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-Six: The Demands of Duty, Part One

Fire.

It engulfed the Warden, cutting him off from the rest of the world, the boundaries of his existence suddenly and violently defined by the inferno that swirled about him. Blinded by soot, choked by ash, escape was impossible, leaping flames barring every conceivable passage and erasing every point of reference, and each moment became a test of endurance, flesh broiling beneath his armour and cloak, heat convection making each breath feel like his lungs were bound in red-hot iron. Ahead was a wall of fire so bright and intense he could not look directly upon it for more than a moment without turning aside, the image seared into his retinas. Behind lay the promise of incineration, whispered by the blisters forming at the tips of his pointed ears, the roar of the flames deeper and more menacing than any natural beast could offer, consuming all other sounds in their hunger.

All but one. All but her.

“Sagramor!”

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I am coming home.

The thought clung like dust from the road after a long day’s march, persistent and indelible, always at the back of his mind even as the miles passed beneath the tread of their feet and the rush of water against wooden hulls, no matter what task he set himself to or whatever priority made itself known. It was childish, perhaps, for duty drove them towards Denerim, and with Loghain on the throne and his chosen followers holding the city, any personal distractions could prove fatal as they stuck their heads within the wolf’s mouth, praying it would not bite down. Yet in the deep of night, after Alistair’s Templar tutoring was done for the evening and his own watch was ended, Sagramor could feel the frisson of excitement secretly burning within his heart, neither the touch of autumn in the night winds nor the twisted shadows infesting his dreams able to quench it. He was returning to the place he truly fought for, to the people he longed to make proud more than anything in the world. The mere notion of seeing his family again, to make certain they were all right, to share his adventures with them and introducing them to his newfound friends and companions made him want to cry out to the heavens in joy and brought homesick tears to the surface he hadn’t known he’d possessed, silently wiped away in the dying firelight lest anyone notice.

It had been a week now since they’d left Redcliffe, the first leg of their journey hastened by the village’s river barges and fishing vessels carrying them eastwards as Teagan promised, though regrettably, they could not bring them all the way. In gentler times, it was simplicity itself to travel along the Hafter River to Denerim, four days at most bringing a vessel from Lake Calenhad to the mouth of the Waking Sea with the strong flow of the river beneath it and a decent wind at its back. But these were far from gentle times. The crews of the longships that patrolled Ferelden’s rivers cracking down on smugglers and collecting the king’s tariffs on goods moving along the waterways would be more than happy to collect Loghain’s bounty on the Warden’s company. Even beyond the danger that came with transporting declared traitors to Ferelden, unnerving rumours had been heard of the Regent’s troops impounding river transports, seizing their cargos and press-ganging their crews, risks not even the most grateful fisherman wished to tempt.

Instead, they’d disembarked just south of the Coastlands proper off one of the many tributaries threading their way through the country, their passage concealed within dense, sparsely inhabited forests and witnessed by none. Along the narrow dirt path that served as their route to Denerim, the hedges grew thick and wild, even merging with the forest’s undergrowth at points, a far cry from the well-travelled, maintained and patrolled routes of the Imperial Highway or the Coast Road running through Highever and Amaranthine. Yet in the four days since they set out afoot, no hedge knights disrupted the peace of their march, or bounty hunters or beggars or travelling merchants or Loghain’s soldiers or indeed anyone at all. Were the existence of rural cottages and charcoal burning camps hidden amongst the densely-wooded hills not signalled by the faint grey wisps of smoke painted on the cloudless backdrop of the sky, it was easy to imagine they were wholly alone in this part of Ferelden, the threat of darkspawn and Loghain’s regime alike so removed it seemed impossible than any threat could arise to ruin such a perfect summer’s journey. As disappointed as it had been to see their river journey cut short, Sagramor understood their reasoning, and even the relatively short passage had shaved close to a full fortnight off the trip. Another five days, perhaps a little longer as enemy patrols became more frequent and a more cautious pace became necessary, would see them to the gates of Denerim. And from there, only the Maker knows.

These were happy days, the rigours of their long journey eased by the clement weather, ample provisions and fresh game each evening meal. This was made clear every night as Sagramor made his rounds to check in on his companions, the sense of optimism and resolve he saw in each undeniable. Yet nowhere was this more apparent than with Alistair. The grief enshrouding him since Ostagar had begun to lift, bit by bit, his reconciliation with Arlessa Isolde a welcome source of relief, and as he began to teach Sagramor how to function as a Templar in battle, he seemed more at ease than he’d ever been, a well-deserved change long in coming. He’d also proven a far better tutor than he gave himself credit for, though he was keen to stress that mastering Templar abilities would not be the work of a few nights’ instruction. “It took me a while before I was able to resist even the slightest cantrip,” he confessed one night after showing Sagramor the battle mediations used to focus their minds and build up their mental resistance. “Most Templars aren’t expected to build up any notable resistance to magic until months into their training, and that’s even with lyrium to help speed the process along.”

“Yes, it always seemed strange to me that Templars are given rations of lyrium. I thought only mages could make use of it?”

“Not exactly. Lyrium is pretty much magic in solid form, and if an ordinary person gets exposed to enough of it, they can develop an immunity to magic. Or at least, that’s the theory. It’s the one the Templars and Chantry certainly abide by, anyways.”

“You have doubts?”

“Well, they say that over generations, it’s what caused the dwarves to become resistant to magic, but I haven’t taken any lyrium since joining the Wardens, and I’m still able to use Templar powers without too much difficulty. Using it might make them stronger, but it’s also addictive. And since the Chantry has a monopoly on the lyrium trade with Orzammar…”

“They deliberately get the Templars hooked to control them?” asked Sagramor, visibly disgusted. He’d seen more than his fair share of addiction in the Denerim Alienage, the consequence of too many downtrodden souls seeking the slightest respite from an existence bereft of hope. That anyone would knowingly subject another soul to such a fate was repugnant. That the Chantry was doing it to armies’ worth of men over the course of Ages made it all the more monstrous. They don’t just shackle the mages, but their own sworn protectors as well… “Andraste, that’s horrible. Did you…”

“Become addicted to lyrium? Andraste, no!” Alistair protested. “I’d taken it once or twice over the course of my training, but you only start receiving regular doses once you take your final vows. It’s expensive stuff, after all, so no sense wasting it on unworthy initiates. Had Duncan not recruited me, though…” He left that uncomfortable notion hang for a moment before banishing it with one of his typical wry smiles. “You don’t need lyrium in order to learn the Templar talents. It supposedly makes them more effective, but I won’t test that theory by getting you addicted. Besides, you might already have some in your system already.”

“I do? When did that happen?”

“From the Joining. There was some lyrium mixed in with the darkspawn blood you collected to amplify the taint’s power. I don’t know exactly how to prepare the ritual, but I know that much.”

“I see,” Sagramor remarked, taking that unsettling fact in stride. Lyrium could be dangerous, he knew that much. Even his small collection of books in the Denerim Alienage contained knowledge of men becoming addled or sickened by the unprocessed rock, with mages unable to even touch it directly without experiencing horrific effects. Still, if the darkspawn blood he’d metabolised hadn’t done him in, then there was no sense in worrying about anything else the Joining compound might have contained, lyrium included.

Yet that conversation only served to illuminate a growing source of disquiet for the young Warden, namely his ignorance of the Order’s inner workings and lore. Alistair, and Duncan before him, had done a good job of preparing him to fight the darkspawn, yet he couldn’t help but feel that something was being withheld about what it meant to be a Grey Warden. They’d never outright lied to him, nor could he imagine someone as honourable and straightforward as Alistair ever doing so, yet just as it was with his fellow Warden’s royal heritage, things were being left unspoken. Perhaps he simply felt they were minor details not worth burdening Sagramor with, or that risk of their companions inadvertently eavesdropping on the Order’s secrets was too great, but in the end, the elf promised himself would learn all. Nothing less would suffice.

Even so, it was a manageable difficulty, made light by how well their journey was progressing and his companions were working with one another. Nowhere was this truer than with Leliana. She’d been generous enough to take the first watch each night so he might have more time for Alistair’s tutelage, yet she would linger long into his own shift, filling the small hours with tales of strange gods, heartbreaking romances and the wonders she’d witnessed growing up in Orlais. Each evening, he’d come to where she stood sentry and offer a half-hearted assurance she didn’t need to lose any sleep on his account, and each evening, she’d simply offer a welcoming smile and pat the rock or fallen log on which she sat in invitation, picking up where she’d left off the night before.

The morning of the fifth day saw the pair serving as the day’s outriders alongside Ragnar, departing from the camp as the rest of the party broke their fast to survey the road ahead for any dangers, and Sagramor felt his heart grow lighter by her mere presence, the morning passing without incident and leaving them free to bask in another glorious summer’s day together. “Feeling a bit more comfortable on horseback, my friend?” Leliana inquired, pulling her own steed alongside him.

“Ask me again when we make camp for the night,” the elf remarked with a wry smile. Though Duncan had taught him the basics of horsemanship, he was still relatively unused to travelling by steed, as evidenced by the throbbing pain in his thighs that only grew with each mile spent on horseback. Not that she seems to have any issues, he mused, envious of her skill in the saddle. For the most part, when not serving as scouts, they went afoot to conserve their mounts’ strength. They were reliable beasts, coursers bred for speed and endurance in Rainsfere’s gentle pastures, but there was no sense in overexerting them unless absolutely necessary, and with Loghain setting the country against them, finding replacements would be difficult. “Thank you again for joining me this morning, Leliana, it’s… it’s always nice spending time with you.”

Leliana blushed. “I feel the same,” she said, offering him a warm glance. “In fact, while I have your attention, there is something I wanted to ask you.”

“Of course, what is it?”

“I’ve been thinking about taking up my instruments again, and I was wondering if you’d consent to having me compose a ballad about you.”

“A ballad?” the elf asked in surprise.

“Yes, about you and your adventures.” Her head gave a slight, bemused tilt at his confusion. “Is it truly surprising that your heroism should be recognized? Songs have been written about far lesser deeds and far worse heroes in the past.”

Sagramor shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “Don’t you think that would attract the wrong kind of attention? We’ve been labelled traitors to the crown, after all.”

“Perhaps, but we can work to undermine that decree. Right now, there are too many in Ferelden willing to believe whatever propaganda Loghain spouts about the Grey Wardens. Let’s give them a different story, one that reminds them of all the good you’re doing, and how the Wardens have defended this world for over a thousand years; that way, they’ll be less inclined to turn us over should we be discovered. Besides, all the good you’ve done must be acknowledged. You’re worthy of a little praise.”

“Just a little?” Sagramor remarked cheekily, blushing in spite of himself. Perhaps it was the basest vanity that made him open to the idea, but he found himself being won over by her words nonetheless. Just like I always am… “If you really think this is a good idea, then go for it. Anything you create will turn out beautifully, I know it. Just make certain that the others get their dues in your verses, yourself included. I wouldn’t have any heroics worth singing about without your aid.”

“Still humble, dear Warden?”

“You know me. I don’t like to take all the credit for myself.”

“Or any of it,” Leliana said, an understanding smile taking the sting out of that remark. “Not that I mind, of course. From my time in Orlais, it’s the sort of attitude I wished more of the nobility shared.”

“Or those here in Ferelden, for that matter.”

Ahead, the slope gently rose to its apex, and the pair crested the hill to gaze upon an endless sea of green, unbroken save for a few scattered clearings carved out of the forest and small glimpses of creeks lazily winding their way beneath the skin of the foliage. Overhead, birds of prey wheeled and soared upon the high thermals, and Sagramor observed them through narrowed eyes, wondering if Morrigan would take their place amongst them at some point.

And then Ragnar offered an urgent bark, darting down the path and diving headlong into the hedge. “You find something, boy?” Sagramor asked, urging his horse forward.

The bushes gave a great shake, and within, the elf heard Ragnar growl, the sound immediately spurring him to dismount, greatsword in hand. “Ragnar?”

Branches gave way to the hound’s passage with sharp snaps, and behind him, Leliana gasped in shock at the severed arm that hung limply within the dog’s jaws, steel chainmail rings and drops of blood sprinkling in its wake like the petals of some obscene rose. “Maker’s breath…” Sagramor cursed, kneeling to inspect the warhound’s bloody trophy. Even through the blood and grime, he recognized the device of the flaming sword etched into the plate steel armguard, though strangely, the armour was a solid black, a far cry from the normal steel he’d come to associate with the Templars. “You find the rest of him in there?” he asked the warhound, the beast shaking its head in response. “Then where in Andraste’s name did this come from?”

“Whatever happened, it must have occurred recently,” Leliana suggested, dismounting from her own steed to approach him, clearly labouring to keep her disgust in check. “I am not as skilled a tracker as Zevran is, but does that arm seem a little… fresh to you?”

Grimacing, Sagramor examined the bloody appendage. Like the Orlesian girl, he couldn’t claim to be an expert at tracking, but he’d seen enough death since leaving the Denerim Alienage to recognize she was correct: however the unfortunate Templar had lost his arm, it was recent enough that the severed limb had yet to start decaying. It had not been a clean blow either. The upper portion was a ragged mess, as if ripped from the victim’s body by brute force alone, and that the armour had been taken along with it did nothing to ease his misgivings.

Neither did the uncomfortable, skin-crawling sensation he’d come to associate with the presence of the darkspawn. Grey eyes found themselves being drawn to the forests north of the path, a sinister aspect coming over the arcadian stillness, and he rose to his feet, Ragnar’s gruesome discovery discarded. “Leliana, I need you to head back to the others and warn them there are darkspawn close by. I’ll head into the woods and see if I can pick up a trail.”

“By yourself?” the beautiful redhead demanded, removing her longbow from its leather casing. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“No choice. I’d rather we figure out what we’re dealing with now before they can attack the company, and I’ll have Ragnar to watch my back. Besides, you’re a far better rider than I could ever be, and the others need to be alerted quickly.”

“Very well,” Leliana assented, all but leaping into the saddle. “Just don’t do anything rash, Grey Warden. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, Leliana. Good luck.”

Nodding, the former Chantry Sister spurred her mount into a full gallop, and Sagramor lingered for a moment to watch her go, clouds of dust trailing behind her. Only once she had vanished beyond his sight did he descend the gentle slope, heart pounding with that terrible excitement that came with the prospect of battle, like the joy of a gambler eager to risk everything on a single throw of the dice. Nose to the ground, Ragnar led the way north through the tangled woods, but even a hunter of the elf’s relative inexperience could see where the tall, untamed grasses had been crushed by the passage of some heavy object, made all the more distinctive by the bloodstains decorating the tough stalks. The sensation of the darkspawns’ presence was growing stronger the deeper into the forest they went, pulsing thickly at the back of his mind, and all about him, the woods had gone silent, abandoned by its myriad denizens until only the creak of branches swaying on the summer breeze accompanied the Warden’s footfalls, as unnatural as it was unnerving. It could not be the main horde, of course. The darkspawn were unburdened by limitations of hunger or fatigue, sustained by the vile taint from which they were created, but even taking that into account, it was impossible for such a great host to travel so far overland so quickly. Yet that there were darkspawn at all this far north was a cause for concern. Was this merely a raiding party, or were they rising up from the Deep Roads en masse to open up a second front against beleaguered Ferelden?

How many of them are out there?

Ahead, the shrouding veil of the thick canopy parted, permitting shafts of light to shine down on a small clearing. Here, the trail ended at the mutilated corpse of a Templar, his unusual black plate armour now soaked in blood, the torn stump at his right shoulder the apparent source of the severed arm, and at Ragnar’s warning growl, Sagramor took cover behind the nearest tree, straining to catch any sign of the foe from within the tangled maze of trunks on the other side. He saw nothing, and so far, his connection to the darkspawn hive mind only alerted him to their general presence, not their numbers or exact position. They might have been miles distant for all he knew.

Or on the other side of the clearing, Sagramor caution himself, rummaging about the undergrowth for a good-sized stone. At his side, Ragnar gave another low growl, ears pressed flat against his skull, stubby tail wagging frantically in anticipation of the hunt. “It’s okay, boy. You just get ready,” said the elf, rising from his crouch and hurling the stone towards the corpse in a single smooth motion.

There was a sharp snap, like twigs breaking underfoot, and both the corpse and the loam in front of it vanished, snatched backwards by the net concealed beneath the fallen leaves, the triumphant howls of the darkspawn that echoed from across the clearing transmuted into ones of rage as they realized their trap had been thwarted. The first genlock, impatient for the kill, stormed out from beneath gnarled roots, axes raised. Ragnar tore out its throat in a single bound, its death signalling a half-dozen more to charge forth into the clearing, banishing the silence that held sway over the wood in the riot of battle.

“For the Order and the Alienage!” roared the elf, Ragnar echoing that sentiment with a proud howl, the prudence Leliana had encouraged all but forgotten in the insane, joyful heat of battle. Two darkspawn came for him at once, another genlock hefting a spear taller than it was, the second a hurlock wielding what could only be described as a catchpole, like a farmer might use for wrangling unruly sheep. He took the former first, greatsword cleaving through spearshaft and bone in a single blow. Shrieking, the hurlock lashed out with the butt end of its pole, and Sagramor twisted away, sharpened steel pivoting in his hands and running the beast through.

A vengeful arrow skimmed the outside of the elf’s right shoulder pauldron, a second coming within inches of his left cheek, both the products of darkspawn archers smart enough to hold back from the initial charge; with a whistle, Sagramor sent Ragnar howling after them, the undergrowth alive with darkspawn shrieks and the rending of flesh. The remainder forced their efforts on the Warden, putting their trust in sheer weight of numbers to prevail, yet Sagramor did not falter, cutting them down as they came with all the fury of a summer storm. The last of the creatures charged in a heedless rush, two-handed warhammer raised high to bring down upon his skull. Before it had taken three paces, Ragnar was there, sheer mass bowling it over, and bloodstained jaws clamping like a vice around its neck to offer a single, savage twist.

“Well done, boy,” Sagramor panted, exertion making itself known as the adrenaline faded, as did the sting of several minor cuts and bruises. Seconds passed, a minute, his sword lingering outside its scabbard to greet any additional darkspawn that might come charging out of the tangled woods, and only when the elf deemed them relatively safe from renewed attack did he let the blade rest, hands searching his body for any greater wounds he might not have registered in the rush of combat. Nothing; Owain’s skills at the forge had not proved wanting, and any blood belonged to the vanquished foe. Ragnar padded forward with a dopey canine grin, and Sagramor looked the hound over as well, expressing his relief at finding him unharmed by vigorously scratching the fur between his ears. “You did very well.”

“Seems like you started without us,” Alistair’s voice intruded, and Sagramor turned to find the rest of the party emerge into the clearing. “You all right, Sagramor?”

“Just a bit of light exercise, is all,” proclaimed the elf, meeting Leliana’s anxious gaze with a reassuring smile. “Where’s Bodahn and Sandal?”

“Still on the road behind us.”

Ragnar suddenly took off, vanishing into the opposite side of the clearing, and he sighed, the skin-crawling sensation stronger than ever, robbing him of any good humour. “Get them down here as quick as you can, and let’s hope the path can manage their cart. They’ll be heading into danger, but with darkspawn about, it’s better we all stick together than leave them on their own to be slaughtered. This was just a scouting party. I’m willing to bet there are more further in.”

“You’re certain of this, Warden?” asked Wynne.

Nodding, Sagramor followed Ragnar northwards, past the broken and rent darkspawn the hound had dispatched to his latest discovery, the stench that rose up a hundred metres down the overgrown dirt track so vile that none of the party needed a mabari’s scent of smell to tell them what awaited them.

The unfortunate soul Ragnar had found next to the main road was not the only Templar to fall victim to the darkspawn. Amongst the mouldering loam and blood-splattered trunks, the butchered remains of nearly two score of his fellow warrior-monks lied scattered about like flotsam deposited from an ocean storm, each in black plate. Darkspawn losses were present, but fewer; many of the Templars had been cut down where they stood, unprepared, weapons sleeping in their scabbards while leather-vaned bolts grew thick in their gorgets and the gaps between individual pieces of mail. Others still borne the marks of savage claws upon their flesh and armour, as if torn to shreds by some wild animal. “An ambush,” Zevran articulated what they were all thinking.

“And a considerable one. The darkspawn Ragnar and I slew couldn’t have been responsible for all this, at least not by themselves.”

“But where did they come from in such numbers?” asked Leliana. “The south could not have fallen so quickly!”

It was the wind that answered the beautiful redhead, a strong summer breeze from the north carrying the sounds of clashing blades and men dying through the veil of trees, punctuated with the now horridly-familiar shriek of the foe. “I suppose answers will have to wait.”

“For the moment,” Sagramor assured her. “Move out and stay sharp. There’s people who need us!”

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Like the overgrown pathway that preceded it, the farm had definitely seen better days. Years or perhaps even decades ago, several acres’ worth of the thick forest had been laboriously tamed and cleared away to make room for a steading, but now, the wilds had returned with a vengeance to take back what had been lost, encroaching past the boundary stones, choking the drainage ditch along the western edge with all manner of weeds and even beginning to reclaim the wide fields. The buildings too bore signs of obvious neglect, with the main barn, silos and the farmhouse marred by shattered windows, torn thatch, warped timbers and clambering weeds nuzzling up against their stone foundations, the presence of whatever folk called this place home a distant and colourless memory.

And all this was before it became a battleground, before the soil was left watered with darkspawn blood and dunged with Templar corpses, a dozen of the black-armoured figures holding the line against a warband nearly twice their number, the air filled with darkspawn howls and the dying screams of their victims. Their pace never faltering, the Warden’s company charged forth from out of the trees to strike the darkspawn from the rear, blades and arrows and sorcery cutting down ten of their number before they’d even realized the threat. Caught between the hammer and the anvil, the darkspawn were quickly left to rot upon the turf, their commanding alpha becoming the latest subject of Shale’s morbid fascination with crushing heads. “Is everyone all right?” Sagramor asked the battered and bloodied ranks of the Templars, receiving only suspicious glares levelled from behind their helms’ narrow visors, their many dead forgotten at the unexpected intrusion. “Who commands here?”

“Knight-Captain Rivera is currently indisposed.” The ebon ranks parted and one of their number stepped forward, removing the full helm to reveal a woman’s face, the stark lines of her face drawn tight by stress and lack of sleep, while green eyes narrowed suspiciously as she scrutinized the Warden’s party, lingering upon Morrigan and Sten. “Your assistance is welcome, Grey Warden, if… unasked for.”

“Shall we let you fight the darkspawn by yourselves then?” Zevran quipped innocently. “Think I saw a tavern a few miles back; no sense in hanging about here and robbing you of your glory.”

Thin lips pursed in anger. Sagramor doubted anyone had ever spoken to the Templar like that in some time, let alone a strange, foreign elf standing bemused at her tightly-wound fury. “No,” she at last spoke, her iron grip on her longsword’s hilt slackening the merest fraction. “You travel in ill company, Grey Warden, and your flagrant disrespect for the laws of the Chantry and the Maker will not soon be forgotten. Yet He makes use of even the most common clay, and I would make use of you now. You command this company, elf?” she demanded, clearly incredulous at the idea.

“I do.”

“Very well then. We are beset by these monsters, and too many of my men have fallen to their evil. If what is said about your Order is true, then you will stand with us in fighting against them so that we may complete our mission.”

“I would first like to know who it is we’re defending, ser Templar,” said Sagramor, pride unwilling to let him be ordered about so easily. For centuries, the Grey Wardens and the Templars had always worked uneasily with each other; the former pragmatic, resourceful and willing to take in anyone, regardless of race, creed or class; the latter dogmatic, inflexible, and deeply suspicious of anything that failed to conform to their rigid and strictly Andrastian worldview. Knight-Commander Greagoir was a decent enough man, but he was also indebted to Sagramor for saving the Circle; he somehow doubted these Templars would prove so generous. “Might I have your name?”

“And what are you even doing out here?” Alistair added. “I’ve never seen a unit with markings like yours before.”

“In a moment, Wardens. Sergeant?” To her right, one of the Templars instantly sprang to attention. “See to our dead and wounded, and make ready to repel the next attack.” She turned back to the newcomers, tone and eyes as cold as iron, and there was no mistaking her words as anything other than a command. “You will follow me, Grey Wardens, and under no circumstances will you approach the barn. The guards there will kill to keep any intruders from what lies within.”

Without waiting for a response, the female Templar strode across the clearing past the decaying paddock that served to contain their steeds, the Warden’s company following close behind. Beyond, just past the farmhouse stood an old stone well, possibly the only landmark in the steading to stand the test of time. Templar eyes observed them from every vantage point, radiating suspicion and disdain, and even through the broken windows of the farmhouse, Sagramor could see injured men, some missing limbs, eyes or even left crippled, straining to rise from their sickbeds in order to catch a glimpse of the newcomers. Wynne saw them too. “How many wounded do you have?”

“Too many. The darkspawn caught us unawares,” the female Templar admitted, teeth gritting in anger. “We had prepared for the fugitives to unleash all manner of vileness upon us, but summon darkspawn to their aid? We were caught off guard. I will not let that happen again.”

A dark eyebrow raised. “They summoned darkspawn? You saw this for certain?” asked Sagramor.

“How else could there be darkspawn on the surface, save for apostate witchery?”

“With your permission, I’d like to offer my services as a healer,” Wynne declared, before Sagramor could interject. “I am a Senior Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle, and have some experience in the matter.”

“You are also outside of the walls of Kinloch Hold, in the presence of apostates and heathens. It is not a risk my commander would dare accept, and I am bound to follow him in this, as in all things. Our own medics will tend to the wounded."

“And what of asking Wardens for aid? Would your commander consider that an unacceptable risk as well?” Sagramor riposted coolly, her hesitation all the answer he needed. “If you would trust us to aid you, then trust us. This is a Blight, after all. There’s no lack of people in need of a Warden to come to their aid.”

“A Blight?” The Templar’s mask of arrogance shattered into a thousand pieces, and she was left gaping at the elven Warden, the remaining colour quickly draining from her lean face. “You can’t be serious. This can’t possibly be a Blight.”

“…Said everyone each time an Archdemon has emerged,” Sagramor countered. “The King’s death at Ostagar certainly proves otherwise.” Fresh bewilderment appeared in her eyes, and Sagramor frowned at her confusion. “You do know about Ostagar, right? Loghain’s regency? The civil war? Anything that’s happened in the past month or so?”

“This is… no, we’ve heard nothing of such things. This is the first time my men and I have ventured beyond the walls of our posting in months. We’re usually far more isolated.”

Frowning, Sagramor joined her next to a battered heavy cart parked beside the farmhouse, the stench of fresh blood suggesting the Templars used it to transport their many wounded. “I think it’s time we had that explanation I asked for.”

“Very well then.” She offered him the briefest of nods. “I am Knight-Lieutenant Byrne, second-in-command of this detachment. We are Templars of the Aeonar garrison, sent into these wilds to locate a pair of dangerous escapees fleeing their Maker-ordained punishment. Yesterday, we recaptured the prisoners only for the darkspawn to attack, and much of our force was either slain or scattered by the monsters. I mean to hold out here, until such time as the rest of the detachment can regroup with us and we can fight our way free.”

“Hold on, you said they escaped from the Aeonar?” Alistair blurted out, so shocked by the notion that he failed to witness the look of utter fury that darkened Morrigan’s slender features. “That’s not possible; no one’s ever done that before.”

“And I was under the impression the Aeonar was far to the north, at the other end of the Imperial Highway,” Sagramor added. “Did your superiors send you all the way here in pursuit of them?”

“We would travel to the very ends of this earth to bring an apostate to justice, Grey Warden,” Byrne boasted. “Yet in point of fact, the Aeonar is here in Ferelden; it serves the Maker’s purpose that its true location remains secret, and thus we permit the populace to believe it exists far outside the borders of this kingdom. A hundred of us were sent to hunt the apostates down, for we held the watch when they escaped. Duty demands we atone for the sin of our failure by returning them to their cells, lest our honour be forfeit.”

“How’d they manage it in the first place?” pressed Alistair.

Byrne’s expression darkened. “A few hours in the Aeonar’s dungeons will tell us all we need to know. Yet to leave this place is foolhardy. I have lost too many brothers and sisters in the woods already seeking some means of escape, and the fiends are certain to return soon and in greater numbers than we can muster against them. If this actually is a Blight, then the assistance of the Grey Wardens would be appreciated in fighting against it. I must admit, I’d be interested to see if the tales of your valour actually measure up.”

Which you clearly seem to think they don’t, Sagramor restrained himself from commenting. Byrne had done little to endear herself to him, and almost seemed intent on finding the most condescending manner in which to ask for his aid, and while helping stop Uldred’s rebellion had been both the morally and strategically correct thing to do, it was hard to be enthused about helping the Templars bring captured apostates back to a secret prison known only for its inhuman conditions and brutal punishments. In any other circumstances, he’d already have taken his leave; the Chantry’s business was not there’s, as Duncan had reminded them before the Joining.

Yet Sagramor’s fallen mentor had also been keen to remind him that his personal preferences came secondary to the demands of duty, for the people he would protect from the darkspawn might not always be those he’d find friendship or respect or even common cause with. Not liking the Aeonar Templars was not enough to justify abandoning them to face the darkspawn alone. That it was a courtesy they’d never show him or elves in general meant nothing, for he long ago promised himself that his life would not be defined by the bigotry and failings of others, no matter how hard it became. “Very well then, Knight-Lieutenant. We’ll help you in this. Where exactly do you need us?”

As expected, her hard features offered no sign of relief or gratitude. “The darkspawn attacks have been concentrated along the south and west sides of the steading. When their next assault comes, I would see you there.”

“What about the north and east?” Alistair asked. “Any of them coming from there?”

“My fellow Templars are more than capable of defending those approaches,” Byrne insisted, clearly unwilling to debate the matter. “Remember, you will stay away from the barn. Knight-Captain Rivera made it clear to me that no one is to disturb him.”

“So this Rivera, he’s here?” asked Sagramor. “What’s he doing in the barn that takes priority over leading his troops in combat? Shouldn’t he be out here, organizing the defense?”

“He deemed it prudent that I take operational command of the survivors while he attends to a more crucial duty.”

Alistair’s jaw dropped. “More urgent than fighting off a warband of darkspawn?” he demanded, flabbergasted at the very notion. “How many Templars have you lost while he’s been in there? Does he even know?”

Cold eyes met each of them in turn. “Stay away from the barn. Do not test me on this.”

With that, the Templar departed back to the ranks of her men, leaving the Warden’s company to linger in her wake. Barely had see stepped out of earshot when Morrigan whirled on Sagramor, hands clenched white about her staff in her fury. “You truly mean to commit us to this?” she all but snarled. “I did not realize the Grey Wardens were in the business of persecuting mages now.”

Sagramor stood his ground. “We’re in the business of fighting darkspawn, and there are darkspawn to be fought, right here and now. I don’t like this any more than you do, Morrigan, but we stand a better chance of beating them if we work together. The Aeonar dispatched a hundred Templars out here, and most of them are either dead or scattered. What does that tell you?”

“That they’re weaklings incapable of standing up to a real foe?”

“That the darkspawn are here in force, Morrigan, certainly in greater numbers than we’d expect to find this far north. The Aeonar Templars are supposed to be amongst the Chantry’s most elite. Even caught unprepared, they’d have to be severely outnumbered to suffer as they have. Badly enough to willingly accept the aid of the Wardens, however much they might gripe about it.”

“But if this was an arm of the main horde, surely we would have seen it by now,” asserted Wynne. “It doesn’t seem likely that they could reach northern Ferelden before we could.”

The two Wardens shared a glance. “Tunnels, you reckon, Alistair?” asked Sagramor.

“Given how far and wide the Deep Roads go, it’s quite possible. The Archdemon could have any number of warbands raising havoc behind our lines to disrupt resistance against the main horde. If Byrne’s men only encountered them yesterday, then the entrance they came from must be close.”

“Our next destination, then, after we’ve broken the enemy’s back here.”

“And you honestly believe I’ll demean myself by protecting the same people who’d hunt me down like an animal at their masters’ commands?” came Morrigan’s snide remark. “That’s the sort of foolishness I’d expect from Alistair, not you.”

“Which is why you’ll be scouting the woods for any sign of the enemy,” Sagramor declared, hardening his tone. “We still don’t know what we’re up against here, and I don’t trust Byrne to have kept up with accurate reconnaissance. If you can find out where the darkspawn lair is too, so much the better. That should keep you and the Templars out of each other’s hair.”

“For my protection or theirs?” the sorceress demanded archly, letting the question hang for a moment before she turned away. “Very well then, Warden, I shall seek out our foe. The stench of darkspawn is far preferable to those of the Chantry’s dogs, after all.” With a word of power, light suffused her flesh, the raven that stood in her place instantly winging away, pursued by the dark mutterings of the nearby Templars.

“Is it wrong of me to hope she doesn’t come back?” quipped Alistair.

“Considering she’s a valuable member of this company and has risked her life to save ours on more than one occasion, yes, I’d say it is,” rebuked the elf. “She’ll do her duty, Alistair, she always has. Let’s just make sure we’re still alive when she returns.”

“Those grain silos might serve as a good sniping position,” stated Leliana. “If the darkspawn are coming from the south or west, that will give me a good line of sight as they approach.”

“Good. Let us know the instant you see anything. Sten, the area around the well looks like it might have room for Bodahn’s cart. Once they arrive, guide them to it and stand guard. Byrne may be confident in her men’s ability to cover that side, but I doubt they’re eager to stick their necks out for non-humans, so they’ll need you to protect them.”

“You would keep me from the battle, Warden?”

“Believe me, Sten, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to kill darkspawn should they break through. I’m asking you to do this because I can rely upon you; if things go bad, we might not be able to reinforce you in time. Besides, Bodahn and Sandal are part of this team, and we don’t leave anyone to face the enemy alone, understand?”

“As you wish, Warden,” Sten stoically conceded, the rumble of cart wheels signalling the approach of the Qunari’s charges. “None will harm them while I draw breath.”

“Thank you. As for the rest of us--”

And then a new and terrible sound made itself known, eclipsing any words Sagramor might have to offer and biting at the nerves of the entire party. They could not fail to recognize it, just as they could not mistake the tremor of righteous fury reflected in the gaunt planes of the Warden’s face. Just as they knew it could not pass without comment, that honour and conscience alike demanded Sagramor respond, no matter how futile a gesture it might be.

They knew him well enough to know a woman being tortured was not something he could let go unremarked…

“Sagramor…” Wynne’s words of caution died on her lips, their futility apparent.

“The rest of you, get a sense of your surroundings and dig in as best you can. I’ll be back shortly,” said the Warden, turning on his heel.

“What are you going to do?” Alistair demanded.

The Warden’s stride never broke, his path to the rickety old barn never wavering. “Teach these Templars the importance of duty.”