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-Four: The Stone Prisoner
They set out from Redcliffe before mid-afternoon, heading south on borrowed horses as fast as they could muster, neither the prospect of night nor the odds arrayed against them offering the slightest pause. At the bridge leading into town, Teagan’s sentries raised their spears in salute of the Warden’s party, cheers following the six brave figures and the hound as they rode out to face the gathering dark, their courage a beacon for the rest of Redcliffe to follow. By now, word of Lothering’s fall and the Bann’s plan of action had been made publicly known, and as they passed, Sagramor could see the men of Redcliffe mustering for war, knights and militiamen alike newly emboldened with the end of the undead threat, the sound of cheers following the little company longer after they crested over the nearest hill. If any of the party doubted the wisdom of their current course of action, they did not share their fears, such was Sagramor’s force of will. It did not matter that Honnleath might have already fallen, or that the darkspawn might have put its population to the sword: its people deserved a chance at survival, and the Warden would give it to them, whatever the risk.
For all his concerns over the Wardens and company travelling unescorted into an area potentially overrun with darkspawn, Bann Teagan had nevertheless assented to Sagramor’s plans, and even shared what little he knew about Honnleath and the golem Bodahn had told them about. “One of my father’s retainers during the Rebellion was a mage by the name of Wilhelm, who possessed such a creature. It was said that its presence turned the tide against the Orlesians many times, and that it could not be harmed by any blade.”
“Could this be the same one, then?” asked Sagramor.
“Quite possibly. After Maric was crowned, he convinced the Chantry to offer Wilhelm special dispensation that he might live outside of the Circle, and by all reports, he chose Honnleath as his new residence. He passed away years ago, as I understand it, but the golem may still be there.”
“Well, if not, it’s not like we paid much for the control rod to begin with,” Alistair quipped. “I just hope the darkspawn haven’t made it there yet; there’s not much we can do if the horde attacks Honnleath in strength.”
“Then all the more reason to get there as fast as possible,” Teagan assured them. “Do what you must, Grey Wardens. We’ll keep Redcliffe safe, and do our best to protect those fleeing from the east.”
Bold words, Sagramor mused as he rode, casting a nervous look back at the castle dwindling in the distance. Yet Bann Teagan would live up to them: they’d fought too hard for Redcliffe’s survival to falter now, and the elf was certain he’d fight no less fiercely for any refugees that might live to seek sanctuary beneath the high walls of the fortress. Even if we cannot protect their homes, to save even a few people from the Blight would be a victory…
Two days hard riding later, and the high walls of Castle Redcliffe were a distant memory. In their place stood increasingly rugged hills that stretched south and west up into the Frostbacks, the rough terrain forcing the company to remain dismounted and lead their horses along for fear of snapping a leg within one of the many ruts that littered the stony, uneven ground. Sagramor could sense the presence of the darkspawn miles before they arrived at the plateau upon which Honnleath stood, the thick black plume rising from the settlement merely confirming his suspicions, and as they reached the main road leading into the settlement, Alistair cursed in despair. “Maker, could anyone have survived in there?”
“Considering the sheer incompetence displayed thus far by Ferelden’s inhabitants, I truly doubt it,” Morrigan remarked snidely.
“No way to know until we get up there,” said Sagramor. A small grove of pine trees at the foot of the rise permitted their horses to remain tethered in relative safety and concealment, and the elf turned to Ragnar. “You stay here and keep the horses safe, okay, boy?”
The mabari gave a disappointed whimper, stridently nuzzling his master’s hand. “Don’t be like that, Ragnar, someone needs to stay here to keep the darkspawn away from the horses. I’ll be fine, okay?”
Still, the hound would not desist, taking up his place by his master’s side in spite of the elf’s command. “Don’t think you’re winning this argument, Sagramor,” Alistair said, clearly amused by Ragnar’s stubborn insistence. “Guess after what happened at the Circle, he doesn’t want you to go into battle without him.”
Ragnar barked in affirmation, stubby tail wagging hard enough to send dust and pebbles flying in its wake, and at last, Sagramor gave in. “All right, you can come along,” said the elf, any lingering irritation at the hound’s disobedience vanishing as the beast joyfully licked his face. “Who’s going to look after the horses then?”
“Parsharra, I shall, if it will spare us this folly,” Sten grunted, sword already drawn in expectation of imminent attack. Thanks to Bann Teagan’s generosity, Sten stood armoured for the first time since his release, an old but well-maintained chainmail hauberk from one of Redcliffe Castle’s well-stocked armories draped about his immense figure. It had been the largest they could find, forged decades ago for a Knight of Redcliffe of considerable girth, yet even it barely managed to accomodate the Qunari’s stature. Sten endured it well enough, as he did with all things, yet even so, Sagramor hoped that Teagan spoke truthfully about having new armour forged for them. “You must strike quickly, Warden. Any further delay gives the darkspawn time to prepare.”
And leaves Bann Teagan and Redcliffe to fight up north without us, Sagramor reminded himself, offering Sten a grateful nod. “Then let’s get up there,” he declared, taking point as the party rushed up towards Honnleath, as was his wont. Even from where they were, the elf could see the bloodied remains of several militiamen hanging from the stone gatehouse, the darkspawn having not wasted any time in mutilating their adversaries, just as they had back in the Korcari Wilds. It had not all gone the attackers’ way: numerous darkspawn corpses lay scattered at the base of the hill and along the steep path leading up to the village, well-feathered with arrows, the dusty earth watered by the tainted vitae of over a dozen of the beasts. At the gatehouse itself, men and darkspawn lay broken together in death, the militia’s last stand costing their enemy dearly, and Sagramor quietly commended their souls to the Maker’s side for their heroism, letting that horrid sight carry him through the gatehouse threshold and into the six darkspawn left there as an outlying picket, cutting down two genlocks in as many breaths before they realized the threat.
Like Lothering, Honnleath had been a thriving community, the hard work and toil of its citizens reflected in the cozy, well-maintained homes gathered within the protective aegis of the encircling palisade walls. The villagers had apparently been preparing for a festival of some kind when the darkspawn struck, the strings of brightly coloured pennants raised between maypoles now bearing the weight of the mutilated bodies of women and children hung up and left to rot. Many of the other would-be feastgoers lay scattered about the village square and the thresholds of their homes, bones smashed open as the invaders feasted on their flesh and marrow, while flames leapt from across well-laid thatch, spreading the devastation with each passing moment. Right beside the village square stood a great stone tower, once taller than any other structure in the community, now shattered halfway up its length by some cataclysmic force, sending a torrent of broken stone cascading across the well-trimmed grass like a landslide’s leavings, the debris a minor impediment to the dozen ravening darkspawn storming towards the intruders, eager for slaughter. Morrigan’s lightning bolt cut down the first of their number like the fist of a vengeful god, leaving smouldering pieces to be trampled underfoot by those behind, while Leliana’s arrows snatched away more darkspawn lives like a thief in the night.
And then the fiends were upon them, the crackle of the flames suddenly drowned out by monstrous howls and clashing blades. A hurlock wielding a pair of war axes was the first to meet their line, making an immediate beeline for Leliana, the two arrows she’d left in its chest doing nothing but enraging it. Sagramor intercepted the brute with an angry snarl, driving it back from the beautiful Orlesian and leaving it open for Ragnar to pounce on it from the side, jaws locked about its right wrist in a deathgrip. Shrieking in pain, the hurlock raised his other axe to bring down on the warhound’s skull, only for the elf to take off its left hand, a point-blank arrow from Leliana punching through its open mouth and out the back of the skull before the severed limb touched earth.
Running a charging genlock through, Sagramor took a moment to examine how his other companions were doing. Alistair, resolute as ever, was holding his own against a pair of genlocks with his usual professional efficiency, yet beside him, Zevran had taken to the business of fighting darkspawn with aplomb, keeping three of the monsters at bay simultaneously, twin blades flashing so fast Sagramor could barely keep up with their passage. A flick of his wrist, and the first darkspawn fell, gut laid open by the red steel longsword. Spinning on his heel in a dancer’s pirouette, the assassin brought down another, throat scythed open from ear to ear. Howling, the third darkspawn aimed a scything blow towards the elf’s neck: laughing joyfully, Zevran ducked the clumsy blow and drove his dagger up through the beast’s chin. “Really gets the blood pumping!”
“Less boasting, more fighting!” Morrigan demanded, amber eyes alight with exhilaration. A swift gesture, and the nearest hurlock fell to the ground, convulsing in agony, a sharp thrust from Sagramor’s greatsword ending its pain for good. Zevran finished off the last of the darkspawn with a dramatic flourish of his blades, sending the beast’s head rolling downhill towards the town gates, and the sorceress rolled her eyes at the flamboyant display. “Must you constantly posture so?”
“Perhaps the splendour of your beauty serves to inspire me, my dear,” Zevran replied, white teeth flashing in an ingratiating smile.
Scoffing, the sorceress turned on her heel. “Let us not waste time here, Warden. Did the dwarf actually speak true?”
“It’s starting to look like it,” Alistair interjected, pointing ahead with his longsword. For in the middle of the town square, seemingly undamaged admits the surrounding destruction, stood a great stone figure, unlike any statue or carving Sagramor had ever seen before, head thrown back and arms stretched out towards the sky as if pleading for salvation from some distant, uncaring god. Immensely powerful muscles and shoulders had been seemingly chiselled out of solid granite, adding to its intimidating proportions, while hands broad enough to contain and crush a man’s skull in their palms splayed outwards, complete with articulated stone fingers. Strangest of all were the blue crystalline veins running beneath the surface of its stony skin, and the exotic runes carved upon its forehead, collarbone and inner wrists, all glimmering with an unnatural light. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Lyrium, it has to be,” Leliana expressed. “It really is a golem! But how did it get trapped like this?”
“Machines break,” Morrigan stated bluntly. “Let us hope that the darkspawn did not manage to damage it to the point of uselessness.”
“Only one way to test it,” proclaimed Sagramor, drawing forth the control rod. “Dulef garn.”
He’d expected a rush of power to accompany the arcane words, some physical manifestation to convey the rod was working. In that, the elf was disappointed. The rod remained inert and lifeless in his hand, and worst yet, so too did the golem. “Typical,” Morrigan spat. “Glad to see we risked our lives for nothing, Warden.”
“Hardly for nothing,” countered Alistair. “It was worth trying, at any rate, if only to save the villagers.”
“Yet none of them live either!”
“We don’t know that,” the former Templar insisted. “There may be survivors hiding from the darkspawn, or holed up and still fighting them. Let’s not write off Honnleath’s entire population before we’ve had a chance to check.”
“Just be wary of more darkspawn,” said Sagramor, anxiously glancing about. He could still feel them about somewhere, the skin-crawling sensation of their presence yet to abate despite the losses they’d inflicted on the monsters, and reflexively, his grip around the sword-hilt tightened. “Leliana, think you might have the best eyes out of all of us. Could you head up onto the palisade and see if there’s any sign of them, especially coming up from the south?”
Nodding, Leliana raced up the firestep, returning visibly relieved a few minutes later. “Nothing. If the main horde is out there, it’s still some distance away.”
“Thank you.” Then where are the rest of them? wondered the elf, offering the burning and ransacked homes around the square a worried glance. Going house to house, room to room was starting to look like the only way to be certain they’d slain the last of them…
“This control rod, where did Bodahn say he got it from again?” asked Zevran.
“From another trader,” said Sagramor.
“And who knows from where that trader first received it, or how long it’s been passed from hand to hand? The command phrase too; I’d imagine it’s changed quite a bit along with its owners. Perhaps we should ask the survivors in the tower if they know it.”
“Survivors? In the tower?” Alistair demanded.
Chuckling softly, the assassin pointed to the muddy, broken ground before the door to the shattered tower, still strewn with the blood and broken weapons left in the wake of the initial darkspawn attack. “A good number of them, if these tracks are any indication, all streaming in from around the square as if this was their chosen refuge, and with darkspawn in pursuit. And no one coming out either…” Zevran gave a smug smile at the Warden’s confusion. “What? You don’t see the trail they left?”
“Guess I just lack your experience hunting people down, Zevran,” Sagramor admitted, utterly dumbfounded the Antivan was able to pick up anything from the bloody quagmire. Grey eyes examined the burning wreck of the tower. “Still, don’t think anyone would have survived in there.”
“Above, certainly. Below?” With a grunt, Zevran threw the tower door open, revealing the yawing darkness of the descending staircase, the dimly lit steps caked with mud. “Well, what are we waiting for?”
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If any of the Warden’s company had dared to hope the darkspawn they’d fought above represented the bulk of the enemy’s strength, within minutes of descending down into the lower reaches of their tower, such notions were quickly disabused. What they’d taken to be merely be the entrance to a small basement or root cellar in fact led into an entire underground complex far dwarfing what had been present in the ruined tower above, a sanctum in which in the late and reclusive Wilhelm could carry out his sorcerous craft in peace. From out of the dry earth, a series of interlinked passageways, more closely resembling the elegant halls of Kinloch Hold over a mine’s dank passageways, had been carved with a precision that put the finest stonemason to shame, connecting over a dozen individual chambers together beneath dwemer lights like those Sagramor had seen in the Circle. Libraries, alchemical laboratories, ale cellars, all now lay infested by the monsters, the tranquility enforced since Wilhelm’s passing and left undisturbed by the townsfolk now shattered irrevocably as the darkspawn subjected the complex to the same wanton destruction levelled upon the village above.
Nothing had been spared. Room by room, corridor by corridor, the little company fought their way through the snarling darkspawn packs, the devastation heartbreakingly plain to see. One room saw them treading across a carpet of broken glass left over from shattered philters and vials of potions, while in another, several great hogsheads had been staved in, forcing them to fight in a lake of spilled beer up to their ankles. Wilhelm’s love of scholarship demanded great shelves to be set up throughout the complex to accommodate the various tomes he’d collected, but their contents would remain forever unknown now, with each and every last volume either torn to shreds, burnt or even defecated upon by the invaders so that nothing of worth remained, a sight that pitched Morrigan’s fury beyond endurance. “Animals! Bestial filth!” she spat, lightning seething at the tip of her staff in sympathetic anger as she examined the latest smouldering pile, the half-dozen dead darkspawn left in her wake forgotten in the face of such an atrocity. “All this potential wisdom, that power, gone!”
“Why would they do something like that?” Leliana inquired, gingerly stepping past the stinking detritus.
“Because they knew they were things of value,” Alistair suggested. “And what could be crueller than destroying that which is loved?”
“Dare I suggest we’ve dealt with the last of them?” posed Zevran.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Sagramor, the unpleasant sensation of the darkspawn presence lingering about his forebrain like a vermin-infested bedsheet. “Any sign of the townsfolk yet?”
“None, though it is rather hard to track anyone through all this mess,” the assassin reminded him, offering the devastation a look of fastidious disdain.
At the head of the party, Ragnar’s stubby tail gave an excited shake, muscles tensing beneath the hound’s powerful frame. “Ragnar might have something here,” Alistair declared, moving to join him. Moments later, the sound of very human screams intermingling with darkspawn ones gave further weight to that statement, sending the entire party rushing down the corridor towards the source.
Ahead, the narrow confines of the corridor gave way to a massive, pillared chamber, and immediately, Sagramor was struck by the similarities in design to the entrance hall at Kinloch Hold, as if the gateway to the Ferelden Circle had been transposed wholesale beneath the earth. Nearly a score of darkspawn had gathered here, the flare of magic betraying the presence of a genlock emissary at their head, their attentions focused on the shimmering barrier of energy partitioning away a corner of the hall and the two dozen helpless villagers cowering behind it. Howling in frustration, the emissary unleashed another suppurating blast of lightning against the magical barricade, but the sorcery that had shattered the tower above in half proved astonishingly ineffective here, the wards etched into each of the pillars maintaining the barrier burning white as the spell was absorbed. Such was the monster’s fury that it failed to register the Warden’s company until its rearmost minions had been cut to pieces, the irate scream tearing free of the genlock’s rotten mouth sending the others into action.
A jagged, pig-iron sword clanged against Sagramor’s well-maintained steel: with a grunt, the Warden riposted, driving the darkspawn back a step. Undeterred, the beast lashed out again, sparks flying in its heedless frenzy, one reckless slash grazing the elf’s right cheek. In an instant, Zevran was there, looping around behind the Hurlock, dagger shoved into its gut, before spinning and taking the head of another darkspawn aiming for his back. Darkspawn arrows fell into their midst, taking root in wooden beams and the flesh of their fellows, so eager were they to bring down their attackers, but Leliana’s were far more accurate, the hastily fusillade trailing off as she sniped them down, one by one.
The hall came alive with the agonizing drone of buzzing insects, the ear-shredding noise matched only by the sound of the emissary’s dark incantation bringing the malignant creatures into existence. Alistair struck first, the fire of Templar anti-magics washing against its arcane shield. A lightning bolt from Morrigan rocked the beast on its heels, its sorcery disrupted, and Ragnar fell upon it, dodging a hastily-cast burst of fire and leaping for the genlock’s throat. “Good boy!” Sagramor called above the din, cutting down another darkspawn left distracted by its leader’s death. Caught between the hammer of the Wardens and the anvil of the energy barrier, the remaining darkspawn fought to the bitter end but the loss of the emissary left them uncoordinated and defenseless before Morrigan’s own magic. The final hurlock made a suicidal rush for the sorceress, and with a mocking smile, Zevran casually dispatched it, an underhanded toss lodging a throwing knife fast between its eyes. “Appreciate the assist, Zevran.”
“Well, it would not do to repay you for sparing me by letting the nearest darkspawn run you through, now would it?” the assassin remarked, taking care to wipe his blades clean of darkspawn gore before sheathing them. “Satisfied I’m of worth?”
“Entirely,” the Warden answered, sincerely impressed. He always worried how non-Wardens would take to fighting an enemy as savage and vile as the darkspawn, but like Leliana, Morrigan and Sten before him, Zevran had neither shirked nor faltered in that duty. You’d think by now I’d have more faith in the people I recruit, he chided himself, turning his attentions to the civilians still huddled fearfully behind the magical barrier. “Are you all right in there?”
“We are now,” one of the villagers spoke up as he rose to his feet. He was a carpenter, judging by the sawdust impregnating his sweat-stained garments, in his mid-thirties by the elf’s reckoning, though the lines of stress and fear added to his unshaven face made him seem much older. “You… you weren’t sent by the Bann, were you, to save us?”
“Not exactly,” Sagramor explained, wiping darkspawn gore from the griffon emblem at his chest.
It was as if a torch suddenly flared to life amidst stygian darkness, hope kindling bright and fast within Honnleath’s survivors. “A Grey Warden, here? Thank the Maker for our luck!” their spokesman declared, a chorus of cheers and praises following at the heels of his words. “But if the Bann didn’t send you, then what are you doing here, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“We’d heard rumours of darkspawn nearing Honnleath, and with Lothering now destroyed, we wanted to determine exactly how far the horde has come and save as many as we could in the process.” An audible moan rose from the survivors at that dread news, yet Sagramor pressed on. “We’d also heard about a golem in the village, and hoped to convince its owner to let us use it in our fight against the darkspawn.”
“The golem?” a woman asked from amongst the crowd. “What are you talking about?”
“You know, the big statue thing out in the village square,” Alistair elaborated, puzzled. “At least, we were told it’s a golem…”
“But why would you… oh, I see. You brought the control rod, didn’t you?” the carpenter asked bitterly, the joy of their salvation swept aside like so much dust by mention of the golem. “Tell me, are the darkspawn all dead?”
The buzzing sensation at the back of his mind had faded, yet Sagramor glanced over at Alistair for confirmation all the same. “I believe so,” the former Templar declared. “We killed all those present on the surface, and we did a thorough job checking through this complex, so I’d say we’re safe for now. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to leave here as soon as possible, though; there’s no sign of the main horde yet, but they may come through eventually, and Honnleath isn’t defensible against so many.”
“Alistair’s right. Please, head down the hill to the pine grove and wait there,” urged the elven Warden. “We will bring you north to Redcliffe where you’ll be safe.”
Nodding, the carpenter placed his right hand against the nearest pillar. After a moment, the vibrant runes went dark, bringing down the barrier and sending the people of Honnleath scurrying up the nearest ladder towards the surface, offering thanks to the little company as they passed. The carpenter remained behind, however, gesturing the party forth with a beckoning, impatient hand. “That damnable golem’s brought us nothing but trouble!” he spat, levelling a hostile glare towards the ceiling and the stone man above. “My mother sold the rod years ago after it killed my father, and good riddance!”
“It killed your father? What do you mean?”
“My name is Matthias. My father was Wilhelm, mage to the Arls of Redcliffe, close advisor to Maric the Saviour and hero in the rebellion against Orlais. And what did he get? One day, my mother found him outside the tower with so many broken bones she could barely recognize him, and the golem standing over him just like it is now.”
“And it’s never moved since, in all those years,” Leliana finished. “That’s why the village has been treating it like just another statue this whole time; that’s all they’ve known it to be.”
“Exactly. I wouldn’t wish that damned monstrosity on my worst enemy; my father deserved far better than what he’d received from it. But if you’re certain it can help you stop the darkspawn, I’m willing to let you have it.”
“Except that we’re still stuck with a control rod that doesn’t work,” Zevran reminded them.
“My mother might have passed along the wrong command phrase when she sold the rod,” Matthias suggested. “Look, I can give you the right one, but... I need your help first!”
“What is it?” asked Sagramor.
“You’ve done much for Honnleath already, and I’m grateful, but my daughter Amalia’s in the laboratory, and I need you to bring her back, please!” the carpenter begged, gesturing at the passageway running behind him. “When the darkspawn came… she was afraid, and ran too far in before I could stop her.”
“And what is stopping you from retrieving your own child yourself?” Morrigan demanded frostily, arms crossed beneath her breasts.
“My father’s magical defenses. He established them long ago to keep strangers out, Maker only knows how Amalia managed to get past them. I knew about the barrier, I had the key for that and was taught how to use it, but the rest? One of the men tried to follow Amalia in, but he was killed. None of us have magic like you do, and seeing how you killed all those darkspawn, I’d imagine you could handle any dangers down there.”
“Any idea what we might be up against?” asked Alistair.
“None. Father never let me into the central laboratory, and after he died, we never came down here, ever.” An uncertain flicker passed over the former Templar’s face, and Matthias’s mien darkened. “He wasn’t a blood mage or anything horrible like that, I can assure you! He never would have done anything that might have threatened the village or his family. Please, if it’s valuables that concern you, whatever you find back there is yours for the taking. Just bring my daughter back to me!”
“Ahh, treasure! The day improves!” Zevran proclaimed.
“It’s all right,” said Sagramor, trying to soothe the carpenter’s anger before he did something rash. Matthias had done well to shepherd his fellow survivors in the face of the darkspawn onslaught, but fatigue, his worries over Amalia’s fate, and the frustration at his inability to rescue her were clearly playing on his mind. Honnleath was secure for now and Sten could be counted on to protect the survivors coming down the hill. They could certainly spare the time to save a little girl, and if it ensured they could activate the golem, then so much the better. “We’ll do what we can to bring her back safely.”
“You will? Thank the Maker! My father’s laboratory is just past the next area, you have to find her!”
“If she’s in there, we will,” promised the elf, offering Matthias a respectful nod before setting the pace down the corridor. Predictably, it was Morrigan who moved to offer the first protest, bare arm brushing against his chainmail sleeve. “I know what you’re going to say, Morrigan, and no. We’re not abandoning that girl.”
“And what if this man means to cozen us, Warden? To have us do his bidding here only to deny us the prize of the golem?”
Sagramor resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead keeping his attention focused on avoiding the gnarled roots that had forced their way through the walls of the corridor over the decades. “I doubt it. Even if he were inclined to betray us, there’s no one here to betray us to, and once we rescue his daughter, he won’t have reason to.”
“And if any surviving darkspawn manage to regroup while we’re off on this little errand?”
“There aren’t any,” Alistair assured her. “Trust us on that.”
Morrigan looked askance at such a definitive proclamation, but held her tongue as they descended further into the complex. Several paces on, the body of the villager first sent after the wayward Amalia stared warningly at them from dead, hollow eye sockets, whatever fate had befallen him leaving his corpse desiccated like he’d been discarded in the high heat of the Hissing Wastes for a month. Sparing Leliana a moment to offer a prayer for the dead man’s soul, Sagramor led the little company down into the laboratory, Ragnar at his side, nose trailing along the ground for the girl’s scent. Ahead, the corridor spiralled about a huge open cistern, condensation dripping from the many hanging stalactites, the sudden drop in temperature provoking an unconscious shiver from the elf. The cold only deepened as they reached the laboratory proper, the sapphire gleam of the dwemer lights casting unnerving shadows over the great stone tables, each contained within its own individual alcove and covered in dust. At the other end of the lab, shimmering violet energy betrayed the presence of another magical barrier, yet it was the contents of one of the tables that caught the Warden’s eye. “What are those?”
“Interesting…” Morrigan remarked, crossing over to the source of Sagramor’s query. Resting on a metal tray and strangely untouched by the dust that had carpeted the rest of the laboratory sat several large crystals, each about the length of her outstretched hand and iridescent in the dim light. “Now this is a worthy find.”
“What are there? More of these dwemer lights?” Sagramor asked. Beside him, Ragnar gave a wary sniff.
“I do not believe so; the illumination seems to be a mere byproduct,” Morrigan explained, lean features bathed in red light as she took up the first crystal. “They seem to be altering the flow of magic about them, storing it within, perhaps as a reserve to be drawn upon when needed.” Quick as a weasel, the sorceress began stowing them into a pouch at her waist, meeting Alistair’s scornful glare in kind. “This villager did promise us the contents of the laboratory in return for his daughter’s safety, did he not? I’m certain he’ll have no objection, given how grateful he’ll apparently be, and he seems incapable of employing them regardless.”
The final crystal vanished into her pouch, and the shadows tightened behind her, a sibilant hiss echoing throughout the laboratory. “Morrigan…” Sagramor uttered in warning, the rest of his objection going unsaid as the first monstrous claws lunged towards his back from out of the darkness, only the honed reflexes of the elf preventing them from tearing through his spine. He only caught a glimpse of the beast, of ash-like flesh and red eyes set deep into its bare skull, of endless rows of teeth sprouting from the open maws that lined its chest, before it hurled him aside, the dank chill banished by the heat that radiated off it like a furnace’s mouth.
Blades descended upon the beast as Alistair and Zevran attacked in unison, Ragnar at their side, only for their strikes to harmlessly sink into its form, like plunging a sword into desert sands. With a howl, the creature burst apart in a whirlwind of dust, sending man and elf and hound alike staggering away, coughing and choking. In moments, the creature reformed itself, just in time to receive a curse from Morrigan, bolts of frost impaling the creature, her sorcerous touch doing what mere steel could not and finally drawing a shriek of pain from the beast.
“What in Andraste’s name is this thing?!” demanded Sagramor, struggling to get to his feet.
“Some sort of guardian spirit!” Alistair replied, Templar anti-magics engulfing the creature in burning light, his hypothesis proven true as it wailed and convulsed in reply. Stricken by the attack, the next thrust of the former Templar’s longsword finally struck true, while a goose-feathered shaft suddenly sprouted from its neck, provoking further wails. “Probably reacting to somebody pinching the artefacts it was meant to guard!”
“Quit your moralizing and put it down!” snarled the apostate. Another spell gathered at her fingertips, yet even injured, the creature possessed an inhuman swiftness, its body transmuting to dust and bowling her over in a savage wind. Reforming, it pivoted, left arm catching Alistair and Ragnar in mid-lunge and hurling them away, armoured warrior and immense warhound cast aside like fallen leaves.
Another arrow struck true, this time lodging fast in its right shoulder. “Face me, creature!” Leliana declared, her back to the energy barrier, putting another shaft into the beast’s chest. The others forgotten, it lunged for her, unflinching as she put shot and shot into its upper body, the stench of brimstone intensifying at its approach, fire gathering in its clawed hands.
Instinct took over, and without hesitation, Sagramor leapt for the Orlesian girl, tackling her aside as the creature bathed the area where she’d been standing in flame, the heat so intense nearby scrolls and parchments burst alight. The elf had a moment to subconsciously delight in the sensation of the beautiful redhead in his arms before an unnatural, prickling sensation ran along his skin, even through his armour, and the ground rose up to meet them in the form of hard, angular steps, digging painfully into his side. “Are you all right, Leliana?”
“I’m fine, but… look,” the archer replied, gesturing at their surroundings. Such had been Sagramor’s eagerness to see her clear of the spirit’s attack that he’d accidently sent them both through the energy barrier and down into the adjacent chamber, the starkly-cut stone walls encompassing an evenly space quartet of pillars and lined with burning runes. Beyond, the clamour of the fight was oddly muted, the party’s shouts of defiance and the clash of their weapons robbed of force, and Leliana came to her feet, a fresh arrow on her bowstring. “They need our help, Sagramor.”
“Agreed,” said the elf, leaping up the stairs. “Let’s get in there and--” Sagramor’s proposal died and a scream of pain took its place as the elf idly laid a hand upon the energy barrier, the magic that had let them enter so easily unwilling to let them depart. He staggered backwards, every nerve ending in his right hand ablaze with pain, and Leliana immediately rushed to his side, the makings of a poultice in hand. “I’m all right, I’m all right,” the Warden answered through gritted teeth. “Don’t think it actually damaged my hand physically, it just hurts, is all.”
“Yet another trap Wilhelm set for intruders, I’d imagine. But how do we escape it?”
A giggle sounded behind them, and Sagramor and Leliana turned as a frail-looking girl emerged from behind the nearest pillar, a fat, sour-looking tabby cat cradled in her arms. “Look, kitty, someone’s come to play!” the girl exclaimed, sitting the feline down and offering a loving stroke. Innocent blue eyes, devoid of any concern or even knowledge of the fight raging within yards of her, observed the pair. “You have come to play, haven’t you? We’re playing a guessing game. It’s better with more people.”
“Amalia?” Sagramor sighed in relief. “Your father was getting worried about you, child, he’ll be glad to see you safe.”
“Father? Oh, you can tell him I’m fine. Maybe he’ll come and play with us too.” A petulant scowl broke out along her pale, drawn features, and she turned back to her cat, the newcomers already dismissed as a priority. “Anyways, you should go if you’re not going to play. Kitty finds you distracting.”
“Kitty… finds us distracting?” Sagramor asked, confused.
“Kitty is clever. She says you want to take me back to my father, but I’m not going. She’ll be lonely!”
“You are so kind, Amalia,” came a rich, cultured feminine voice, and Sagramor gasped as the cat’s eyes began to burn an unearthly violet, their stare piercing into the depths of his soul and finding him wanting. “I would miss you dearly if you left.”
Ignoring the pain lancing through his hand, Sagramor raised his greatsword, Leliana’s bow tensing beside him. “Amalia, you need to step away from it, now.”
“Nothing you say will convince Amalia to go with you,” the cat-- or more accurately, the creature assuming its form-- replied smugly, even as the girl stood unperturbed by the Warden’s drawn blade. “She loves only me now. I am her friend, while you are but a stranger.”
“Creature, what have you done to her?” demanded Leliana.
“I have done nothing, mortal, for I am all but powerless here. The mage made sure of that, didn’t he? He sought answers to his questions, and when the ones I offered did not suit him, he left me bound to this chamber, never to step beyond or to return to the Fade. No, Amalia found me. After decades of isolation, her company is… welcome.”
“Grandpa Wilhelm locked her in here, isn’t that horrible?” Amalia protested.
“Yes, it is,” said Sagramor, keeping a wary distance from the creature. For all its assurances it was powerless, he’d had too much experience tangling with entities of the Fade to ever let his guard down, and Amalia’s complete disinterest in anything other than the cat, even in armed and bloodied strangers, suggested she was being influenced somehow. What in the Maker’s name was Wilhelm doing with a demon anyways? he wondered, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “What do you want?”
“It seems we are at an impasse. I cannot harm you, yet even in my current state, I am resilient enough that destroying me would take time, time your friends outside this room do not possess. Not to mention the trauma it would inflict on poor, gentle Amalia. So let me propose a… compromise, of sorts. Release me from this prison, mortal, and let me have the girl. Let us return to her father and depart this wretched place forever.”
“You mean possess her,” Leliana all but spat.
“That’s such a crude way of putting it,” came the demon’s dry retort. “I do not wish to harm Amalia, I merely wish to see the infinite wonders of your world through her eyes. Is that so wrong?”
More than you know, demon, Sagramor raged inwardly, taking care not to betray his disgust. Amalia had yet to react to their conversation, instead humming cheerfully to herself, further proof that her perceptions were being altered. “But how would we free you when we can’t escape this place ourselves?”
The cat’s head jerked towards the strange tiles mounted in the centre of the room, ribbons of fire darting between them. “These can be used to alter the flow of magic and shut down the wards barring us here. I would have done so myself, but this form is ill-suited for such work, and Amalia lacks the strength to move them.”
A puzzle to solve as well, wonderful. The elf held his tongue, instead weighing the creature’s offer, ever-cognizant that Alistair and the others had been left to fight on without him. To deal with a demon in any fashion was madness, a lesson reinforced by his experiences at Kinloch Hold, and the idea of selling out an innocent child to such a monster made his skin crawl. And yet it did not change the fact that his companions were left to fight on without him, the energy barrier making a mockery of his dedication to their safety. I cannot let this creature go free, much less possessing the girl. But if something happens to the others when I’m not there to help…
“I’m with you, Sagramor.” Leliana’s gentle voice cut through the looming haze of his indecision before it became overwhelming, fresh courage blooming at her words. “I know you’ll make the right call here.”
Thank you, Leliana, Sagramor said inwardly, all his doubts falling away. The demon had tried to constrain his choices, but there was always a third option to be found, provided one had the strength and cunning to reach for it. “Very well then,” he said, making his decision. “I agree to your terms, creature.”
“You do? You will let me leave here with the girl?”
“I swear to you, on my honour,” the elf proclaimed, choosing his words carefully, “that I will undo the seals binding you here. Agreed?”
“Oh, thank you!” professed the demon.
Without further preamble, Sagramor made for the controls, keeping a wary eye on the girl and her unearthly companion as he passed. At his side, Leliana nodded in acceptance, or rather, recognition of what he intended, and the elf tried not to let the relief he felt at the gesture show, the first of the tiles sliding at his touch. They were playing with fire now, in more ways than one, and if they failed in this… We won’t, not with our companions and Amalia counting on us!
***********************************
With a grunted curse, Alistair ripped his longsword free of the guardian spirit in a spray of grit and dust, another burst of Templar anti-magics driving it back a pace, wailing in agony. Yet the creature stubbornly refused to die, the tremendous punishment inflicted by the party leaving it wounded but still eminently capable of fighting back, and for what felt like the thousandth time that day, Alistair felt his shield-arm judder with the impact of the enemy’s blows through the iron-bound wood. “Someone put this damn thing down!”
“What do you think I’ve been doing, fanning myself in the heat?” Morrigan snapped venomously. Frost burst to life around the creature, and it let out a nightmarish screech of pain, the touch of that element more painful to it than any other. Again and again, the apostate bombarded it with ice, the magical onslaught finally wearing it down, and it staggered away as fast as its battered form would permit. A swift thrust of Zevran’s blades to the back halted its retreat, Ragnar gnawing at its proverbial heels, and between Morrigan’s sorcery and Alistair’s disruptive power, the spirit’s fire was finally quenched, a few vengeful slashes from the former Templar putting it down for good. Alistair’s eyes fixed on the apostate, brimming with frustration, and Morrigan took up the gauntlet. “Why are you staring at me so, fool? You did not truly expect a mage of Wilhelm’s power would leave his life’s work undefended, did you?”
“No, I’m just amazed that you’d consider doing something so stupid to begin with!” Alistair exploded, her mocking words all the provocation his anger needed to slip free of its bonds. “You put all our lives at risk, and for what? Some damned trinket?”
“An artefact, you imbecile! One in the possession of a mage that had escaped your Chantry’s leash in the bargain; who knows what power it contains? ‘Tis not like the odds are against us and every asset is needed to stop the Blight!”
“Not if it means potentially sacrificing the rest of us!”
“As much as it pains me to interrupt this lover’s quarrel,” Zevran chimed in, taking their angry glares in stride, “we seem to be two people short.”
Startled, Alistair glanced about for their missing companions, letting out a curse at their absence. “Maker, where are they? Could they have fallen to another trap?”
“No,” answered Morrigan, levelling her staff towards the energy barrier. “I think they’re dealing with far worse...”
***********************************
The final tile clicked into its proper place, and an sudden shift in pressure signalled that the barrier had vanished, the runes lining the walls now dark and silent. “Can you feel it?” the demon purred, a sickly witch-light emanating from the creature as it began to divest itself of its feline form, body twisting and moulding like soft clay. “I’d forgotten what it felt like not to be bound in this place, to be trapped within that pathetic body!”
“Kitty?” came Amalia’s terrified plea, backing away as her beloved pet began to transform into something far less healthy, the sight finally breaking through the manipulations the demon had enforced upon her. “What’s going on?!”
“Something wonderful, my dear, for both of us. Now, be a good little girl, why don’t you, and just let me in…”
A nod from Sagramor, and Leliana’s bow came up, sending a shaft through the demon’s shifting face at full draw. “I promise I’d let you go free, monster,” the elf proclaimed, burying the long steel of his greatsword up to the hilt in its side. “But I never said you’d walk out alive.”
“Betrayal!” howled the demon, outrage and agony only fuelling its transformation. Sagramor ripped the sword clear in time to avoid a disemboweling swipe of its claws, meeting the fiend as it stalked towards him on long, catlike legs, aspects of its original form subconsciously carrying over in its metamorphosis. Long fangs bared in its lipless mouth, and it pounced, screeching in rage. Swiftly, the Warden brought up the hilt of his weapon, bashing it aside, yet it was on its feet again in a heartbeat, a single bound knocking him over and pinning him to the floor beneath its mutating mass. “I will tear out your heart, ephemeral, and make the girl devour it before I claim her! I--“
A second arrow raked along the demon’s back, its scream drowned out by the peal of thunder beneath the earth as the rest of the party descended into the fray, Morrigan’s lightning bolt hurling it off the prone Sagramor with the stench of burning fur. “Get Amalia clear!” Sagramor cried out, steel jarring against the demon’s claws. Like a bolt from the blue came Ragnar, sheer bulk knocking the demon back, teeth and claws ripping and tearing in a frenzied rush against the entity that had dared to lay a finger on his master. A shout of warning from Sagramor, and the hound disengaged, leaping out of the line of fire before Morrigan’s flames embraced the demon like a burial shroud, Templar anti-magics silencing any hope of a counter-spell. Screaming, the demon tried to resist Morrigan’s attack, but the apostate’s upper hand became a fist, and with a triumphant cry, she burned it to ash, amber eyes alight with exhilaration in her victory. “Appreciate the assistance, all of you.”
“Maker, you had me worried there for a second,” stated Alistair, bringing his fellow Warden to his feet. “What in the world happened in here?”
“I’ll explain on the way back. Is Amalia all right?”
“She’s fine,” Leliana explained, shielding the sobbing girl in her arms. “Nicely done, Sagramor.”
“Thank you,” replied the elf, pleased at the compliment. “Let’s get out of here, everyone. Matthias has been waiting long enough.”
***********************************
“Papa!” Amalia shrieked, quickly vacating Leliana’s embrace for that of her father’s, burying her tear-streaked face into his chest. “I’m sorry I ran away, Papa, I was so scared!”
“It’s all right, butterfly, you’re safe now. The bad creatures are all gone, thanks to them."
Disengaging from his daughter for a moment, the human stepped forward to shake Sagramor’s hand, beaming in relief. “Are you sure you still want Shale? I know you Wardens can handle yourselves, but it still might be dangerous to reactivate her.”
“A dangerous companion who may try and kill our fearless leader upon meeting him?” came Zevran’s casual remark. “Perish the thought!”
“Cute,” Morrigan groaned. “Why did he bother sparing you again?”
“Witty repartee and undeniable sex appeal?"
“I appreciate the warning, Matthias, but if the golem can help us save Ferelden, then it’s worth the risk,” Sagramor assured the carpenter. “What happened to Honnleath is going to happen across the entire country unless we can put a stop to it, and we need all the help we can get.”
“Very well then. The phrase to activate it is ‘dulen harn.’ I just hope you know what you’re doing, Warden.”
“He always does,” Leliana insisted.
Trying and failing not to blush, Sagramor cleared his throat. “Head down the hill, Matthias. We’ll catch up shortly, and escort you and the other survivors to Redcliffe.”
“Sounds like a plan, Warden. And thank you again, we owe you our lives!”
***********************************
After even less than an hour underground, the relatively fresh air of the world above proved a blessing, even marred with the stench of smoke, corpses and the darkspawn taint. The skin-crawling sensation of the foe’s presence had vanished, and a quick walk along the southern palisade wall betrayed no signs of the main horde in the distance, yet Sagramor knew better than to linger, especially with Honnleath’s surviving folk waiting anxiously at the bottom of the hill to be led behind the protective aegis of Redcliffe and her defenders. Drawing the control rod once more, the elf crossed the village square to stand before the golem, the unfamiliar dwarven words leaden on his tongue. “Let us hope this activation phrase bears fruit, Warden,” Morrigan declared crossly. “If we risked our lives for naught but inert stone…”
“I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?” remarked Sagramor, levelling the golden instrument at its target. “Dulen harn.”
As before, there was no rush of power from the control rod, no visible indication that the magic had done its work, and for long moments, Sagramor simply waited, his companions shuffling anxiously behind him. The elf felt amber eyes burning at his back, yet kept his patience, his own misgivings smothered beneath the stoic reserve leadership demanded of him.
And that patience was finally rewarded.
Blue light flared to life within the golem’s eyes and the runes, and Sagramor watched in astonishment as it finally began to move, stone joints creaking from disuse. The shackles of immobility finally gave away and its arms wrenched free of their awkward position, decades worth of dust falling away in a shower of grit, while its first lumbering step forward crushed the scattered basket of birdseed into powder and sent the local birds taking to the sky in panic. “Andraste…” Leliana gasped in wonder, even as hands flew to swordhilts amongst the rest of the party and Ragnar gave a warning growl. A second heavy footfall, and the golem halted, quartz eyes coming to fix on Sagramor, and the elf cast aside the temptation to go for his own blade. What sword would even have a hope of hurting it to start with?
“I knew that the day would come when someone would find the control rod,” a dry, vaguely feminine voice rumbled past stone lips, much to the party’s collective astonishment. Its unblinking stare met each of them in turn and offered nothing, though the same could not be said of its voice. “And not even a mage this time. Probably stumbled across the rod by accident. Typical!”
“Er… hello to you too,” Sagramor managed, still trying to gather his wits together. The golem can speak? And think?
“I stood here in this spot and watched those wretched little villagers scurry around me for, oh, I have no idea how long,” continued the golem, seemingly oblivious to the elf’s discomfort. “Many, many years.”
“Oh, you poor dear!” Leliana expressed. “That would be… really, really boring.”
“And the villagers had no idea they were being watched?” said Alistair. “Creepy.”
“Then one wonders why you shouldn’t be thankful to the one who let you stretch your legs, golem,” Morrigan remarked with a sweetness that belied the venom beneath.
“Another mage I see. Charmed,” said the golem, clearly anything but. “I was just getting used to the quiet too. Tell me, are all the villagers dead?”
“Not all,” answered Sagramor. “We managed to save about two dozen before the darkspawn could get to them.”
“Some got away then? How unfortunate.”
Sagramor’s eyes widened. “You didn’t care for them, I take it?”
“Familiarity breeds contempt, as they say, and after over two decades as a captive audience, I was as familiar with these villagers as one could possibly be. Not that I wished their fate on them, no, but it did make for a delightful change of pace. Certainly more exciting than the usual humdrum of their mundane existences, their petty concerns about grain prices and marriage negotiations and… poultry.” The golem made the last word a curse, stone fingers clenching together.
“Did you see much of the attack?”
“Not as much as it would think. There was running and screaming and all manner of chaos, then day after day of watching the darkspawn prowl around. I would never have thought there could be something less interesting than the villagers, but there it was.” Its crystal gaze turned once more upon Sagramor, the beginnings of a sneer forming at the sight of the control rod. “Well, go on then, out with it. What is its command?”
“First thing’s first, what is your name?” Sagramor asked. What little he knew about golems had come the few books in his family’s home in the alienage, all of which were the products of human perspectives, and whatever small scraps of knowledge Bodahn had been able to share with the control rod, so to say there were gaps in his understanding was a severe understatement. He’d come to Honnleath assuming to find a weapon, no more alive than a sword or spear, regardless of the quality of its craftmanship. Yet for all intents and purposes, the golem was a living being: one constructed rather than born, certainly, but still with a mind and character of its own, no different in that fundamental aspect than himself or any who followed him. It was not an instrument, but a person whose respect and trust he’d have to earn like anyone else, and so Sagramor changed tacks accordingly. “I’d rather avoid referring to you just as ‘golem’ if I can avoid it.”
“Perhaps I may have forgotten it after so many years of being called simply that,” the golem replied snidely, mimicking a whinging tone. “’Golem, fetch me that chair.’ ‘Do be a good golem and squash that insipid bandit, would you?’ And let us certainly not forget ‘Golem, pick me up, I tire of walking.’ Ugh!” At this, the golem suddenly frowned, granite brows furrowed in confusion. “It does have the control rod, doesn’t it? I am awake, so it must, but…”
“Something wrong?”
“I see the control rod, yet I feel… Go on, then. Order me to do something.”
“All right then, walk over to the door at the base of the tower,” said Sagramor, idly gesturing in that direction with the control rod.
The golem remained obstinately still. “And… nothing. I feel nothing. I feel no compulsion to carry out its command. I suppose this means the control rod is… broken?”
Zevran gave a wry laugh. “Well, Warden, I guess you get what you pay for.”
“It worked well enough to activate it, at least,” Alistair countered.
Something about the golem’s uncertain tone made Sagramor pause. “Should you be happy about that? Doesn’t seem like having to carry out Wilhelm’s orders was something you enjoyed, after all.”
“I suppose if I can’t be commanded, this means… I have free will, yes? It is simply… what should I do? I have no memory of what lies beyond this village, and I have no purpose to direct me forwards. I find myself at a bit of a loss. What about it? It must have awoken me for some reason, no? What did it intend to do with me?”
“We are Grey Wardens, sworn to do battle against the darkspawn,” Sagramor explained. “We’d hoped to gain your assistance in stopping the Blight, and all things considered, we could definitely use it. You’d be more than welcome to join us, if you’d like.”
“Hmm, that darkspawn are an evil that must be destroyed, that’s true,” permitted the golem. “Though not as evil as the birds, damnable feathered fiends!” As if signalled by her words, a murder of crows took flight from amidst the surrounding trees, and Sagramor could have sworn the golem shuddered in fear at the sound of their wings beating. “Very well then, I shall follow it about… for now. I am called Shale, by the way.”
“Really?” Alistair asked, incredulous. “Is that your name, or just what you’re made of?”
“It is what I am.” A pigeon, seeing the birdseed scattered about Shale’s feet, dared risk going in for a peck, and quicker than Sagramor imagined a being of stone might be able to move, Shale brought her left foot down with the awful crack of bones shattering. “And it would be nice to see something besides these wretched little hovels for once in my life.”
“Then welcome aboard, Shale,” said Sagramor before Alistair could offer another pithy comment. “We need to head to Redcliffe for the moment and bring the survivors to safety, but after that? We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”
“Very well then. To the road!” Shale proclaimed, setting off towards the town gates, its stride only broken to crush any bird that dared intrude upon its path. Sighing, Sagramor made to follow, lingering for a moment to take in one last glimpse of Honnleath, and the claws of regret rose up, tearing any satisfaction he’d felt at Shale’s recovery to ragged tatters, halting him in his tracks even as the rest of the party set off to follow their newest companion.
All but one. “We did all we could, Sagramor,” Leliana assured him, slim hand clasping his own. “Honnleath may die, but at least some of its people will live on, thanks to you.”
“I know,” said the elf, grateful for her company, yet even her sweet words could not fully banish the growing shadow over his heart. Ostagar, Lothering, now Honnleath… How much more are we going to let the darkspawn take? When are we finally going to be able to make a stand against them?
And how much of Ferelden will be left by the time we do…