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-Eight: Mahariel’s Calling – Part One

Nimue Surana’s first real taste of freedom was tough, dry and so leathery it could serve to resole her new boots in a pinch. Sighing, the elven mage once again dunked her supper of salted beef into the canteen Bodahn had so graciously provided her, hoping against hope it would absorb enough moisture to become digestible. To his credit, Sagramor had apologized for the rough commons, citing the need for haste; there would be a hot meal waiting for all of them once the job was done… or so he promised. I’m putting a lot of faith in those promises, Nimue remarked inwardly, the growing pit in her stomach having nothing to do with hunger. The oath she and Geoffrey had sworn was barely an hour old, yet as the darkness closed in around the camp, so too did her doubts grow in kind, a vicious beast prowling anxiously in its cage, desperate to escape and reveal her weakness to the rest of the party.

She would not permit it. Growing up in the Circle had taught her the value of concealing her true feelings from those around her, and in the campfire’s light, one could easily take her for a doll carved out of porcelain, beautiful and unfeeling, only the tight set of her jaw betraying the slightest hint of the tempest churning about her soul. But that was the problem. She’d chafed against the rules of the Circle for as long as she could remember, but those were rules she’d understood. She’d known what she could bend and what she could break, when to bow to the will of others and when to stand up for herself, when to play the ingénue and when to bare her teeth, and until she made the mistake of helping Jowan, there had never been any trouble she couldn’t avoid or talk her way out of.

Now that world was behind her, and the certainties she’d worked within had likewise vanished. Freedom, such as it was bound to the Wardens’ cause, came with new rules she did not yet fully understand, new challenges to test her, new players of uncertain character to be wary of. Perhaps that was the source of her anxiety, the strangeness of it all after so long locked in the confines of Kinloch Hold, and of needing to rely on others she neither knew nor trusted. It was a rather… motley band she’d found herself a part of, and beneath the veil of her hooded cloak, she casually examined each in turn, assessing them with the cold deliberation of a moneychanger weighing coins upon a scale.

That Wynne was one of their number was perhaps most surprising. In all her years in the Circle, Wynne had been a constant presence there, a figure of stern resolve as fixed as the statues lining the corridors or the pillars of the Great Hall, and just as inflexible. Of all the mages in Kinloch Hold she could see adventuring in the world beyond, Wynne was not one of them, yet here she was all the same, bearing the same discomforts and privations as the rest of them. She hadn’t liked Wynne as an apprentice: too conservative, too hidebound, too keen to invoke the rules of the Circle, but only a fool would ever disrespect her abilities or the force of will behind them. If things turned sour, she’d be one to watch out for.

As was the Templar, this Alistair. Sagramor had been keen to inform her that the human was not officially a Templar, having joined the Grey Wardens before he could take his final oath to the Chantry. A meaningless distinction, Nimue spat inwardly, feeling her anger flare as Alistair’s eyes turned towards her, scrutinizing her closely as if to catch some hint of corruption that had eluded his fellow Warden. Alistair had the same powers, the same prejudices and the same willingness to condemn her; he’d earned the foul label of Templar, no matter how much he protested otherwise. He was a reasonably attractive man, she had to admit, and doubtless there were many mages willing to forget what he was for his broad shoulders and so-called charm, but she’d always held herself to a higher standard. If I planned on whoring myself out to a Templar, I could have stayed in the Circle and let that wretch Cullen drool all over me… she reflected, shuddering in disgust at the very notion.

The others were likewise troubling in their own way. She knew little of the Qunari, save that they detested magic even more than the Chantry did, and this Sten might as well have been a statue for all he acknowledged her and Geoffrey, so stony and unfeeling he put the golem to shame. Morrigan, meanwhile, seemed almost amused by their presence, and more than once, Nimue felt the hedge mage’s strange amber eyes falling upon them, taking them in the same way a circling hawk might observe a fieldmouse fleeing in terror through the grass. Zevran was of like mien, his flirtatious and affable demeanor cloaking the daggers in his smile, and as playful as Ragnar had been upon his return to the camp, she could hardly forget he was a warhound capable of tearing her apart at a single word of from his master. As for Leliana, the warm welcome she’d offered only served to make the elven mage even more suspicious of her intentions, especially upon learning she’d been a part of the Chantry laity. No one could be that friendly and sincere, certainly not a former priestess…

At her side, Geoffrey offered what was meant to be a reassuring smile, the effect diminished by the anxiety reflected in his eyes, and Nimue forced herself to return the gesture, tightening her long black cloak about her as if to ward off the night’s chill. Faithful, reliable Geoffrey, who always stood by her no matter, who would have prospered in the Circle if not for her. How many times has he suffered the consequences of my choices? Self-loathing settled in her gut like a heavy stone, and it was all Nimue could do to refrain from jumping up and begging Sagramor release them from their oaths.

Yet she did not. Pride, that most treacherous of virtues, held her in place, the prospect of death at the hands of the darkspawn infinitely preferable to the scorn she’d earn by giving into her fear. As she understood it, the rest of the party had sworn similar oaths to Sagramor, and to break hers on the very evening she gave it would be shameful beyond endurance. Instead, she held her tongue and buried her misgivings, listening intently as Sagramor outlined the situation. “The darkspawn force we fought at the steading could only be the beginning. Not only did enough of them escape to pose a threat, but if more such warbands pick up where they left off, then this entire region could be laid to waste before we know it. Finding the Urn is important, but we can’t let an opportunity to disrupt the horde’s advance pass by either. So at first light, we track them down and we stop them.”

“The Urn?” Nimue remarked. “What’s all that about?”

“Right, I forgot you’ve been out of the loop,” said the Warden, bashful at his omission. “After what happened in Redcliffe, Arl Eamon has been left in a coma, and since nothing else has worked to heal him, we’re hoping the Sacred Ashes of Andraste will do the job.”

It took a moment for Nimue to respond, sheer, scornful disbelief robbing her of her words and leaving her dumbstruck. “You can’t possibly expect…” she finally managed. “That’s your grand plan for saving Ferelden? Fairy tales and ancient myths?”

“Show some respect,” Alistair snapped defensively. “If we hadn’t taken up the quest for the Urn, then we never would have been in a position to save you, now would we?”

The elven Warden raised a hand for peace, and Alistair grudgingly complied, though the glower he offered Nimue never faded. “It is a long shot, I know,” Sagramor said, “but if it helps us solidify our alliance with Redcliffe, not to mention save a good man’s life, then it’s worth trying. I would not have you and Geoffrey risk yourselves in vain.”

Geoffrey raised a shaking hand, appearing for all in the world in like some timid schoolboy trying to catch the attention of a stern teacher. “So you think the Urn is in northern Ferelden then?”

“We’re not exactly sure,” admitted Sagramor. “We were actually heading to Denerim to seek out a scholar who might know its location, and once we’ve finished here, that's our next stop.”

“So how should we go about our hunt?” Wynne inquired. “We have a vast area to search.”

“Not to mention the longer we take, the greater the chances of Arl Eamon’s condition taking a turn for the worse,” added Alistair, offering a guilty shrug. “I know it’s not ideal to leave a job half-done, but we could have a score of Wardens searching for the local entrance to the Deep Roads and never find it. And that’s assuming there’s just the one. The horde could have dug dozens in this part of Ferelden alone, and we’d never find them all.”

“They’re that intelligent?” asked Geoffrey. “I thought the darkspawn were just animals.”

“Not when an Archdemon’s leading them. It’s clever enough in its own right, and when you’ve got thousands of savage monsters who don’t need food or rest obediently following your every command, you can get a lot done. Getting rid of such tunnels is one of the Order’s primary duties in peacetime, and I’ve helped collapse a few since Duncan recruited me. But we should assume the horde has been working to replace them, and that we’ll never manage to seal every last one.”

“We’ll do our best,” Sagramor asserted, and Nimue shivered at the steel she saw in his gaze, at the force of conviction proudly manifest in those few simple words. Her old friend had changed, the raw boy with skinned knees and grubby hands she vaguely remembered from her early childhood vanished into the mists of time to replace by this creature of stoic resolve. Every member of the Warden’s little band was dangerous-- hunting darkspawn was no business for weaklings, after all-- yet she doubted any of them posed a greater threat than Sagramor himself. “I will not have it said that we let the Blight rampage across northern Ferelden simply because we were unwilling to even try stopping it. Even destroying the warband that attacked the steading will be something.”

“You have a plan, I hope?” Morrigan inquired archly.

Sagramor remained silent for a moment, re-examining the maps Bodahn provided. “We shall separate to cover more ground. Alistair, you’ll take Wynne, Sten, Morrigan, Zevran and Shale and search the area east of the farmstead. Leliana, Nimue and Geoffrey, you’ll come with me and Ragnar and hunt to the west.” Even the newcomers could not fail to recognize how Alistair’s face went pale with fear at the unexpected responsibility, though he held his peace. “Geoffrey, I know this isn’t exactly in your skillset, but right now, it’s better you be with us where we can protect you than have you wandering about for any passing darkspawn or Templar to cut you down.”

“Well, that, and you want to see just what I’m capable of, right?”

“True,” acknowledged the elf, quickly elaborating at the sudden flare of hostility in Nimue’s eyes. “I don’t throw people to the wolves and I don’t ask them to do anything I’m not willing to do myself. We’ll do everything we can to keep you safe, but that doesn’t change the fact that the darkspawn need to be stopped. If you were hoping to make a good first impression, here’s your chance.”

“No pressure, huh?” Geoffrey jested weakly, expelling a shuddering breath before nodding in assent. “I can’t promise I’ll cover myself in glory, but I’ll do what I can, of course.”

“That’s all I can ask. Thank you.”

Alistair broke the silence that followed. “Once we’ve discovered where the darkspawn breached onto the surface, what then?”

“Then we link up and all go in together. Ragnar and Morrigan can guide us back to each other.”
Sten offered a disapproving grunt. “Such a course may cost us time, Warden, and allow any other breaches to remain undiscovered.”

“A fair point. But underground is their territory, and Honnleath aside, none of us have much experience in tunnel-fighting. Better we go in at full strength than risk anyone’s life unnecessarily by attacking piecemeal out of impatience.” The Qunari nodded, evidently convinced of the logic, and Sagramor turned to address the rest of the party, new steel in his tone. “Those of you going with Alistair, you will follow his orders as you would mine, understood? He knows what to look for and he’ll see you all safe.”

“What of my boy and I?” Bodahn chimed in. “I must admit, we’re both ill-suited for a hunt like this.”

“Are you familiar at all with this part of Ferelden, Bodahn?” asked Sagramor.

“I’ve never been off the roads, sorry to say. But if I recall—may I?” asked the merchant, reaching to take his maps back. Sagramor returned them gratefully, and after a few moments spent muttering under his breath and examining the network of roads and trails threading their way across Ferelden like spiderwebs, he found what he was looking for, circling a location with a pointed stub of charcoal. “There’s a village right here, Snowgate, about a day’s journey from here at the crossroads where the Pilgrim’s Path splits off from the main Coast Road.”

“Or in other words, close enough to Denerim that Loghain will have a garrison of his men there,” Alistair prophesied darkly.

“As soon as we break camp, head there,” ordered the elf. “In all likelihood, Loghain has no idea you’ve helping us, and I doubt you’re the only dwarven merchants to wander the roads in these parts. Try and learn more about what’s been happening in Denerim too. We’ll be sticking our heads in the dragon’s mouth before long, so I’d like to have some idea how many sharp teeth we need to avoid. You need one of us to escort you?”

“I probably could, but… no, you need everyone hunting darkspawn, and even if we were attacked, a single person wouldn’t make a difference. Perhaps Alistair’s party could shadow us from the woods? At least until we get closer to the village?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” affirmed the former Templar. “How long do we have?”

Sagramor remained in silent contemplation, the weight of command suddenly apparent, as if etched into the harsh, gaunt lines of his face. “Three days,” he spoke finally, rolling the words around in his mouth and finding them bitter. “We search for three days, then move on to Denerim. If the Urn can restore the Arl and ensure Redcliffe is fully committed, then we can do more to stop the Blight than slaying a thousand darkspawn ever could. We give our best efforts here, and pray it is enough.”

Hunting blindly for darkspawn in the wilderness before risking your life over a Chantry fairy tale. Nimue Surana, what have you gotten yourself into?

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Dawn was a vague suggestion when Sagramor’s group broke camp on the morning of the second day, only a faint smear of weak orange light to the distant east bearing witness as they continued their search, their thin breakfast of apples and tough oatcakes settling uneasily at the thought of what they might find. The previous day had offered little sign of darkspawn or any surviving Aeonar Templars, with only Sagramor’s Warden senses giving any indication as to the former’s presence, maddeningly imprecise as it was, and the latter having all but vanished from amongst the endless, forested hills. A logger’s path hacked out of the woods offered them a route north and west, and all about them, ancient pines and maples towered overhead, scraping the sky, the thick lattice of their branches veiling their passage in shadows and closing so tight above they wandered through a tunnel of green. Birdsong echoed around them, a sure sign that the darkspawn were not to be found in the immediate area, and at the head of the little column, Sagramor heard the snap of fallen branches and rustle of foliage that signalled Ragnar’s passage through the undergrowth ahead. Alistair had promised his ability to sense the darkspawn would eventually become acute enough to identify their specific location and strength, but until that day came, Ragnar’s tracking abilities would prove a more useful asset. “You holding up all right there, Nimue?”

“Well enough,” the elven mage demurred, one hand hitching up her skirts to keep pace while the other kept a firm grip on the horse’s bridle to guide it along. There were only two horses with Sagramor’s group, the rest allocated to Alistair’s party, and the need to preserve the precious steeds from injury meant they went afoot for the most part. To her credit, Nimue endured such hardships without complaint, and any doubts she might have possessed about joining the little company were hidden well. “Is it anything like you imagined?”

“Is what like I imagined?”

“You know, all this?” Nimue gestured emphatically around her. “I remember an earnest little boy so eager for adventure, he was convinced there was a hoard of dragon’s gold in the Alienage just waiting to be discovered. You couldn’t get enough of your mother’s tales of heroism, I recall that much. What’s it like actually being in one?”

“It’s… unexpected,” Sagramor replied cautiously, his attentions still focused on looking for any sign of their prey. “I never asked for this, but Duncan felt I was worth recruiting into the Order, and Ferelden needs Wardens whether they recognize that fact or not.”

“But do you like it?” the elven girl persisted. “I imagine it’s not what you were expecting your life to be like, but… you think it’s worth it?”

It was a good question, and one for which he did not immediately have an answer. The responsibilities of leadership left him little time to consider the path he walked, his thoughts largely devoted to the practical matters of how best to combat the Blight, what route they should take, how best to balance the safety of those in his charge with the need for victory. What little time he could snatch for contemplation was likewise given over to other matters, his reflections on what it meant to be a Grey Warden largely sidelined by his guilt over failing to prevent Shianni’s rape and his impossible desire for Leliana. On some level, he supposed it didn’t matter what he felt. Honour and conscience made standing by while a Blight ravaged the land a notion alien to his character. Being a Warden merely made him oathbound to stand up and fight. “Yes… yes, I do,” he finally answered, his feelings solidifying as he gave them voice.

“Truly?”

“Who else saw something of worth in me other than the Wardens, or were willing to let me prove it? The Wardens gave me the opportunity to represent our people, and if I can protect innocents from the darkspawn in the bargain, then the cost is worth it.”

“Garahel probably thought the same, and nothing he did changed a thing. You honestly think it’ll be different for you?”

“Perhaps not,” he conceded. That was a nagging worry, and one that would never be erased so long as his people suffered. “But I won’t stop trying just because a few bigots would rather deny reality than admit an elf saved their collective bacon. They want to scorn my efforts, that’ll be their decision. It won’t be because I did anything less than my best. And hey, just getting to see you again makes it all worthwhile.”

“You know, if you really wanted to bed me, you just had to ask,” Nimue drawled, giggling at the mortified blush that spread over Sagramor’s gaunt features. “Maker, you’re easy to tease. Don’t worry, Sagramor, I’ll hold off on seducing you.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, leaving it unheard by those behind them. “Something tells me Leliana wouldn’t approve.”

His blush deepening further, Sagramor coughed uncomfortably, his feelings for the beautiful Orlesian roiling about his heart like a ship caught in a storm. “Having second thoughts?” he finally managed, eager to change the subject.

Nimue scoffed a little too quickly for his liking. “Of course not. I’m just being curious is all. Guess I got it from Wynne. Even when I was the merest apprentice, she was constantly asking about my motivations, wanting me to explain everything I did and why I did. She’ll start with you soon enough, if she hasn’t already. At least it’s better than anything the damned Templar has to say.”

“Alistair’s a good man,” Sagramor insisted defensively. “Whatever issues you have with the Templars, I can guarantee that he’s not responsible for any of them. Give him a chance. You’ll have to start relying each other eventually.”

“Maybe.”

Any further debate of Alistair’s virtues was forestalled by Geoffrey’s query. “Any sign of them, Warden?” he asked from the back of the column, sweat glistening at his brow as he struggled to keep pace with Leliana’s long stride.

“Not yet.” Ahead, the tunnel of foliage widened into a small clearing, the shadows cast by pine branches dancing over a small, trickling stream crossing the party’s path, and Sagramor brought them to a halt. “Let’s catch our breath. Ragnar might have a trail for us to follow when he gets back.”

“Any corruption in the water?” posed Leliana. “If they’re upstream, they might leave signs of their passage we can trace.”

It wasn’t a bad notion, and Sagramor gave the water a thorough look before shaking his head. “It doesn’t look like it.” There were none of the oily, putrid stains he’d come to associate with their vile blood floating in the water, and though he was no herbalist, the various grasses and flowers that nuzzled its banks seemed in good health. Still… “Let’s not top up our canteens here, just in case. Better safe than ghoulified.”

“Something else to look forward to. Wonderful,” groused Geoffrey, giving the stream a wide berth.

Heavy panting heralded Ragnar’s return, his pitiable whines all the report Sagramor needed. “It’s all right, boy, you did your best,” he said, giving the hound a comforting scratch behind the ears. “Maybe you can pick up the trail further in?” Maker grant there is a trail to pick up. It was times like this he found himself questioning his decision to search for the Urn. He could not stomach the thought of leaving their duty undone, or that others might suffer because of it, not even for the holiest relic in the Andrastian world. Yet if Eamon died…

“Shall we keep going, Sagramor?” prompted Leliana.

Blinking, the elf tore himself back to reality, trying not to let his self-recrimination show. Time was against them, when his companions were counting on him to lead the way, he could not afford to waste a moment of it brooding. “Yes, thank you, Leliana. Let’s follow the path for now. If we don’t find anything by midday, we can--”

Ragnar’s ears perked up, the hound suddenly focused on the woods around them. “Ragnar? What is it?”

To the north, branches snapped in reply. Something was moving out in the woods, something for whom stealth was a foreign concept, and hands flew to their weapons as it approached, invisible through the wall of foliage. “Get to cover and wait for my word,” Sagramor whispered urgently. Another bush rustled, and the Warden strode out into the middle of the clearing to await the intruder, frowning as Ragnar barked at the disturbance, stubby tail wagging happily behind him. “Easy, boy. Don’t give us away."

There was a flash of green as the intruder burst through the foliage, leaves scattering, and Sagramor wrenched his blade away in mid-swing, lest the figure blunder onto the killing edge in her haste. The intruder’s headlong run through the tangled woods came to a sudden halt as she collided against him, slender arms coming up at the last moment to absorb the impact so that her hands pressed against his breastplate. “Oh, Creators, I’m so sorry!” she spoke, the soft, lilting pitch of her accent sending shivers of delight along his spine. “I guess I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you all right?”

Any comments Sagramor had to offer about her heedless approach died unspoken at her closeness, for, by the Maker, she was lovely. She was perhaps a winter or two younger than he, pale and slight, the dimensions of her petite figure highlighted by the hauberk of chainmail she wore. A tunic of deep green cloth had been draped over her chest, the shoulders made of some sort of fur, while leggings and bracers of supple woven leather protected her shins and forearms, a scarf of faded yellow and a staff of maple wood slung across her back completing the ensemble. Judging from the satchels hanging at her waist and thighs, some stuffed to bursting with all manner of plants, she possessed some knowledge of herb-lore, the small knife strapped to her side evidently having seen much use in gathering them. Small braids threaded her night-black hair, cut short to expose her distinctive elven ears, and the widest and most beautiful pair of green eyes he’d ever beheld stared in awe at the tabard’s heraldry, a small gasp escaping past soft pink lips. But perhaps her most notable feature were the elaborate tattoos inked upon the delicate alabaster planes of her face, framing her eyes and mouth. Sagramor had never seen such designs in person, but Alarith the shopkeeper back in the Alienage had described them often enough, and there could be no mistaking what they were. “You’re one of the Dalish,” Sagramor at last managed, astonishment depriving him of further speech.

And that was how Sagramor Tabris met the Dalish Pariah, the Exiled One, the Tempest That Walks, a woman who would carve out a legend of her own in the years to come as defender of the elves, lover to a Champion and sworn foe of the Dread Wolf.

That was how he met Merrill.

“And you’re one of the city folk!” the girl said, delighted. “I’m Merrill, of the Sabrae Clan. One of my clanmates came to us from the Denerim Alienage, are you from there? What’s it like living amongst the humans? Did you ever--” The river of questions dried up in an instant as the girl became aware of the rest of the party, and she edged backwards, shrinking away at the presence of the humans.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Merrill. I’m Sagramor Tabris, Grey Warden of Ferelden, and yes, I did come from Denerim. These are my companions, Leliana, Nimue, Geoffrey and Ragnar,” he said, pointing to each in turn. Softly, Ragnar padded towards her, whining expectantly, and she remained still as he sniffed her hand, only relaxing when the hound returned content to his master’s side. “We mean no harm to you or any of the Dalish, I swear it. Are you hurt? You ran into me pretty hard.”

“Oh, I’m fine, thank you,” said Merrill. “I hope I’m not keeping you from something.”

“Quite the contrary, it’s good we came across each other when we did. We’re hunting a pack of darkspawn that’s been terrorizing this region. By any chance, have you seen any sign of them?”

Merrill’s eyes widened even further, if such a thing were possible. “You’re hunting darkspawn? Well, of course you are, hunting darkspawn is what Grey Wardens do. But that means…” The line of her jaw clenched, and she offered the party a clumsy bow. “Well, it was very nice to meet you, Sagramor, but I must be on my way. May the Creators watch over you and your friends!”

“Wait!” Sagramor cried, reaching out for the Dalish girl, but in a flash of green, she was darting back into the woods, the sound of snapping twigs that marked her passage fading in the space of moments.

“Well, that was… odd. And abrupt,” Geoffrey quipped. “You think she got scared off by talk of darkspawn?”

“I’m more interested in learning what she’s doing out here in the first place, and alone at that,” said Nimue. “I know the Dalish are supposed to be good scouts and all, but she hardly seems like a hardened tracker.”

“Perhaps she’s returning to warn her people,” suggested Leliana. “Her clan could very well be nearby.”

“All the more reason to find her again. Ragnar, track!” The hound took up the hunt eagerly, nose pressed to the forest floor, and in seconds, he was racing through the underbrush, guiding his master along with steady barks. Quickly, the party followed, Sagramor at the lead, excitement and apprehension warring in the deepest reaches of his heart. The question of finding the Dalish had been a perennial concern for him, and many a sleepless night had been spent grappling with the difficulties of tracking down a people who survived in a hostile world by forever remaining hidden from any pursuers. Now the answer had almost quite literally fallen into his lap, and he would be damned before he’d let such an opportunity slip past. Nor could he stomach the thought of leaving a young woman to fend for herself when there were darkspawn prowling about, and he lengthened his stride, eager to catch up to Merrill before any harm befell her. Or before she stumbles right into their lair, for that matter…

Ragnar’s howls beckoned them forth from the next clearing, and Sagramor strode in to find Merrill waiting for them, the hound at her feet, sprawled on his back in expectation of a belly rub as reward. “Oh, hello again!” Merrill greeted them. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Can I help you with something?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Sagramor admitted. “You look like you’re a bit lost.”

“Not lost, just... searching, that’s all,” the Dalish girl asserted. “I’ll find my way eventually."

“And what of your clanmates, can they not help you?” asked Leliana. “I know much less about the Dalish then I would like, but it seems strange to me that they’d force you to wander alone.”

“Especially one of their mages, no less,” Nimue chimed in, looks of shock emerging from the rest of the party. “If that’s a walking stick you have at your back, then I’m a Grand Cleric.”

Said walking stick slipped into the girl’s waiting grasp. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s just a traveller’s stave, in case I need to shoo away the wolves.”

“Of course it is,” Nimue remarked with a smile, releasing her grip on the horse’s reins. Flames burst to life in both hands, dancing between them in great, swirling loops, and Merrill gasped, awestruck at the display. “You’ve nothing to fear from us, Keeper. Geoffrey and I have suffered too much at Templar hands to put any other mage through what we’ve experienced, and Sagramor and Leliana aren’t the sort to play inquisition.”

“I’m not actually a Keeper, at least not yet,” Merrill confessed, lowering her staff. “You know something of Dalish lore?”

“Like the rest of us, far less than I’d like. The Chantry has a habit of going through the Circle’s libraries every so often and setting any book they disapprove of to the torch, but I’ve managed to pick up a few things.”

“The humans willingly destroy their own knowledge? Why would they even consider doing something so horrid?” demanded Merrill, shaking her head at their foolishness. “I’m sorry I was so abrupt with you earlier, Grey Warden. I meant no disrespect.”

“It’s fine, Merrill. I can understand your caution,” Sagramor assured her, too busy chiding himself for a fool to take any umbrage with her. He’d seen enough mages that recognizing one, even from another culture, should have been a simple matter, and though her magic was no source of fear, it was still something he should have picked up on from the start. Some Templar I am. “In any event, we’d be more than happy to escort you to your clan and out of harm’s way. We--”

“No.” The word was softly spoken but no less powerful for it, and Sagramor fell silent in the face of Merrill’s resolve. “I appreciate the offer, Grey Warden, but… no. I have my mission, just as you do, and I won’t turn away now.”

“Which is?”

“One of my clanmates has gone missing. And I hope I’m wrong about this, but she may have gone to the same place as the darkspawn you hunt.” The party exchanged confused looks, and the shadow of some past grief darkened Merrill’s bearing. “Come with me, and I’ll do my best to explain.”

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

There was no mistaking the presence of darkspawn now, the skin-crawling sensation that played across Sagramor’s mind growing palpably stronger the further west they travelled. A few minutes later, the first bits of physical evidence made themselves know: clawed tracks scarring the dry earth, layered one over the other by an array of pounding feet; great trees wilting before their very eyes, poisoned by the smears of darkspawn blood upon their trunks and raining dead leaves down on the forest floor; the hint of corruption carried on the summer winds. They advanced cautiously now, weapons at the ready, tense and watchful for any sign of the foe. Merrill took her place amongst them, the runes etched into the wood of her staff glowing faintly at her touch, and bit by bit, her tale emerged. “A few weeks ago, two of my clanmates, Mahariel and Tamlen, vanished while hunting in the Brecilian Forest. We tracked them down to an ancient elven ruin deep in the woods, but darkspawn infested the site.”

“The darkspawn have reached the Brecilian then?” asked Sagramor in alarm. Maker’s breath, how far have the damned things spread?

“Yes, though we only saw the one pack. Between the Keeper and the clan’s hunters, we were able to destroy them all, but by the time we found Mahariel, she’d fallen gravely ill.”

“The Blight disease?” Merrill gave a sad nod, the first tears brimming in the corners of her eyes, and Sagramor’s heart sank at the thought. “Oh, Andraste, Merrill, I’m so sorry.”

“Keeper Marethari was able to use the old magic to hold it at bay for a time and give Mahariel a chance to recover. After a while, though… Three nights ago, she broke out of the Keeper’s aravel and fled into these woods. I thought… I thought I could try to find her and bring her back home.”

“And what does the rest of your clan think about this?” pressed Nimue. “Something tells me they’re not eager to have a plague victim in their midst.”

“For that matter, where are they?” asked Geoffrey. “Everything I’ve heard about the Dalish says they’d rather die than let their mages come to harm. So what are they doing leaving you alone like this?”

Silence lingered as Merrill shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny. “Merrill?” Sagramor prompted. “What is it?”

“Well, I… I guess you could say I ran away,” confessed the Dalish girl, a blush of shame manifesting upon her pale features.

“Did they mistreat you?” Leliana demanded, moving to her side.

“Oh, no, nothing like that!” Merrill insisted, horrified at the very notion. “I mean, I don’t get along with my clanmates sometimes, but they’re good people, and they’d never do anything to harm me.”

“So why run away then?”

“Because...” Small fists trembled at her sides, and the words burst forth like a river overflowing its banks, passionate and uncontrollable. “Do you know how the clan felt when Mahariel ran away from us? Relieved, like she was a piece of trash to be discarded. The clan may have forgotten all she’s done for them, but I won’t! She’s the best of us and a far better friend than I deserve, and I won’t turn my back on her just because things seem hopeless, no matter what the others feel about it.”

“Merrill, I have to warn you that Mahariel may die, whatever you attempt,” Sagramor murmured sympathetically. Perhaps her stubborn persistence was mere pride, but pride had its uses, and he could hardly blame her for refusing to give ground about a friend’s well-being. He’d striven to earn such loyalty from his companions, after all; that Merrill remained true to her friend spoke well of her given the circumstances. Yet what the Blight claimed, it rarely gave back, the lives of those infected most of all, and he felt his heart break for the lovely Dalish mage. “Once the infection reaches a certain stage, nothing can be done for those afflicted. Unless the Dalish have figured out a way to cleanse the infection entirely?”

“No. The old magic can fend it off for a time, but not cure it. Not that I’m any good with healing magic, anyways,” Merrill admitted ruefully. “I can still bring her comfort, Warden, try and ease her pain as best I can. It might not be enough, but it’s something, and I know she’d do the same for me.”

“Any idea how far ahead she is?”

“Not sure.” From beneath her scarf, Merrill withdrew a silver chain from which an old brass ring hung, the metal giving off a slow, even pulse of sapphire light every few seconds. “It’s a locator ring. Mahariel keeps its twin on her, and the closer they come together, the brighter the light shines.”

“Sounds a bit like a phylactery,” Geoffrey chimed in. “If the principle’s the same, it should help find her… assuming of course she hasn’t lost it in a bush somewhere.”

“The locator rings belonged to her parents. Mahariel would never willingly abandon them,” Merrill insisted. “And even if she did lose hers, it’s not like I could track her any other way. I’m terrible at finding my way around.”

From the west, the winds picked up, carrying something vile in its wake, and Merrill wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Creators, what is that?”

Hands tightened their grip about the greatsword’s hilt. “Trouble,” Sagramor intoned, recognizing the spoiled milk odour right away, familiarity providing no comfort. The presence of the darkspawn intensified a hundredfold so that it felt like a swarm of wriggling insects were trying to squirm out from beneath his skin, and he forced himself not to gag at the nauseating sensation. Quickly, the party secured the reins of their horses to some nearby trees before pressing on. A hundred metres ahead, a once-healthy stretch of bushes stood visibly rotting, leaves turning black and withering to dust, and with a few quick slashes, the path was cleared and the Warden’s fears confirmed.

A hundred Templars had been dispatched from the Aeonar in pursuit of Nimue and Geoffrey, and not all of them met their end in the brutal fighting at the steading. A few had managed to escape the rout, or had been separated from their fellows during the initial darkspawn attack and left to fend for themselves as best they could. In the end, their fate had been merely postponed, not averted, and at the rear of the party, Geoffrey whirled away, vomiting at the roughly thirty bodies littering the ground before the cave’s mouth, each mutilated beyond recognition. It was no mass grave, but a midden pit where the refuse from the darkspawn warband’s twisted feasts was discarded and left to rot: bones split open for their marrow, scraps of flesh and armour cast aside in their cannibalistic frenzy, other, fouler bits of offal that didn’t bear contemplation. Merrill uttered a moan of horror at the disgusting assemblage, while Nimue’s blue eyes darted about, seeking any avenue of escape. “Courage now,” Leliana urged them, falling in behind Sagramor. “Remember that people depend on us.”

Wide green eyes flickered between the cave’s gaping maw and the locator ring, the latter now pulsing at a furious cadence. “Creators, she’s in there!” cried Merrill. Without hesitation, she was running for the entrance, narrowly avoiding Sagramor and Leliana’s grasp as she danced over the filth barring her way to vanish inside. “Mahariel, hold on!”

“Merrill!” shouted Sagramor, but the Dalish girl was heedless, the sound of her calls echoing up from out of the cave. “Damnation, how could she be so reckless?!”

“Her friend is at stake,” Leliana reminded him. “I know you’d do the same if any one of us were in danger.”

Biting back his frustration, Sagramor conceded the argument with a nod. No, he couldn’t fault Merrill for being loyal to those she cared for, or even for risking herself on their behalf. I’d like to think I’d have a better plan than storming in headfirst, though! “Come on. We’re going in.”

“Umm, sorry to sound less than courageous here, but whatever happened to contacting Alistair and going in at full strength?” Geoffrey inquired hesitantly.

“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” the Warden admitted. Or beautiful Dalish girls, apparently. “Merrill deserves better than to die in some filthy darkspawn pit, and if we lose her, Maker knows when we’ll have the chance to bring the Dalish into the fold again. Keep your eyes open and your weapons ready. This’ll be rough…”