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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.

Note that this is Part Two of the chapter. Due to DA’s file-size limitations, the chapter had to be separated to different documents.

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

Chapter Seven: The Poisoned Chalice – Part Two

Sagramor took Duncan’s hand, coughing up a few residual traces of the Joining compound onto the floor. Breathing deep to calm himself, he glanced at the bodies of Daveth and Jory, now lying in peaceful repose at the back of the temple. Fate, death or the Maker had seen fit to spare him today; he only wished that it hadn’t taken the others.

That was a sentiment Alistair seemed to share. “Two more deaths,” he grumbled, gently placing a sheet over the bodies. “In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was… horrible. I’m glad at least one of you made it through.”

“How do you feel?” asked Duncan, passing Sagramor a waterskin.

Accepting the drink, Sagramor finished rinsing the last traces of darkspawn blood from his mouth before responding. “I feel— I feel fine,” he expressed, unable to believe it. The pain of the Joining had been immense, the nightmares even worse, but now, he felt as fit and strong as he had ever been, certainly better than he might have expected after drinking one of the most poisonous substances known to man. “I still can’t believe you killed Jory.”

“Jory was warned that there was no turning back, as were you all. When he went for his blade, however, he left me no choice,” explained Duncan with a calm reserve that bordered on irritating. “It brought me no pleasure to end his life, and I would not have done so if there were any viable alternatives. The Blight demands sacrifices from us all. Thankfully, you stand here as proof that not all are made in vain.”

“Perhaps,” Sagramor replied. He hated the logic behind it, and the notion that a simple error in judgement could condemn a man to death was a detestable one, but the damage was done. Jory was dead, and throwing a fit about it wouldn’t bring him back.

Alistair stepped in to change the subject. “Did you have dreams? I had terrible dreams after my Joining.”

“You can say that again. Does that usually happen during Joinings?”

“Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do,” explained Duncan. “That and many other things can be explained in the months to come. For now, take pride in that you have become a Grey Warden in full.”

“Before I forget, there is one last part to your Joining,” Alistair interjected.
Sagramor raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess, it involves fighting a dragon in your smallclothes.”

“No, nothing like that,” said Alistair, stifling a chuckle before becoming solemn once again. “We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us of those who didn’t make it this far.”

Sagramor accepted the pendant without a word. “I know this is a great shock to you, Sagramor, but there is little time to waste,” said Duncan. “Take the opportunity to prepare yourself for battle. In one hour’s time, head over to the ruined hall directly beside the gorge. King Cailan will be briefing his officers on the upcoming battle, and has requested your attendance.”

“The King?” asked the elf. “Did he happen to say why?”

“Regrettably not,” Duncan replied with a shrug. “All I can ask is that you attend promptly. Until that time, Alistair, I’d like you to assist Sagramor in getting ready, then wait for us by my tent once the meeting begins.”

“Of course, Duncan,” said Alistair, looking relieved he wouldn’t have to rub shoulders with the King and nobility. After Duncan left, the former templar turned to Sagramor with a relieved smile. “Well, since we have a little time, how about some supper? You haven’t eaten since breakfast, right?”

The elf’s stomach growled in sympathy. “I probably should, but after seeing all that, I’m not sure how much of an appetite I’ll have.”

A strange smile crossed Alistair’s face. “Trust me, you’ll eat well.”

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

Oblivious to the rituals of the Grey Wardens taking place atop the fortress, the rest of Ferelden’s army were preparing for war. Orders rang out, sending companies running to their appointed positions on the heights or within the valley. At the mouth of the gorge, teams of labourers finished lashing and hammering the last of the barricades together, using long knives to sharpen pointed stakes and trim away any protrusions the darkspawn might latch onto. Above it all came the sound of blades been sharpening, like a million insects humming in time, with each soldier whetting his or her blade to a razor’s edge. Their armour, too, was taken up, each piece having been polished and cleaned in the hours before to prevent rust weakening the metal, while a few soldiers took the time to mend torn jerkins or replace buttons, as if the perfection of parade ground dress would be safer to fight in. Teams of labourers, many of them elves, carried food and extra weapons to the assembling ranks, and brought their packs back into the baggage park of the main camp so they might fight unhindered. Grooms readied the mighty destriers of Ferelden’s knights for the fight with bridles and specially designed armour, and teams of mabari warhounds were brought forth. In this dread hour before battle, many soldiers sought spiritual comfort, so the Chantry had seen fit for its priests to walk amongst the ranks, swinging braziers of incense and singing verses of the Chant as they offered blessings and absolution to all who wished it. There were the usual jokes: “Wear an open helm, Sarge; one look at your mug and the ‘spawn will run straight back into the deeps,” and some men had sought the comfort of spouses or lovers or camp followers in the hours prior.

Like the rest, Marian Hawke had her own rituals before battle. Her half-plate armour fitted securely upon her lithe body and her greatsword obsessively sharpened bright over the course of the afternoon, the young woman completed her preparations by smearing a line of bright red kaddis paint across her nose and onto her upper left cheek. The bloodmark was something she had picked up from training with the Ash Warriors, a symbol of her willingness to fight and die, a mark that she had proven worthy of their demanding training regime. Officially though, she was not an Ash Warrior; she had been given the choice of joining their order or supporting her family and chose the latter, but as far as she was concerned, she had earned the right to wear the bloodmark, whatever the actual Ash Warriors might have to say on the matter.

Carver, of course, did not approve, saying it looked like a naughty child had scrawled on her while she was asleep, but picking out the jealousy in his words had become second-nature to her. Regretfully, she’d had a lot of practice at it. Her younger brother had not been happy when she joined the King’s army, fearing that Marian would soon overshadow him once again, and through no fault of her own, he had been proven correct. She had sought to protect him, but he only saw her superior rank, and the old resentment deepened. There was so much bitterness in Carver! Try as she might, she could not mend the rift that had formed between them over the years, and after all her efforts, all she had to show for it was a deepening sense of frustration with the young man.

At that moment, however, Carver was fidgeting nervously by the fire, wrapped up in the last-minute jitters before battle. “Don’t worry, Carver,” Hawke reassured him, “you’ll do fine.”

“I’m not worried!” her brother shot back, a little too quickly for her liking. She should have expected him to conceal his fears beneath a façade of bravado; Carver had always held onto this old-fashioned notion that a man should never show weakness before others, let alone to his sister. “There’s no need to baby me, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Hawke asked with a joking smirk. “Need me to read you a story and tuck you into bed?”

“Enough, sister!” barked Carver, face becoming red with anger and embarrassment.

Good, better he be angry at me than brood over fighting the darkspawn, Hawke told herself, taking his frustration in stride. “Trust me, Carver, you’ll have plenty of chances to prove yourself in the battle ahead. Just don’t do anything stupid, alright? I don’t want to tell Mother and Bethany that you died chasing glory. It’ll come to you in its own time.”

“So you say, sister.” There it was, his special brand of resentment. “Then again, not all of us get to hang out in the King’s Camp, flirting with Grey Wardens.”

‘I wasn’t flirting with Sagramor!” Marian retorted hotly. True, she had thought about the young elf since their meeting, and had even asked for him with the Grey Wardens stationed with the main body of troops, and thought he had very interesting eyes, but that didn’t mean she had been flirting with him! “I was just welcoming him to camp, that’s all!”

“That’s what they call it these days, sister?”

Whatever (likely vulgar) response Marian had in mind was put aside as Captain Varel approached their fire, the greatsword she had obtained for him earlier slung across his back. “Ah, Corporal, there you are. Are you and your brother fit for the fight?”

“Of course, sir,” Hawke replied, leaping to her feet.

“Excellent. Then I’d like you to accompany me to the King’s briefing. The healers say that Royce won’t be fit for active duty for the next three days, so in the meantime, you’re acting company adjutant. Private Hawke,” the grizzled veteran said, turning to Carver. “Inform the sergeants that I want Third Company formed up and on the battle line by the time I return. We may need to redeploy if the King’s plans have changed.”

Beaming with pride, Hawke fell in behind the Captain, ignoring the glare Carver leveled at her back. In the end, she was Corporal for a reason, and had ambitions of becoming a greater solder still. An opportunity to take on more responsibility and demonstrate her worth could not be overlooked.

Besides, she might even see Sagramor again.

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

After a bit of searching, Sagramor and Alistair finally found a quiet section of the fortress where they could talk of Warden matters undisturbed. They carried with them great bowls of stew offer by the local cooks, brimming with chunks of beef, carrots and potatoes, and the two men dug in ravenously, devouring their supper in minutes. Licking gravy off his fingers, Sagramor set about mopping up the remainder with a stale crust of bread, stopping once he saw the barely-constrained mirth on Alistair’s face. “What?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Alistair. “So, uhh, before we have to end up fighting for our lives together, I just wanted to apologize about not telling you more about the Joining. I didn’t really like doing it, but I had my orders.”

“I could understand why they’d want to keep something like that secret. I was pretty scared there, myself,” Sagramor admitted. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“It looked like Duncan had put you to keep us from escaping, back in the temple. If any of us had tried to run, would you have stopped us?”

Off-put by the direct nature of the question, Alistair hesitated for a moment… but only a moment. “No offense, Sagramor, but yeah, I would have. And not just because Duncan told me to either. This is a Blight, after all, and if the Wardens are compromised by something like that, it could mean trouble for everyone. I wouldn’t have liked it, and probably beaten myself up over it afterwards, but I would have done it. Sorry.”

“Well, duty must come first,” Sagramor responded guardedly, pausing to chew on another gravy-soaked crust. “During the Joining, you mentioned something about sensing the darkspawn. What’s that about?”

“One of the things we’ve learned about the darkspawn is that the entire species is connected to each other through the taint. I don’t really know how to explain it, but each darkspawn is somehow aware of the existence of all the others, like there’s some network connecting them. What the Joining does is allows us to tap into that network. Basically, if darkspawn are around, you’ll be able to sense them instinctively.”

“Like you did in the Wilds,” said the elf, understanding dawning. “And Duncan too, we were ambushed on the road by ghouls, and he knew they were out there before we could see them.”

“Exactly. Of course, there are some downsides. Now that we have the taint, the darkspawn can sense us as well, though not as clearly. It can help us avoid smaller groups or set up ambushes, but larger groups of darkspawn, especially those being led by emissaries, will sniff us out. The other major benefit to the Joining is the resistance it gives you to the Blight sickness. So many people have died in each Blight not because of the darkspawn themselves, but the disease they carry. Thanks to the Joining, it’s something we don’t really have to worry about… more or less.”

The sound of booted feet scuffing on the stone stopped Alistair before he could elaborate further. “Ah, there you are, Warden!” declared the kennelmaster, neigh-strutting towards them. “I was hoping to see you before the battle started and thank you for getting those flowers.”

“So the treatment worked?” asked the elf.

“You bet, Warden. Made it into an ointment, and already, our canine friend is showing some definite improvement,” said the kennelmaster, beaming with relief. “Don’t think he’ll be ready to join the fight this evening, but within the next few days, he’ll be fit for duty again. And the treatment should inoculate him against further infections too, so their bloody sickness won’t affect him in the future.”

“That’s great to hear. So what happens next?”

“Well, I definitely want to see about imprinting him on you. It’s likely that he understands you saved his life anyway; mabari are at least as smart as the average tax-collector. If all goes well, you’ll be the owner of a healthy warhound in no time.”

“Are you sure that’s a good decision? I haven’t exactly had a pet before, much less something like a mabari. And wouldn’t the owners’ family have first claim anyways?”

“Not really, mate. The hounds choose the master, after all, and if it decides to follow you, there’s naught they can do about it. As for caring for it, these are pretty self-reliant beasts; he’ll probably taking care of you more than you would him, both in and out of battle. Just… come back after the battle and see, would you?”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Alistair assured him as the kennelmaster left. “A pureblood mabari packs a hell of a punch, and I’m sure Duncan would let you have it in any event.”

“Hope you’re right,” said Sagramor, wiping a few stray crumbs from his armour. “Well, it’s about time for the briefing anyways. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

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

“You’ve arrived on time. Excellent,” said Duncan, meeting Sagramor at the entrance of Ostagar’s ruined hall.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” remarked Sagramor. “Have I missed anything?”

Duncan’s frown told him everything. “Nothing good.”

Like the rest of the fortress, the ruined hall had been repurposed to serve the needs of the army, and while the roof had largely carved in, the walls were still solid and it was large enough to hold all of the senior officers. A mosaic of banners representing the army’s various contingents had been put up, and Sagramor was still amazed at how many bannorns and arlings and knightly orders were present. The place was packed with about thirty men, mostly nobles and officers of all stripes and social standings, though the elf had to stop himself from beaming when he caught a glimpse of Hawke standing next to a greying captain, the dark-haired woman giving him a small smile in recognition, a bright streak of red painted across her face. On a darker note, there was no sign of Fergus Cousland, and Sagramor gave a quick prayer that the Maker would look upon him kindly.

In the furthest corner, a bald thin man in the robes of a Senior Enchanter of the Circle fretted idly under the stern watch of a quartet of templars. From behind another unit of templars, a woman in the robes of a Grand Cleric of the Chantry examined the assembled gathering, her cold blue eyes finding them all wanting. Her gaze focused on Sagramor for a moment, and then withdrew in disgust, turning back to the argument raging in the centre of the hall.

“Loghain, my decision is final,” King Cailan declared. His golden armour had been polished bright, and he looked every inch the shining King, ready to lead his countrymen to victory. “I will stand beside my men and the Grey Wardens in this assault.”

“You risk too much, Cailan,” responded Loghain. Ferelden’s greatest general was staring at his sovereign as if he was a drunk or a madman, and Sagramor felt a selfish sense of relief that the Hero of River Dane was not levelling his dark gaze in his direction. “The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines.”

“If that’s the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us after all,” the King stated lightly, drawing more than a few astonished glares.

Loghain’s jaw clenched so tightly Sagramor thought he could hear the man’s teeth grinding. “I must repeat my protest at your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!”

“It is not a fool notion,” the King answered with surprising steel. “Our soldiers deserve better than to stand alone against this threat, and I would not see a single one of them fall for the sake of your pride. Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past, and you will remember who is king!”

“How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved her for a century!” came Loghain’s bitter retort.

“You go too far, Loghain!” one of the assembled nobles shouted, his face as red as his well-trimmed beard, and his tabard displaying a green sun on a white field. Swallowing nervously, Sagramor realized that this was none other than Vaughan’s father, Arl Urien Kendells, the ruler of Denerim. Maker grant that he has not learned of his monstrous son’s fate. He doubted that Urien would accept how the elf had been granted amnesty as a Warden, and to slay an Arl of Ferelden in self-defence would not help their cause. “He is your rightful King. Your place is to serve and show obedience and carry out his commands.”

“Thank you, Urien,” added Cailan, quickly composing himself. “I suppose that our current forces will have to suffice for tonight. I will assume that your units are all assembled and ready?” he asked, receiving a chorus of affirmations. “Duncan, are your men ready for battle?”

“They are, Your Majesty.”

“And this is the young recruit I met earlier on the road?” Cailan inquired, as all eyes turned towards Sagramor. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Sagramor. “I stand ready to serve, wherever I am needed.”

Arl Urien gave Sagramor a smug look. “Eager to escape the gutter, are you?”

“Enough, Urien,” Cailan interjected. “I don’t care if he’s an elf, for young Sagramor here possesses the honour and courage I would expect out of any of my knights. I know of many men his age who lack these qualities. Isn’t that right, Your Grace?”

Urien huffed indignantly at the King’s reproof, but did not challenge him, reserving an angry glare for the elf instead. “Every Grey Warden is needed now,” Cailan continued. “You should be honoured to join their ranks.”

“Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan,” Loghain remarked tartly, barely sparing the two Wardens a glance. “We must attend to reality.”

“Fine then, speak your strategy. The bulk of our army and the Grey Wardens form up our battle line in the gorge and provoke the darkspawn into charging our position, correct?”

“At which point,” said Loghain, belabouring every word as he opened up a large vellum map for the King and officers to look upon, “you will alert the tower to light the beacon and signal my men to charge from cover--”

“To flank the darkspawn, I remember. I assume you’ve designated which units will form your force?”

“Of course, Cailan. All trustworthy and loyal men.”

“Excellent, that is what I like to hear. Now, this is the Tower of Ishal you refer to, in the ruins? Who shall light this beacon?”

“I have a few men stationed there in a holding garrison,” stated Loghain. “It’s not a dangerous task, but it is vital. My forces will be concealed from the darkspawn, but so too will they be out of our line of sight. We need the beacon to inform us the precise moment to charge.”

“Then we should send our very best, and that means the Wardens. Send Sagramor and Alistair to see that it’s done.”

“With respect, my King, I doubt there’s anything a stripling like this can do that couldn’t be done by a simple squire of Denerim,” Urien expressed, his subordinates murmuring agreement. “If the beacon is as vital as Loghain claims, then the decision to light it should be left in the hands of a reliable soldier of Ferelden, not some Alienage rat.”

That last insult tripped Sagramor’s choler, and against Duncan’s warnings and his own better nature, he found himself responding. This duty did not seem like it would require a Warden’s presence, and he certainly hoped that he wasn’t being shoved into a minor role due to his age or race, but no one questioned his competence without a response. “This rat has sharper fangs than you know, my lord, you can be assured of that. If the King should require my skills at the tower, then I will not be one to gainsay him.”

“Nor I!” Urien barked, reddening further.

“Alistair and I will not fail you, Your Majesty. The Teryn will have his signal.”

“Well said,” declaring the greying captain next to Hawke, while the raven-haired young woman gave a proud smile that sent a nervous flutter down Sagramor’s spine.

Loghain, of course, had his objections. “You rely on these Grey Wardens too much. Is that truly wise?”

“Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain!” Cailan shouted in exasperation, dismissing his general’s concerns with a wave. “Grey Wardens battle the Blight no matter where they are from.”

“Your Majesty,” Duncan interrupted before the argument could go any further. “You should consider the possibility of the Archdemon appearing.”

“There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds,” Loghain stated bluntly.

“Besides, isn’t that what your men are here for, Duncan?” asked the King.

“I… yes, Your Majesty,”

“Then it’s settled. Now then Loghain, if you’d like to go over our specific tactics for this battle in more detail--” Cailan asked, only to be interrupted as the mage in the corner approached. The hands of the templars immediately went for their weapons, the Chantry’s warrior-monks taking no chances with him, especially with the King within range of his magic. “Does the Circle have a suggestion, ser mage?”

“Your Majesty, the tower and its beacon are unnecessary,” suggested the mage, licking his lips nervously before proceeding. “The Circle of Magi can-“

“We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage!” boomed the Grand Cleric, barely-contained revulsion evident on her withered features. “Save them for the darkspawn, lest your unwillingness to bow before the Maker’s commandments bring him to anger and doom us all.”

“I am aware of his commandments, and what do you think we are doing?” the mage snapped in frustration. “Our powers can help Ferelden win this battle! We serve! We do far more good in this one evening than all your pious prattling will ever achieve!”

“Blasphemy!”

“Enough!” Loghain roared, the sheer fury in the voice enough to make the belligerents back down. “The plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens shall light the beacon. Your Majesty, the King’s Own will hold the centre of the main battle-line, as you desire. Arl Urien, you will command the right wing, and Bann Daryon will hold the left.”

“Thank you, Loghain,” Cailan said, sighing in relief. “I cannot wait for that glorious moment when I ride with the fabled Grey Wardens to stem the tide of evil.”

“Yes, Cailan,” came Loghain’s answer, his expression unreadable as he looked down upon the map. “A glorious moment for us all. Now then, when the darkspawn begin their advance-”

As Loghain continued his briefing, Sagramor weighed Cailan’s words. Were two Grey Wardens really necessary to see that the beacon was lit? His posting simply might have been a diplomatic concession, a chance to show how the Wardens were truly instrumental to victory, though he wondered how Alistair would take it. It didn’t really matter to the elf where they asked him to carry out his duties, as long as he had the opportunity to help.

Sharp grey eyes glanced over the map, and Sagramor took in the various symbols demarcating the positions of each unit in the army. If he was reading this right, then Loghain had brought all of his troops from Gwaren with him in his flanking charge, along with the army’s heavy cavalry and the regiments of a few other nobles. The elf was trying to identify which heraldry represented each noble when he noticed Loghain glaring at him. Before he could react, the teryn swiftly rolled up the map, dark eyes never leaving Sagramor for an instant. “I apologize, my lord. I merely wished to understand my duties within the larger context of your plan.”

“That’s not relevant, Warden. Simply complete your assigned duties, and leave strategy to those qualified for it.”

“You said something, Loghain?” asked Cailan.

“Nothing worth mentioning.”

“Then perhaps I might be able to address my officers?” came the gentle demand, and Loghain quickly moved to let him speak. “By now, you all know that Fergus Cousland has not returned from the Wilds. This Warden,” he declared, pointing to Sagramor, “risked a great deal to bring back his last report, and the intelligence we have learned from it will prove critical in our victory tonight. And make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen, we will be victorious this evening, for we have virtues the darkspawn do not. Courage, honour, sacrifice, such concepts beyond these beasts, and with them firmly in mind, nothing can defeat us. The Maker be with you all as you bring further glory to our nation. To your regiments!”

So dismissed, the officers dispersed, with Loghain leading his coterie to the flanking position, and Urien and the rest following at the heels of the King. Hawke and the grey-haired captain lingered behind for a moment, observing the elven Warden, reassured. “Corporal Hawke tells me you’re a reliable man, Sagramor of the Grey,” said the older man, “and I have learned to trust her judgement.”

“That’s wise of you, ser captain. I doubt Ferelden has soldiers any more loyal or dedicated than Hawke.”

Laughing, the Captain looked over at the dark-haired woman. “You shouldn’t listen to this kind of talk, Hawke; it’ll go straight to your head.”

“Too late, Captain Varel,” Hawke replied with a small chuckle. If she had any doubts about the King’s plan, then she was certainly keeping quiet about it. At the moment, her attentions were centered on the elven warrior, and Sagramor felt his ardour burn at her gaze. “Shame you won’t be with us on the battle line, Sagramor. Guess I’ll have to take all your kills for myself.”

“Well, ladies must go first, of course,” Sagramor jested. “It would be rude of me to deny you the honour of first blood.”

“There will be darkspawn aplenty for all of us, I’m sure,” Varel declared. “Duncan, Third Company would be honoured if you’d fight alongside us tonight.”

“And it would be an honour to accept, but I must decline. The King has insisted that the Wardens take up position alongside his personal guard,” Duncan said with an apologetic bow.

“Don’t worry. Stands to reason the King would want you beside him anyways. Still, we’d best get on with it. Wardens.”

Varel and Hawke made to leave, but before they exited the ruined hall, the dark-haired girl paused to plant a small kiss on Sagramor’s cheek. “Go with the Maker and fight like the Void, Warden,” she whispered, clasping his bracer before departing.

“You as well, Corporal. You as well.”

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

When they relayed their orders, Alistair didn’t bother hiding his disappointment. “What? I’m not going to be part of the battle?”

“This is by the King’s personal request, Alistair,” Duncan explained. The wind had begun to pick up, carrying with it a taste of frost, and behind them, Duncan’s campfire blazed warmly against the growing cold. “Without that signal, Teryn Loghain won’t know when to charge.”

“And he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch, just in case, right?”

“I have to ask, Duncan, is this the right call?” asked Sagramor. “I wasn’t lying at that briefing; I’m willing to carry out whatever duty is required to stop the Blight, but it does seem like we could be of more use to you on the battle line.”

“The King will not deviate from the battle plan now, and there are advantages to keeping you both in reserve,” Duncan reiterated, all business. “The demands of duty are often not exciting or glorious, but they are necessary, all the same, and I expect you to carry this order out.”

“Just so you know,” piped up Alistair, “if the King asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line, darkspawn or no.”

Duncan gave a laboured, put-upon sigh, and Sagramor had to stifle a laugh at the former templar’s antics. “On a more serious note, Duncan, once we’ve lit the beacon, should we head down to the valley to join you?”

“I do not think that will be necessary. Loghain’s flanking charge should end the battle decisively if all goes according to plan. If you are needed, we will send for you. Until that happens, stay inside the Tower.”
“And if the Archdemon shows up?”

“Then we soil our drawers, that’s what,” Alistair quipped.

“Leave it to us,” ordered Duncan. “I want no heroics from either of you.”

“Anything else?” the elf asked.

His expression darkening even further, Duncan brought forth some familiar scrolls. “One last duty, before the battle begins.”

“The treaties?” Sagramor asked. “What-”

“We’ve had the Circle re-apply the protective spells to them, but they must remain secure at all times. These are your responsibility now, Sagramor. Whatever happens, you must safeguard them with your life. Alistair, you will assist him in this duty.”

“I… I understand,” replied Sagramor, placing the treaties in the leather satchel at his waist to join his stolen trove of coin. His backpack would go into the baggage train so he could fight unhindered by its weight. Beside him, Alistair accepted Duncan’s command with a nervous smile, all levity vanished.

“Remember that you are both Grey Wardens now, and I expect you to be worthy of that title. Now then, make for the Tower. I want you in place as soon as possible, so you’re ready to light the beacon when the King gives the signal. Look for the white banner to be raised.”

“Duncan,” Alistair said, words laced with emotion. “May the Maker watch over you.”

The older Warden’s gaze softened with pride. “You as well, Alistair. Go in safety, and win this battle in Ferelden’s name.”

And then they heard the horn, pealing out clear from one of the outlying watchtowers built to guard the treeline. Within moments, it was joined by a second, and another, and another, until Ostagar was screaming with every one of its voices, warning its inhabitants of the approaching doom. At the other end of the camp, the Grand Cleric scurried away with her escort of priests and templars, and Sagramor heard the roar of orders as the army steeled itself. “Duncan…”

The Warden-Commander opened his eyes. “They’re here.”

Howling in rage, the darkspawn erupted from the treeline, thousands of them, a seething carpet of festering malice bearing down on the human defenders…