, Irving forced himself to offer the Warden’s company a respectful bow. “We are fortunate you arrived when you did, Grey Wardens. The Circle owes you all a debt we will never be able to repay.”

“Always happy to help,” Sagramor replied, meeting his gesture in kind as introductions were made all round. “But we should head downstairs as soon as possible. It’d be a shame to survive all this only for the Right of Annulment to be enacted despite our efforts.”

“Indeed. Come, the Templars await. We shall let them know the tower is once again ours.” Irving took a shambling step forward, a moan of pain seeping through his lips, and Sagramor moved to assist, offering the mage a shoulder to lean on. Alistair and Leliana took point, blades at the ready to dispatch any demon stragglers, and the rest of the Circle followed close behind, eager to escape the nauseating horror surrounding them. “Ohh, curse whoever insisted the Circle be housed in a tower!”