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 Two

A pair of Templars stood sentinel over the barn, one on either side of the old door, and as Byrne promised, they met the Warden’s approach with bared steel. “What do you want, knife-ear? This place is forbidden to you,” the one to Sagramor’s right demand, voice a hollow boom beneath the steel cavern of his helm.

“I would speak to Knight-Captain Rivera. He--”

“Has no business with the likes of your pathetic band, any more he does the mud beneath his boots,” the second Templar sneered. Sagramor didn’t even flinch as the longsword whistled threateningly past his right ear, and the sentry laughed, confusing stoic patience for cowardice. “He is doing the Maker’s work, scum, and to stand against us is to defy Him. Go on with you now, before we toss you into the nearest dung pile like the filth you are.”

“Tell me, did your mother not bother to teach you proper courtesy, or were you raised by the pigs instead?” Sagramor responded, pride unwilling to let an insult towards the Order go unanswered. Smarting, the Templar took a menacing step forward, and once more, the elf held his ground. “I will speak with the Knight-Captain Rivera, even if I must shout at him through the walls of the barn to do so. Even if I must go through you.”

The guards advanced towards him, checked by a threatening growl from Ragnar. “What is going on out here?!” a gruff voice bawled from within the barn, and the old wooden doors parted with the squeal of rusted-over hinges to reveal another Templar, beard and armour as black as his temper, bloodstains marring the plate.

“Knight-Captain Rivera, I presume?”

Dark eyes gave the Warden a disgusted glare from beneath the furrows of his pugnacious brow. “A Grey Warden… It seems Byrne has more to atone for when we return to the Aeonar.”

“The Knight-Lieutenant and I have our disagreements, but at the very least, she fights, which is more than I can say for you,” retorted Sagramor. He normally strove to be a diplomatic, thoughtful soul, but begging for a torturer’s aid was a step beyond endurance, and he held nothing back. “My comrades and I have come to aid you against the darkspawn, yet you cower inside, torturing helpless prisoners while your men fight and die. Is that what the honour of the Templar Order is these days? To abandon your subordinates on the field of battle, all the while you hurt those who can’t defend themselves?”

“Apostates can hardly be considered helpless, and it is not the place of your miserable order to dictate my duties or to give me orders,” Rivera snapped, his outrage at being addressed so by an elf plain. “I am charged with returning these wretches to the Aeonar and determining how they managed to escape in the first place, and that is precisely what I will do!”

“At the cost of leaving your men to fend for themselves? Do you not understand what you’re facing here?”

Rivera scoffed in contempt. “A chance for your paltry band of byblows to pretend like they’re meaningful for once, no doubt. This…” he said, gesturing dismissively out to the field stained red with Templar blood, “this is nothing. A minor skirmish. We Templars fight a much more important battle, one waged every day against monsters for whom harsh measures truly are needed. A single darkspawn raid for the first time in centuries does not compare.”

“I’ve encountered a great deal of scepticism since joining the Wardens, but I have to say, this is the first time I’ve ever heard someone outright dismiss a Blight when it’s on his very doorstep.” Shocked murmurs emerged from behind the helms of the guards, Rivera’s own face falling, and Sagramor pressed the advantage. “If these darkspawn break through, it will not matter to them what oaths you have sworn or what duty matters most to you, they will kill you all the same. Stand with us, for the sake of your men, if nothing else.”

“No, this is… you lie, elf, like all your kind,” Rivera snarled, his bravado unable to fully conceal how shaken he looked. “The Seekers will come for my report. And when I tell them how these apostate vermin managed to slip free of the Aeonar, they’ll learn of your falsehoods as well!”

Even the Alienage folk had heard of the Seekers, heard of and feared them, and for all the courage he’d shown in battle, Sagramor felt a shadow of that fear pass over his heart at mention of them. The Seekers were the Chantry’s secret police, or so it was told, men and women who stood in judgment over the Templars and rooted out corruption and heresy from within the Chantry’s own ranks. When the stirrings of disobedience within a Circle proved too intractable to be dealt with by the local Templars, it was the Seekers who would stamp out any nascent rebellion before it could spread. When suspicion fell on a Templar chapter for corruption, dishonourable conduct or even brewing insurrection, it was the Seekers who would subject them to inquisition and determine the truth of matters. No blade could overcome their own, it was said, and no spell could touch them.

And no one save the Divine and the Maker Himself could challenge their authority… or escape their judgement. No wonder he’s so eager to torture them for the answers he needs, Sagramor acknowledged inwardly, his teeth grinding in frustration. There was nothing he could do to convince Rivera to desist his interrogation; there had never been any hope of that, not with the threat of a Seeker’s blade hanging over him. He could not stop this evil, but he’d be damned if he’d turn away and pretend it wasn’t happening either. “Is this all you are, ser? A torturer? A man stupid enough to think the answers they’ll scream in pain will be the truth? A man too craven to take up arms against a real enemy? What will the Seekers think when you return to the Aeonar with most of your men dead, simply because you could not see where your priorities belonged? Answer me that, or better yet, get out there and fight!”

Rivera let his silence speak for him, refusing to move even as new howls and cries of alarm signalled a renewed attack. Shaking his head in disgust, Sagramor turned away, drawing his blade anew. To stay behind was to fight a battle he couldn’t win. Time to fight one I can.

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

When the darkspawn renewed their offensive, it was the west side of the steading that bore the brunt of it, Ragnar’s howls their only warning as dark shapes leapt from the cover of the treeline, some even vaulting the overgrown ditch in a single bound. At first glance, one might have taken them for wolves, and they would be correct, in part. Yet the touch of the Blight tainted beasts as well as men, warping flesh in all its forms, and the slavering monstrosities storming towards the steading were as to wolves what ghouls were to men, minds and bodies broken and twisted to serve what had brought them to ruin. They moved swiftly despite their bloated flesh, enlarged claws and huge fangs joined by quills of bone that had punched out through their skin until it seemed like a hedge of spears bore down on the defenders.

Leliana was the first to engage, her opening shot taking a blight wolf as it leapt for a Templar’s throat, and crossbow bolts rose up from about the clearing to join her, scything into the loping, twisted shapes and casting a half-dozen of their number lifeless to the turf. The tainted beasts hardly noticed these losses, dozens descending upon the farm in an ulcerous, disease-ridden tide, the maddening agony of their condition robbing what little sense of self-preservation the overriding will of the darkspawn hive mind had left them. The Aeonar Templars had but a moment to steel themselves for the impact, the sheer weight and fury of their attackers driving them back a pace, but they held firm, thrusting with polearms and shortswords into the howling mass. More blight wolves emerged, immediately darting to flank the Templar shieldwall on either side. More red-fletched arrows found victims amongst the swarm, yet not even Leliana could still such numbers at range, and the first Templars began to join their comrades in death, ripped free of the protection of their fellows and mauled by the ravenous packs, their armour only doing so much to shield them from the dozens of mutated sets of jaws that pried and ripped at every joint and gap to open up the men inside.

A wave of voidfire disintegrating the nearest beasts signalled the arrival of the Warden’s company charging the attackers’ flank, Wynne’s second spell hurtling another pack aside with a blast of concussive force and buying the beleaguered Templars a moment’s breathing room, stunned blight wolves quickly dispatched with short, disciplined swordstrokes. A half-dozen leapt towards for the mage, but Shale was there to intercept them, laughing in savage glee at their feeble attacks, stone fists smashing them down like blackflies and grinding their putrid corpses underfoot in her wake, the rest of the company at her side, carving their way through the howling mass.

Legs pumping frantically, Sagramor ran for his comrades, the fate of Rivera’s prisoners momentarily tabled by the demands of his true duty, and his unwillingness to abandon them to so monstrous a foe. Three blight wolves, seeing him so isolated, immediately peeled off and loped towards him, jaws dripping with tainted saliva. Ragnar took the first, pouncing on the beast and hurling them both to the side, his teeth ripping through its throat in the space of heartbeats. Greatsword cutting down the second, Sagramor twisted to one side, barely managing to bring the blade back up in time to catch the third leaping for his own neck, the long steel propping open its jaws as it bore him down to the ground, claws scraping against his new armour, the stench of its diseased breath making his stomach recoil.

There was a sound like a butcher’s axe striking flesh, and the blight wolf uttered a howl of agony, the frantic tattoo of its paws against steel ceasing as it offered one final desperate convulsion and then went still. With a grunt of exertion, Sagramor shoved the beast’s corpse from off of him and rose to his feet, throwing a grateful wave towards the grain silos at the sight of the red fletching buried in its spine, before hastening over to the rest of the party. “Everyone all right?”

“We’re all fine here,” stated Alistair, bashing away a blight wolf with his shield, Zevran’s blades slamming home before it hit the ground. “You think Bodahn and Sandal will be okay in all this?”

“Sten will do his part. Let’s just make sure he doesn’t have to.”

“Any luck convincing this Rivera fellow to pitch in?”

“He seems to think torturing people is perfectly acceptable while open combat is beneath his dignity,” Sagramor snarled, taking out his frustration upon tainted flesh. “Never thought I’d miss Cullen!”

“I have to say, I’ve never been more grateful I left the Templars!” Alistair shouted over the melee.

Beside them, a murmur of confusion ran through the battered ranks of the Aeonar Templars, and Byrne turned to the Wardens, voice laden with outrage from behind her full helm. “You deserted the Order?” she demanded, longsword levelled at Alistair, the milling horde assaulting her men forgotten. “You turned your cloak and betrayed us?!”

“I betrayed nothing,” Alistair snapped back, pausing to cut down another blight wolf. “The Wardens recruited me before I took my final vows, I haven’t broken any oaths. And to be perfectly blunt, after all I’ve seen, I’d far sooner die as a Warden than live my life as one of you.”

Trembling in rage, Byrne took a menacing step forward, only for the substance of her retort to be lost beneath the snap of bowstrings and the clatter of arrowheads rattling against steel plate. One of the Templars stumbled backwards, a leather-vaned shaft jutting out from the gap between his helm and gorget, and from out of the treeline, the darkspawn themselves emerged with a chorus of triumphant howls, over thirty following in their minions’ wake. Leliana shifted her aim, and the first bodies tumbled and slithered into the overgrown ditch, yet as ever, such losses only seemed to motivate the darkspawn further, and Sagramor cursed as arrows bracketed the thatch about her. Wynne raised her staff, and the next volley was violently intercepted a foot in front of the Orlesian girl by a wall of invisible force, sending shattered shafts clattering harmlessly to the ground and letting her counter-snipe uninterrupted.

Alistair cursed. “Oh, if only there was someone to warn us they were coming. Maybe someone who could fly?!”

As if summoned by force of sheer indignation, a raven’s shriek sounded behind the two Wardens, and with a flare of light, Morrigan morphed back to her human form in mid-swoop, hitting the ground running and sending lightning arcing through the darkspawn ranks. “Nice of you to finally show up, Morrigan,” Alistair remarked snidely. “You couldn’t have tried to hurry up a bit?”

“A question I would happily answer… if I answered to you,” Morrigan stated icily, turning her back on the former Templar without a moment’s hesitation. “More are coming from the west, Sagramor, at least two score by my count. And they have something rather large with them.”

“An ogre?” asked Sagramor.

“No, some sort of mutated beast, though I could not get close enough to see for certain. Their archers are better shots than we give them credit for. I would also watch the east; some manner of concealment spell is being cast there, likely to shroud the approach of another force.”

“If the darkspawn attack on both fronts at once…” Alistair moaned.

“Then we’ll really be in trouble,” Sagramor finished. “All right, Alistair, you and Wynne hold down the eastern flank as best you can. Warn Sten and the Templars taking shelter in the farmhouse too. We’ll finish up here and come to assist as quick as we can.”

Nodding, Alistair moved to obey. “You mean to take this… apostate at her word, Warden?” Byrne remarked scornfully, the notion more repulsive to her than any monster the Blight had vomited forth. “Such creatures are why your Order was even established to begin with, to combat the fruits of their sin.”

Sagramor fixed her with a hard stare. “Not Morrigan’s. She has my respect and trust, Templar, and the more we stand here and argue about this, the better chance the darkspawn have of overwhelming us.”

“You call turncloaks your brothers and apostates your allies, all the while consorting with freaks and heathens of every stripe. You’re a fool, Grey Warden, and I was a fool for wanting your help. When this is done, you and your… comrades will not linger here.”

“Of course we won’t. We’ll be out there hunting the last stragglers down, like you would be if you had any courage,” the elf shot back. “You may not like the people in my team, but they are my team, and I fight for them just as they fight me for. If you have an issue with that, we can settle it at blade’s-length once we’ve won here, but right now, there’s darkspawn to kill.”

Anger radiated from every inch of the Templar, and Sagramor knew he’d pushed her too far.

Knew and didn’t care.

For even as the Knight-Lieutenant raised her sword, a thunderous roar burst through the clamour of battle, accompanied by inhumanly heavy footsteps pounding towards the battered Templar shieldwall. Fresh cries of dismay erupted from the black-armoured defenders, Byrne halting in her tracks at the sight. “Andraste’s mercy!”

That it was not an ogre was the only consolation Sagramor could take, though in many respects, he would have preferred one of the horned giants to the aberration that stood before them, blackened saliva oozing from its lower jaw in fat, oily gobbets as it roared skywards in its agony. Once, it had been an ordinary bear roaming these woods, no different from those he’d witness on his journey to Ostagar with Duncan, only for the Blight to put an end to that, its primal majesty left ruined and perverted by the darkspawn taint until only this wretched, pain-maddened horror stood before them. It loomed over the assembled warriors on its hind legs, ten feet tall, muscle mass swollen to gargantuan proportions thanks to the corruption, eyes left milky-white with cataracts, claws transformed into great killing scythes. As with the blight wolves, its fur was a patchwork mess, visibly shedding great woolly clumps along with its skin to reveal veins full to bursting with black, tar-like vitae, and all over its body, great spines of bone had broken free of its flesh like some macabre hedgehog, each rattling movement invoking fresh agony in the beast. The stench of decay and corruption it produced was so vile Sagramor swore he saw the grasses left trampled in its wake shrivel up and dissolve into black foulness before his very eyes. Inspired by the creature, the assailing darkspawn struck with even greater ferocity, and Bryne’s courage faltered, sending her back a step before discipline could reassert itself. “What is this thing?!”

“Bereskarn,” Sagramor spat, recognizing it at once from Duncan’s tutelage. “Focus your--”

Any further advice the Warden had to offer was drowned out by the bereskarn’s roar as it charged, bloated limbs pumping beneath its bulk. Red-fletched arrows flashed down to puncture its stinking hide, accompanied by the flare of lightning bolts striking home, yet the beast shrugged them off, the pain of their attacks nothing compared to the ever-present agony of its miserable condition. From the back ranks of the Templar shieldwall, spears flew to greet it, most deflected by the forest of spines, unable to halt the avalanche of flesh and bone and rage inexorably gaining momentum towards them.

Then, the impact.

With a roar, the bereskarn struck the centre of the battleline, crushing armoured bodies underfoot and hurling them aside like ragdolls as it punched its way through. Lesser darkspawn rushed into the gap, fracturing the shieldwall yet further, and at the flanks, it was all the Warden and company could do to keep it from being completely overrun.

Cursing it for an aberration in the eyes of the Maker, Byrne made for the beast, a fresh coat of darkspawn gore painting her longsword’s edge as she cut her way through the monsters to plant it deep into its side. The bereskarn bellowed in pain, cataract-laden eyes falling upon her, and up came its right arm, smashing the Knight-Lieutenant away to sprawl a dozen feet back on the turf, blood oozing through the cracked breastplate. “Shale!” Sagramor called out, his efforts to reach the fallen Templar stymied by the quartet of hurlocks keeping him at bay with pikes and catchpoles, chainmail deflecting a hooked blade that would have cut his ribs open to the bone.

From the right flank came the golem, wading through the pestilential tide like a swimmer fighting through the ocean surf, shrugging off the darkspawn that clung to her limbs and blunted their weapons upon her rocky form in the futile hope of stalling her. Looming over its victim, the bereskarn turned in time to catch a solid right hook, sending mutated fangs flying. Enraged at the intrusion, it lashed out, yet found in Shale strength equal or even greater than its own, claws scraping impotently against stone while the golem offered a series of vicious body-blows in turn, stone fists becoming sticky with tar-like gore.

A red-fletched arrow sunk deep into its right eye, sending it reeling away in agony. That was all the opening Shale needed. Twin fists came down upon its skull, again and again, mercilessly pounding it into the earth. By the third blow, the bereskarn was no longer moving. By the fifth, its head was naught but a black smear on the bloodsoaked ground.

“Well done, Shale!” shouted Sagramor, Zevran and Leliana echoing his praise. At last cutting his way through the scrum, the elf leapt to Byrne’s side, heart sinking at the sight of the three barbs wedged fast in her chest, of eyes glazed over in death. Some of the Templars saw it too, the urgent whispers from the rear ranks running through the shieldwall like a virus, and Sagramor sensed them waver even before they did, their depleted ranks shuffling, edging backwards in dismay. “Hold the line, all of you! We can do this!”

Yet the murmurs refused to cease, the elf’s words falling upon deaf ears. The Aeonar Templars were far from their appointed post, under the command of a man who utterly disregarded their welfare for the sake of his own fears, and the woman they trusted to lead them through this unexpected trial was dead, the latest victim of a seemingly-unending onslaught of monsters they’d never believed existed and had been wholly unprepared to fight. Over half of those who’d originally stood within the Templar shieldwall were dead, not counting those in the detachment already left slain or scattered before they could rally at the steading. It did not matter to them that the bereskarn was dead, or that the flow of darkspawn reinforcements was starting to recede, or that the monsters had lost far more thanks to their stubborn defense. The heart had been taken from them, and the words of a mere elf, no matter how bold and resolute, could not bring it back.

Like sand through an hourglass, the Aeonar Templars crumbled away, duty and discipline forgotten, the incensed, disbelieving shouts from the Warden’s company doing nothing to halt their headlong flight. Shrieking in triumph, the remaining darkspawn pressed their assault, sweeping over the closest Templars and cutting them down. Sagramor cursed as he was knocked aside by the flow of armoured bodies, barely resisting the urge to bring them back into the fray with the flat of his blade, instead taking out his ire on the monsters running the routing troops down. Yet for every beast he and Ragnar brought down, another two slipped past, the Warden disregarded in their haste to run down the survivors, and only a few Templars managed to reach their horses and take flight, the last remaining blight wolves in hot pursuit as they galloped into the northern woods.

Not all the darkspawn were focusing on the easy targets, however. About a dozen had forced Morrigan, Zevran and Shale back to the base of the silo upon which Leliana stood, sorcery and skill thus far keeping them at bay. We need to regroup, and soon. We’re simply too spread out now that the darkspawn have broken through! “I’ll rally the others. Will you be all right here?” he shouted above the tumult.

“We’ve got this! Go!” said Leliana, sniping yet another down.

“Ragnar, stay here and help them out!”

Yet the hound seemed to have other ideas. For even as his master called, Ragnar was loping northwards, a sharp bark urging the elf to follow.

For in the midst of the chaos, the mabari remembered what they had all forgotten…

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

The screams emerging from inside the farmhouse as they were halfway to reaching Sten were all the inducement Alistair needed to disregard Byrne’s demands to avoid the structure, any guards capable of enforcing that decree either dead or in flight with the fall of their leader. Without breaking stride, the former Templar took his longsword to the door, a single solid blow ripping the rotten wood of its hinges, and he and Wynne burst through to find their worst fears come to life.

Over a dozen Templars had been quartered within the makeshift hospital, all too wounded to serve in the field, with many only kept alive by the heroic efforts of the three surviving Templars with any measure of medical experience and their limited stockpile of healing potions. They’d fought a battle of their own to tend to their comrades’ wounds, the struggle to preserve their lives as hard-fought and desperate as the conflict raging without, yet their efforts had ultimately been for naught, rendered futile by the trio of hunched, lean figures that howled in triumph amongst the bloodsoaked and cramped confines of the farmhouse, each cruel swipe of their claws silencing a terrified wail. “Stay behind me, Wynne!” Alistair ordered, longsword biting deep into the first of the foe, running it through from narrow hip to narrow hip. Screeching in agony, it whirled about as best as the impaling steel would permit, and Alistair caught the impression of pointed ears, night-black eyes and a long, almost lupine jaw bristling with razor-sharp teeth before his shield came up, smashing it full-on in the face and sending in writhing in agony upon the rickety, gore-drenched timbers.

The remaining two finished off the last of the wounded in moments and responded to this new threat, leaping over tables and corpses in rapid bounds, unnaturally long arms reaching out for them, each hand tipped with iron claws in the place of fingernails and dripping with blood. Wynne raised her staff and the first drowned in voidfire, its ghastly shrieking audible even above the crackle of eldritch flame made white-hot by her outrage, the sound only ending as it burned to ash. The last of the creatures did not relent, pouncing for the mage, only for Alistair’s shield to bash it aside in mid-leap. Cat-quick, it was on its feet again, undeterred, claws scraping against the iron rim of his shield, sheer fury forcing him back. A spell from Wynne, and invisible weights fell upon the creature’s limbs and back, dragging in down and giving Alistair’s longsword free reign to take off its head.

“Maker, we should have been here!” Wynne lamented, taken aback by the horror surrounding them. The Templars guarding the infirmary, anxious and wary, were prepared for an enemy attack from any direction… save above through the mouldering thatch. Not one of them lived to regret that oversight, the darkspawn as thorough as they were merciless, and in the momentary lull of victory, Wynne examined their fallen foes, disgusted. “What manner of darkspawn are these, Alistair? I’ve never seen their like before.”

“Shrieks,” he replied, nudging the closest with the toe of his boot. “Darkspawn assassins and skirmishers. Probably flanked around through the east woods while the main force kept us busy, looking for vulnerable targets like these poor fellows.”

Wordlessly, Wynne moved for the door. “Where are you going?” asked Alistair.

“It’s like you said, Alistair, they’re looking for vulnerable targets. What’s the one place on this steading that lacks defenders, the one place we haven’t fortified against the darkspawn at the Templars’ own insistence?”

Cold dread seized his heart. “The barn…”

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

The sting and clash of battle from outside the barn might as well have been the fall of autumn leaves for all Knight-Captain Rivera took notice, his universe consolidated to the confines of the drafty old structure and the fear of falling into the judgment of the Seekers. He’d focused his efforts on the elven girl, suspending her by her wrists from a rope hanging from the rafters and tearing open her filthy shift for her latest whipping, yet she’d proven stubborn beyond what he’d expected from one of her miserable race. Again, the lash came down on her back, adding to the network of bloody trails streaking her pale, naked skin, and again she remained silent, full lips clamped tight rather than offer a single word or another scream for her captor’s gratification, her continued insolence only stoking his ire even higher. “How did you do it, apostate?” the Templar hissed, gauntlet crashing against the side of her face. “How did you escape the Aeonar?”

Silence, save for the muffled groans of the other prisoner as he knelt on the dirt floor, his pleas for mercy muted by the leather gag. “Tell me!” Rivera screamed in rage, laying another blow so vicious the girl jerked like a fish in her bonds. The faint light of the brazier cast flickering, lurid shadows over the generous curves of her naked breasts, and he atoned for that moment of lustful weakness with several more vigorous strokes of the lash, her back arching in agony.

And still, she did not utter the slightest sound.

In desperation, Rivera learned in close, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “You must speak, apostate. Cooperate. It is your only means of escaping the punishment the Seekers have planned for you, for both of us.”

Silence. He whirled away in a rage, levelling his whip at the second prisoner. “Shall I put your comrade to the question then, you knife-eared slut? Perhaps I was not thorough enough with him the last time. If you will not bend, then I will break him. Do you understand?”

Four words, the first she’d spoken since they were recaptured, forced their way past lips left cracked and bleeding from the beatings she’d endured. “Go to the Void.”

Jaw clenched, Rivera cast the whip aside and restored her gag. The elven girl had made a fool of him for the last time, and his patience was at an end. Stalking over to the brazier, he ripped the iron poker free, red-hot tip menacing in the dim light, and he was rewarded with a flicker of terror manifesting in her wide blue eyes, gaze never leaving it. “In the name of the blessed Andraste, and by the authority granted to me by her Chantry, I hereby sentence you to death for your apostasy. You have defied the Maker’s chosen servants for the last time, witch, and I will not suffer you to live any further. Death by clean steel is too good for the likes of you. Acknowledge your crimes and be damned!”

In that moment, she at last granted him what he’d so desired, her scream audible even behind the constricting leather. A moment was all he had to savour that triumph before the true source of her terror made itself known by shoving steel-shod claws through the back of his armour and into his spine. A second nailed hand reached around his neck, and with a gentleness that bordered on cruelty, caressed open his throat.

With a wet purr, the shriek let Rivera’s corpse fall, stalking towards the pair of helpless prisoners like some obscene feline, its every movement exuding a silent, predatory grace. Its eyes fell upon the woman, naked upper body splattered with Templar lifeblood, and stepped forward, a too-long tongue lolling out from within its fanged, lupine maw, tasting the air about her. A clawed hand, dripping crimson wetness, reached out as if to caress her cheek, and she froze in terror, pleas reduced to a frightened squeak as its rank breath fell hot and putrid upon her neck.

And then it saw the other prisoner, the human man, and it became a flickering shadow with bared and bloody claws, it was crossing the space between them in a vicious blur, the shriek it sounded living up to its name.

But the howl that answered it was even louder.

With a quarrel’s speed, Ragnar intercepted the darkspawn in mid-leap, the impact hurling them both against the barn’s wall hard enough to crack the aged wood. Hound and horror grappled, biting and tearing away at each other, and it was the shriek who disengaged first, tearing itself away to meet Sagramor, the clash of its claws against his blade sending sparks lighting up the decrepit barn. “Hands off the lady!” the elf spat, interposing himself between the monster and the captives. A whirlwind of slashing nails fell upon him, leaving him hard pressed to hold his ground; frantically, he stormed forward, swordhilt slamming the creature right on the chest and knocking it backwards a pace. Coming to his master’s aid, Ragnar pounced upon its right leg, fangs sinking in deep. Howling in pain, the shriek twisted about to face its tormentor, and thus missed the bloody flash of steel hewing away its left arm, Sagramor’s greatsword punching through its chest in a final coup de grace.

Even impaled on four feet of well-maintained steel, the shriek did not desist. Sagramor cursed as the darkspawn threw itself further onto the blade in its haste to tear out his throat, snapping fangs inches from his cheek. Ragnar’s own teeth came down upon its right wrist, unyielding as iron, and Sagramor seized the advantage… and its jaws. The scream the beast uttered lasted for but a moment; with all his strength, the Warden ripped its lower jaw away in a burst of black ichor, its life persisting for a second longer before he drove it to the ground and crushed the remnants of its skull beneath his boot.

The girl offered a muffled cry. “It’s all right, you’re safe now,” Sagramor assured her, belt knife severing her bonds. Keen eyes noticed the blade-like ears beneath the long golden hair that hung lankly down to her waist, and the beauty of her features even through the bruises and deprivation, and his pulse quickened in spite of himself, setting his sword aside to gently ease her to the floor and remove her nauseating gag. “I’m going to get you both out of here, just hold--”

Warm wetness dripped down onto the Warden’s bare forehead, Ragnar’s growls rising to match the sibilant hissing from above. Slowly turning his eyes upwards, Sagramor saw four more shrieks clambering inside through the torn thatch, silently creeping through the rafters with a spider’s malign grace. Four of the monsters. More than any one man could hope to stand against in such close quarters.

Sagramor went for his sword anyway.

Down pounced the shrieks with a bloodcurdling cry, and the world turned to fire.

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

Alistair and Wynne were halfway to the barn when it erupted in a massive conflagration, only a quick barrier spell keeping the ensuing shockwave from blasting them off their feet, even as scraps of burning wood and thatch rained down around them. The former Templar caught a glimpse of black, twisted shapes in the explosion, their howls of agony devoured along with their bodies by the roaring flames, and he couldn’t help but gape at the sight. “Maker! Were the prisoners still in there?”

“I don’t think they were the only ones,” Wynne replied. All about them, the darkspawn were withdrawing, those creatures not pursuing the fleeing Templars off the battlefield simply falling back into the woods, leaving a ruined homestead and dozens of their fallen brethren behind. Cutting down the last few stragglers, the four at the silo rushed over to join them, the look of shock Leliana wore telling her all she needed to know. “Andraste have mercy…”

“Sagramor!” Leliana wailed.

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

He heard her above the snap of burning wood and the sizzle of darkspawn flesh, and closed his eyes, last thoughts bent towards a prayer for her safety and happiness even as he waited for that final burst of heat to signal his incineration. Maker, please watch over her. And please forgive me, Mother. I should have done better. I…

Yet the promised death never came.

For as soon as they had erupted, the fires died away, leaving nothing of the barn behind save for a ring of smouldering ashes. Coughing, Sagramor breathed deep of the cool forest air, the stench of darkspawn blood and bodies a welcome relief after the asphyxiating heat. He became aware of Ragnar at his side, fur lightly singed but otherwise unharmed, and a quick examination revealed that save for a slight dusting of ash upon his cloak and armour, he too had escaped the fire’s wrath.

And then he saw her. Even half-naked, starved and beaten, she cut a proud figure, a flame unbound and radiant with power, her long blonde hair in a halo about her face, caught up in the thermal of her magical might. Blue eyes, like an ocean in a storm, observed him with a predatory wariness, and at the approach of his companions, new flames instinctively kindled to life in her palms. “She called you Sagramor,” she murmured, offering a slight shake of her head in disbelief. “That’s not… you can’t be him. Not after all this time.”

It had been a long time, over a decade. Though time and maturity had altered her voice and appearance, he still recognized her, the old guilt not permitting him to forget, reminding him of the debt he yet owed her.

And now, with the Maker’s grace, he could perhaps repay. “It’s me, Nimue. It’s over. You’re safe.”

Letting the fire die, Nimue Surana made certain to untie her fellow prisoner before she let her tears show, battered arms throwing themselves around the Warden as she wept. Beyond, her tormentors, men and monsters alike, had abandoned the field or lingered as corpses, leaving only the Warden’s company in the bloodsoaked steading. Yet she ignored all of it, finally giving voice to the pain and sorrow she’d endured. “It’s going to be all right, Nimue. I promise…”