Author's Note: As always, many thanks to those who read, especially those who fave and alert. Cookies and love go out to those who review; feedback of any kind is always welcome! And extra special heaps of Sten-worthy cookies to my betas, Josie Lange and ShiningMoon, for patience and help and inspiration and stuff. :D ShiningMoon will also be producing an illustration for this chapter which will appear shortly in her deviantArt folder; check the link in my profile to see it and all of the other wonderful art she has produced for this behemoth of a story.

As in Chapter 8, I have substituted fire-resistance potions for Warmth Balms, as it seems much more practical in a combat situation to chug a liquid than to ask a dragon to wait while one smears salve all over oneself.

Mild spoilers in this chapter for The Stolen Throne; the mildest of warnings for language.

As always, BioWare owns this universe; I just have fun in it.

11 –Flemeth

"I am staggered," said Morrigan. "I was beginning to think that you had forgotten our little agreement –or perhaps that you only kept promises concerning inanimate objects purporting to have a soul."

"She did more than find Sten's sword," said Leliana. "She helped Shale, and Alistair as well."

"And your point would be—?"

"Let me understand this," said Loghain. "Your next course of action as Grey Warden Commander is to murder an old woman in cold blood –and her daughter approves? I am under your orders, of course, so explanations are not required; but why in Andraste's name would we do this?"

"Because if we don't, she will kill Morrigan in the near future," answered the Mage. "Or at least, Morrigan believes she will."

"Her mother disapproves so strongly of apostates, does she? How tragic."

The subject of Morrigan's mother had not arisen amongst the company since before the Landsmeet, so Loghain was unaware of her name or her identity. To inform him that the old woman was an apostate herself –and a potentially unbalanced one—might increase his enthusiasm for their next task, or it might cause him to protest against what he would consider an unnecessary risk. The Warden considered her answer carefully.

"Well, Morrigan won't stay with us unless we do this for her," she said at last. "And if she leaves us, I shall be the only healer in the party. So you see how we're kind of stuck."

Loghain shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So tell me, just for my own amusement," he asked, "why I would want to do this?"

The Mage thought for a moment. "Because she saved me and Alistair after the Tower of Ishal was overrun, thus setting in motion the chain of events that led you to your current place as the newest member of the fabled Grey Wardens of Ferelden," she answered.

"Ah," said Loghain. "That will do nicely. Thank you."

The Mage blinked in surprise. "That's it? You'll agree to help me kill this old woman just for that?"

Loghain shrugged. "No doubt you'll try to talk to her first, Warden," he replied with a smile. "Who knows: maybe it's all a misunderstanding between the two of them and everything will be patched up. Morrigan's mother might even pack us a lunch for our journey to Ostagar."

As they approached the Korcari Wilds, the slopes of the Southron Hills became densely overgrown; tall firs draped with moss and lichen blocked their view of the paths ahead. A recent fall of snow had nearly melted away, leaving slicks of chilled mud on the hills' sides and icy swamps at their feet. The Warden's map was of little use in helping her choose the best route through the frozen mire, being too small to show every available woodland path. After several checks and backtrackings in search of easier ground for walking, Loghain opened the pouch at his belt and reached for his own map, which was much larger.

The Mage heard the now-familiar rustle and swallowed nervously. Loghain had not opened his map in their travels since before their latest trip to Denerim; unbeknownst to him, however, the Mage herself had. For the better part of two days she had kept the map of the Ancient Tevinter Imperium that she had procured for him hidden in her cloak, waiting for the proper moment in which to present it. The moment, however, simply refused to arrive. Her fellow Warden seemed always to be busy, or preoccupied with something, or not in an ideal mood to receive gifts. And it seemed to the Mage as if someone else was always watching. Of course, there had never been such a thing as a truly private moment between any two members of the Wardens' company for as long as they had travelled together. But the Mage had never felt as exposed as she had over the past two days, whenever she had looked at Loghain and her hand strayed to the gift she had hidden under her cloak.

She had cursed her feebleness: what was wrong with her? The Mage had given gifts to all of her companions before –even to Loghain himself, back at Soldier's Peak. But the giving of that gift on that crisp morning seemed to her like an episode from another life, or from one of her wanderings through the Fade; the gift itself –half a gift and half a jab, as Loghain had perceived—a thing she had passed with little thought to a man she barely knew. Now her Champion walked at her side, and she knew his presence as she knew the breeze on her skin or the heat of the campfire at night. She felt him with more than just her tainted blood; she believed that she could tell to an inch, without looking, how close he stood to her at any moment. The others must sense it too, she thought –the thrumming energy that radiated from her, like the buzz of electricity off her staff just before she released the tempest. Threads of energy reaching out from her like the questing setae and antennae of moths; and they must see, they had to see, how she quivered like a moth when the old Warrior drew near.

The night before, when Loghain was taking his turn at that camp's bathing spot, the Mage had sauntered casually over to where his pack and other belongings lay on the ground in front of his tent. Feeling ridiculous, feeling like a coward, and sure that anyone watching would see through her clumsy subterfuge, she had taken Loghain's map from his belt. It was folded into panels, each displaying a specific area of Ferelden in meticulous detail. On that night, the panel that marked the lands surrounding the village of Haven had faced forward, the village itself and the temple of Andraste recently added in their proper places. The Mage had made a show of scanning Loghain's map intently. She had had the Tevinter map up the sleeve of her cloak, clamped to the hem under her curled fingers. If anyone had asked, she would claim to be studying the relatively wild and unknown territory they were about to enter, in order to determine their best course for the following day. No one had asked; no one, it appeared, had seemed to care. The Mage had relaxed her hand and allowed the Tevinter map to drop out of her sleeve. She had slipped it between the panels of Loghain's map, closed it with what she hoped was an intelligent and above all indifferent expression, returned it to its place amongst Loghain's things, and walked calmly back to her tent. Once inside, she had alternately wrapped her arms around her middle to calm her fluttering nerves and beat herself silently about the head for being such a ninny.

Now, at last, Loghain wanted his map; now he had removed it from its place at his side, and now came the familiar snap as he opened it with a flick of his wrist. Almost instantly, he checked with a grunt of surprise and nearly stumbled; the Mage heard a rattle of armor and a crumple of parchment, and guessed that he had registered the foreign object as it slipped free and had caught it reflexively before it dropped into the mud. She forced herself to keep walking. She heard the opening and smoothing of the ancient parchment, felt his gaze on it. He would recognize the map instantly as the one from the shop in Denerim, of course; but would he know the gift for what it was? Did she even want him to? Would it not be better for him to think of it as part of his Commander's efforts to strengthen morale amongst her recruits? She set her face to the path ahead and walked. There was a long pause, and then a heavy crunching of boots as he drew up alongside her.

The storm of energy, swirling between them: she the channeling rod, questing skyward, he the roiling fury of the clouds. Surely the Mage was not the only one who felt it?

His jaw unclenched; she heard him swallow roughly and draw in a long breath through his nostrils before he spoke.

"Wasting funds—"

"I traded for it," she answered quickly without looking at him.

He tried again. "Valuable goods—"

"A couple of worthless dragon scales, too small and too damaged to make anything useful in the way of armor. The Tranquils can grind them to powder and make potions out of them."

"And these potions—"

"—take a month to mature, and are used primarily for arthritis and women's complaints."

At last she turned to face him. He blinked, and then frowned; for a fleeting moment he looked troubled, but his brows soon re-knit themselves into a more familiar pattern. With short, brusque jerks of his hand he flipped the panels of his own map until the one matching their surroundings faced up. He thrust the map at the Warden.

"We're here," he barked, stabbing a finger at a spot about halfway down the left-hand side. "Don't get us lost."

He dropped back to his own place and buried his nose in the Tevinter map. He looked up briefly once or twice when the terrain became particularly rough, but otherwise focused his attention on the gift, trusting his Commander to guide him. Biting the insides of her cheeks, the Mage studied the map of his country that Loghain had drawn over his long years of traversing her. The interesting thing about maps, he had said in the Wonders of Thedas, is how they provide clues about the people who made them. The Mage regarded the parchment fondly. Each panel was marked in its interior with numbers indicating areas of interest; along the margins, each number received a description –sometimes just a name, in other places several lines of information. These were often written in a series of symbols and abbreviations almost like a code, though the Mage suspected its purpose was as much to conserve space as to conceal anything.

Most of the notes were obviously older; those not providing place names usually marked which Banns presided over which areas of Ferelden. In these cases, the shorthand appeared to give information about the Banns' loyalties, proclivities, or political leanings, or else the area's natural and human resources. The Mage turned the map over; now the panel facing her showed Lothering and its surroundings almost as far west as the eastern shores of Lake Calenhad. A more recent note was scrawled, carved, with deep ink strokes next to the number marked for the village of Lothering:

Langar ↓ | 2 GW ^ 1 F-Ch (!) in Dane's Refuge.
Rep 2GW: F-Mg (recruit; eyes) + M-Wr ~ CT.
TO treason, regicide. WoM ↔ with refugees. 1T ea. to 7,9.

The numbers 7 and 9 referred to the two main roads that branched out from Lothering and into the lands beyond. 'Dane's Refuge' was the name of the inn in the village in which she and Alistair had encountered a handful of Loghain's soldiers. It was during this confrontation that they had met Leliana, then still a cloistered sister. The Mage studied the first line of Loghain's note. She could not tell who or what 'Langar' was, but guessed that '2 GW' must refer to two Grey Wardens. She had told the soldiers who survived the scuffle in Dane's Refuge to take a message back to General Mac Tir that the Wardens would be in touch with him; evidently, they had done so. The symbol immediately following '2 GW' could be a sign of augmentation, she thought; texts in the Circle library used something similar in spell formulas to indicate when two simple spells should be combined to form a more complex, more powerful one. If that were the case here, then the two Grey Wardens had been combined with –what? With Leliana, of course. A female in Chantry robes.

Guided by Loghain's map, the Mage led the company onto a reasonably dry and obstruction-free track that proceeded more or less in the direction they needed. She began to puzzle out the second line of General Mac Tir's note. So, she thought, if 'F-Ch' in the first line is a female from the Chantry, then 'F-Mg' must be… me. Duncan's latest recruit. The one with the eyes, apparently. She blinked. The two Grey Wardens are myself plus a male Warrior, she continued. In the Circle, the symbol ~ was often used to denote similarity, as when describing two herbs or minerals with similar properties or effects in spells and potions. So what, or whom, did Alistair resemble? That was clear enough. The Mage had been too inattentive to notice it herself at the time, but Loghain would certainly have marked the traits and features that Duncan's protégé shared with his king, with Maric's son.

He noticed my eyes.

Furiously she flipped the hood of her cloak over her head and frowned at the map. The panel below this one should include the fortress of Ostagar. What notes, she wondered, might he have written next to that number? With a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, she turned over the parchment. There were, indeed, several notes in the margin of this panel, but the one that caught her eye first was an older note, a single, brutal word:

WITCH.

Next to the note was the number 4. The Mage scanned the map itself, but already knew where she would find the marker: just north of Ostagar, near the dead end of the Imperial Highway. Flemeth's hut.

"Oh yes, this begins to look familiar," said Morrigan cheerfully. "I believe I took some of my first moonlight runs as a wolf in these woods. We are nearly there."

The Mage glanced over her shoulder. Loghain had raised his head to look around him. Suddenly he halted, his expression frozen over. The whites of his eyes flashed as he took in their surroundings and the panel facing in the Mage's hand that confirmed their location. It was to Morrigan, however, that he spoke first.

"Your mother," he said, pointing on a line from where they stood to where Flemeth's hut was marked on his map, "lives there?"

"Yes," said Morrigan. "About an hour or so's march that way, I believe, on the other side of that hill. Perhaps you have heard of her? She is called Flemeth, or sometimes the Witch of the Wilds. Her name carries quite a legend of fear amongst the small-minded and the ignorant."

"Then let us thank the Maker that I am neither," said Loghain, "for I shall feel no fear when I am called upon to kill her. But I have heard the fairy tales of the wild Witch called Flemeth, and I know that an apostate who claims to be this Witch lives in a hut close to where we stand now."

"How wonderful," droned Morrigan. "That will spare you the tedious introductions. Shall we get on?"

Loghain did not move, but turned on his commander. "And you," he said accusingly. "You knew of this all along, did you?"

"I knew that Morrigan's mother is a Mage who calls herself Flemeth," she answered. "I was unaware of the legend attached to that name until Morrigan herself told me of it, some weeks after we had left her mother's hut."

"They didn't tell you her story in the Circle? Not even as a cautionary tale?"

"To caution us against what?" asked the Warden with a snort. "A powerful Mage living in relative peace and safety on her own in the Wilds for hundreds of years –taking lovers, raising children and killing pesky Templars at will? No, I don't imagine they would want us ever to hear that story." Morrigan chuckled grimly at this.

The Mage led the company on. Loghain tucked away his gift and glowered at the surrounding countryside as if daring Witches to emerge from the swamps beside the path, or to descend raving from the trees. Soon they stopped for their midday meal, after which the Mage rose and addressed the company.

"As you know, we have two errands to fulfill in this part of Ferelden," she said. "We must confront Morrigan's mother, and we would like, if possible, to send a small expedition into Ostagar." The others stirred; they knew what Elric Maraigne had told the Wardens before he died. "However," she continued, "we have no idea if Ostagar has been deserted by the Darkspawn now or if they are using it as an aboveground fortress. Therefore, we need to scout the area before we venture inside." Loghain nodded, but said nothing.

"I do not think it wise for either of us Wardens to be in the scouting party," said the Mage. "We might sense any Darkspawn in the area before the rest –but the Darkspawn, of course, would also be drawn to us. This would be bad if it turns out there are far more of them than us around. Therefore, we shall split into two groups from here. Our two Rogues will take my map, make themselves as undetectable as possible, and search out the area." She addressed the Bard and the Elf. "You will not engage any enemy unless you are forced into combat; you will use stealth and quickness and bring a report back to Flemeth's hut of the general population of Ostagar and its activities."

"And if the entire population of Ostagar were somehow alerted to our presence, and came after us?" asked Zevran.

"Then, you will bend over and kiss your waggly ass goodbye," growled Oghren.

"Not to worry," answered the Mage, smiling. "I am sending Oghren with you for protection –and Alpha as well."

"Me?" yelped the Dwarf. Alpha answered him with a rousing bark.

As the company stirred and prepared to leave, Loghain called the Warden off to one side.

"If restraint is required," he asked quietly, "would you not be better off sending the Qunari?"

The Mage shook her head. "I had thought of that," she said, "but Oghren is lower to the ground, so he's less likely to be spotted. I shall have to trust him to keep his rage in check unless it is called for. Besides, I need Sten with us, as well as Shale."

"Why them in particular?"

"Because they will not be moved to pity by the figure of a lone old woman. Not that Oghren would; but Flemeth is a talker. She loves to keep people confused and off their guard by sounding both wise and mad at the same time. Oghren might allow himself to be distracted, but neither Sten nor Shale will even bother trying to listen to her –and neither of them have any love for Mages."

Loghain raised an eyebrow in the direction of the Qunari, who was waiting patiently at the edge of the path for his commander. "None at all –kadan?" he teased.

The Mage lifted one corner of her mouth in reply. "They follow me because I released them both from captivity and certain destruction by the Darkspawn," she said. "I'm quite sure that they would have preferred to be obliged to a Warrior for their lives, if they must be obliged to anyone. But there it is."

Leliana took the Warden's map from her hand and nodded to her fellow scout. Together they walked to where a gap in the woods showed a track that would lead them to Ostagar.

"Well, it's been fun, Warden," growled Oghren as he stumped past to join them. "Just, you know, in case we get dusted by the entire sodding Darkspawn horde or something."

"Just remember," said the Mage, "you cannot blend into the shadows as Zevran and Leliana can, so let them go first and clear the area before you follow. Morrigan will be keeping an eye on all of us from the air and can offer you guidance and help if necessary. In the meantime, be as silent as we all were the first time through the Deep Roads. If you make too much noise, Zev has my permission to gag you –which I am sure will give him a great deal of pleasure." Zevran, overhearing, obliged them with a crooked smile.

She turned to find Loghain staring at the Witch. "You will not come with us?" he asked incredulously. "You would send us on an errand to kill your own mother, but you dare not look her in the face?"

"Flemeth wants me there when she dies," answered Morrigan testily. "When her body is destroyed, the demon that inhabits it lives on in this world for a short time before it is sent back to the Fade. It has been Flemeth's plan all along to have me nearby at that moment, to give the demon another earthly vessel to fill. I was bred and raised specifically for this purpose."

He snorted. "A convenient excuse."

"'Tis most inconvenient, actually. Do you think I prefer to leave such an important task to others, while I keep a safe distance and await the outcome?"

Loghain grunted a non-response and turned away to grab his pack where it rested on the ground. As he slipped it over his shoulders, his brow suddenly furrowed sharply.

"Hang on," he said. "If you are not present when Flemeth dies, would the demon not simply target the nearest Mage available?" His glance shifted to the Warden.

The Witch curled a plum-colored lip. "Even if she were to deem that Mage an acceptable alternative," she answered snidely, "no other body than mine would suit her. As those who have been paying attention will have noticed, most demons occupying a mortal frame either share it with its original owner –retaining two voices, two aspects, two personalities, and so on—or else they take over the body completely, producing a very obvious abomination in an uncontrollable state. Neither of these options would serve Flemeth's purpose. She needs to be able to take full control of my body, but still to retain my face, my voice, my manner. A ritual must be performed on the intended vessel in order to prepare it; only the most powerful of demons possess the ability." The Mage thought at once of Gaxkang and Vilhm Madon.

"So," argued Loghain, "help us to kill her before she has a chance to perform this ritual, then."

Morrigan expelled an impatient breath through her nose. "'Tis far too late for that," she said. "Do you think that my mother would be so foolish as to leave such a thing until the last minute? No." She sighed. "Flemeth prepared my soul for obliteration years ago. I read it in her grimoire. She performed the ritual on my thirteenth birthday. I remember…" Her gaze dropped suddenly to the frozen earth. "Mother told me it was a rite of passage into womanhood," she murmured. "I did not think to question her."

Cast off, thought the Warden. Raised by those who claimed to be responsible, and yet abandoned. Just like Zevran, and Connor. And me.

The Witch lifted her head and shook it dismissively. "So you see, it cannot be anyone else," she said to Loghain. "I am the vessel. Flemeth needs me, or she must begin her journey from the Fade all over again."

The Mage nodded and looked around at the others. "Ready?" she asked.

"Oh, are the humans through talking at last?" droned Shale from her place next to Sten. "Surely they could find a few more things to quibble about until the sun goes down. Then we could all stop again while they shut their eyes and make strange noises in the dark."

For answer, Morrigan transformed into a hawk and soared above the trees out of the range of the golem's curses.

Soon, the slanted planes of a high, oversized roof could be seen peering at them between the trees. As they approached the clearing in which Flemeth's hut stood, the Mage quickly put a hand to either side, just above her hips. The body armor that the Gwaren shield had bought included a belt across the middle similar to Zevran's, into which its wearer could tuck potions, grenades or whatever she might need in a pinch. The Warden had learned her lesson after being caught flat-footed by Gaxkang; she now carried a brace of lyrium potions at her right hand, health potions at her left.

Any hope they might have had of knocking on the door of Flemeth's hut and catching her off guard was dashed as soon as they entered the clearing. Morrigan's mother stood on a small ridge of rock on the west side of her little yard. She carried no staff, her empty hands folded in front of her as she gazed serenely down the path at them.

"She is waiting for us," said Loghain through his teeth. His expression darkened as they ascended the ridge and stood before Flemeth, who inclined her head solemnly like a great lady receiving an audience. The Mage would not have been surprised to see steam curling from the Warrior's nostrils. The Witch, however, brightened visibly upon seeing the face that scowled at her over the Mage's right shoulder.

"Loghain Mac Tir," said Flemeth, her eyes glinting with pleasure. Her gaze raked him boldly from boots to crown. "The years have not been kind to you, old man. Once I might have taken you as one of my lesser lovers –not to produce a child, naturally; rather, as a morsel with which to cleanse my palate between courses."

"You never produced a child naturally in your life, old woman," retorted Mac Tir. "And I consider the years to have been very kind, if I have now become so ugly that I am no longer eligible to become one of your playthings."

"There are other games to play than love, as you well know," replied Flemeth with a shrug. "By the by: how goes your new game these days?" She threw a sidelong glance at the Warden. "Or perhaps it is the same old game as before? The pieces have changed, but the moves seem rather familiar…" She chuckled. "Shame about that last battle of yours. But then you, like me, always did prefer the men around you to die young."

"The women, too, if you'll recall. Ha," he answered back. "Pity I was too late in your case."

"Whereas I, like you, prefer not to die," said the Witch, laughing. "Unlike you, however, I do prefer to live young, when I can. But you know that, don't you? For that is why you are here, is it not?" She turned to address the Warden, who had been following the spar of words with her mouth open. "Or rather, that is why you are here," she continued. "He is here not so that a young Mage may live, but so that an old Mage may die. A difference lies there that you would do well to appreciate. He is not a man to be swayed from his goal –or to care how many fall in his pursuit of it."

The Warden closed her mouth at last with a cough. "You… know each other personally, I take it?"

The old woman laughed again. "He thinks that he knows me," she answered, "just as you, Warden, believe that you know him." She clucked her teeth. "Give a man the title of 'hero' and the most intelligent people will believe it, despite the evidence. If you had been my daughter, I would have taught you the true worth of men's words and appearances –and to look after your own interests above all."

Loghain exhaled heavily through his nose at this; Sten was muttering something under his breath.

"I am curious, though," continued Flemeth, "as to what it is that brings you here, doing Morrigan's bidding. Has my daughter actually endeared herself that much to you? Sisterly chats and beauty tips by the campfire in the evenings? No," she chuckled, "obviously not. Then what reason could you have for going out of your way in a time of war to kill an old woman?"

"I need Morrigan," answered the Mage. "She will not stay with us unless I do this."

"Ah," said Flemeth, "so you simply need Morrigan to believe that I am dead. If she requires certain words to hold her allegiance, let her have them. Return to her and say that I am slain."

The Mage shook her head. "Wouldn't work, I'm afraid," she said. "Morrigan would insist on coming here afterwards to loot your house and possessions personally."

"Meaning my grimoire, of course," replied the Witch with a nod. "Then let us use her greed to our advantage. Lure her here with the grimoire, let her think that I am dead; then I will possess her body and give you an ally ten times more powerful than she."

"No," said the Mage. "I do not trust you."

"But you trust her? You are a bigger fool even than you look."

"If I cannot trust Morrigan in all things, I can trust her to act against her fears," said the Warden. "I do not know what you fear, if anything. Therefore I cannot trust you."

"Hmm," said the Witch, considering. "Perhaps I underestimated you. But then, you must know that what Morrigan fears most is Flemeth. Take Flemeth away, and what binds her to you? Would you not have the same predicament as you would by helping me? Better to keep Morrigan's fear alive, and to put her in her place; let her know that you and I are watching her, and that if she fails to follow your commands, you will let me have her without a fight."

The Warden studied her opponent in silence. Was this Flemeth's way of showing fear? For all her persistence, it did not truly feel as if the old woman was in any way desperate in begging for her life. Rather it felt like the dealings the Mage had had with any number of merchants in her travels. If the Witch could not come to an agreement with the Grey Warden, then she would simply take her business elsewhere.

Sten interrupted her thoughts with a growl of impatience. "Surely you are not considering a bargain with this saar hissra?" he said.

"I am not one to shirk my duty," said Loghain, "nor will I go back on a promise of service, no matter the circumstances under which it was made. But if you ally yourself with this woman, Commander –against which I advise in the strongest terms possible—I would respectfully request that you send me on to Redcliffe to meet with the troops there in advance of your arrival. I will not—I cannot—"

"The same old game," broke in Flemeth smoothly. Her glance never wavered from the Mage, though her words were now aimed partly at the Warrior who stood fuming to one side. She shook her head reproachfully. "Respectfully, obediently insisting that those above him do exactly as he tells them. Go on then, Warden: send him away; let him join the armies ahead of you, and then see what awaits you when you arrive to take command." She laughed. "He will go to his daughter with tales of the Grey Warden's alliance with an abomination, and whom do you think she will believe? Her father, the stout-hearted Fereldan warrior, or a Mage raised on an island prison with no love for her country, now set free in the Wilds to do as she pleases?" The Witch flashed the Warden a knowing eye. "Never mind that all you have done thus far is what the devout, the feeble and the frightened could not do on their own, no. All the more reason to call you a sorceress, and to persecute you. Flemeth knows." She nodded wisely. "But by all means, turn your back on your hero, as your king did at Ostagar. Trust him to act on your behalf. Or you could compel him to stay, knowing that I will find him on the road if he chooses to desert again."

"No," answered the Mage. "I will not force any of my companions to follow me." She looked back at her Champion. "He and Morrigan are the only ones who were ever pressed into my service against their will," she said. "And both he and Morrigan have been free to leave at any time, as have any who travel with me."

Flemeth chuckled. "But I'm sure that he, like Morrigan, knows what would happen to him if he tried to leave," she said. "If he slunk back to court like a dog without his keeper. Indeed I am beginning to think that his presence at your heel is not the result of some starry-eyed notion of yours, but of his own desire for another set of coattails to ride –a chance, at long last, to feel like a hero again, instead of a treacherous old bungler who allows everyone close to him to—"

"ENOUGH!"

Startled, the Warden turned around. Loghain, shaking with fury, had drawn his sword and was brandishing it with a snarl. "Give the word, Commander," he said. "Give it, I beg of you."

"Your war dog strains at the leash, Commander," warned Flemeth gleefully. "How long until he breaks it?"

"He will not have a need," answered the Mage. "Not today." She raised one hand, preparing the signal.

"I see," said Flemeth. "Pity; you showed such promise, girl. You have only this one terrible flaw, of allowing the will of others to influence your actions. I could have helped you overcome this. But it seems that you are not to be helped. Now Flemeth will show you the same mercy that she shows to all poor, sick, helpless creatures; she will put you out of your misery. And in doing so, Flemeth will prove herself a greater friend than some who claim to serve you."

Still smiling, the Witch flung her arms wide; for a split second it looked to the Mage as if she meant to embrace them. Then a shadow leapt up from the heart of Flemeth, a shadow that loomed high above them all, pulling the old woman's form up and out, the neck stretching skyward, the arms stretching, expanding to form—

"Wings!" bellowed Shale. "Curse it!"

As the form of Flemeth's shapeshift became unmistakable, the Mage's first thought was: Oh, come ON. Her next was more academic: But how could she possibly… isn't a shapeshifter supposed to learn her intended incarnation by observing it? When would Flemeth have had the chance to socialize with High Dragons?

Despite what her intellect would tell her, the Mage's eyes left her in no doubt of the creature they now confronted. She imagined that Flemeth's choice of transformation was based not only on the fearsomeness of the weapons in a High Dragon's arsenal, but also because Flemeth must reasonably suspect that her enemies would never have encountered such a beast, much less defeated one.

Bad luck for her, thought the Mage with a grim smile. The beloved Andraste could have told her differently… if she still had a tongue.

"Vashedan!" cursed Sten in frustration. He had stowed the sword Yusaris in Bodahn's cart with their camp things.

As Andraste had done on the mountaintop, the High Dragon Flemeth greeted them with an ear-splitting shriek.

"Shale!" shouted the Mage when she could hear herself. "Stun her, then break her kneecaps!"

"Excellent," said the golem with a chuckle as the Warden leaped off the ridge to the lower ground of Flemeth's yard. "For all its annoying qualities, it does know how to show a girl a good time…"

The Mage did not usually encourage Shale to do her stunning trick, because the localized earthquake she generated put her companions out of action as well. In this case, however, the Warden needed time to plan her attack, and Flemeth must be immobilized while she did it. From her place on the lower ground, she would be out of range of the shockwave caused by Shale's pounding fists. As the earth shook and the golem snickered, the Mage flung her pack off her shoulders and searched frantically through its contents. In preparation for the fight with Andraste, the Warden had brewed as many potent fire-protection potions as she could from her store of ingredients. She had gone up the mountain with seven potions for her party of six; surprisingly, no one had required a second dose before Andraste had fallen. Quickly her fingers found the remaining earthenware flask, still radiating warmth like a small oven; she also located two more, less-powerful flame-resistance potions that they had picked up somewhere in the Deep Roads. She did not need to ask the others whether they might have their own; her Warriors would not stow such things in their gear. Who of the four of them, she thought then, should go without?

She peeked over the ridge. As thorny a question as it might seem in theory, in practice the answer became obvious as soon as her eyes lit on Shale's glowing red back. The golem (partially because Darkspawn were fond of flames and explosions, and partially because Shale herself showed a predilection for the color red) was adorned with a carapace of crystals that carried a strong protective enchantment against fire damage. It was not as much protection as the Mage's concoction would give, but more than either of the two lesser potions. Shale, then, would stand on her own.

The golem had gleefully shattered the joints in Flemeth's front legs and was rumbling around towards the rear. "Mind the tail!" the Warden shouted as the dragon began to stir. She set aside one of the lesser fire-resistance potions for herself. Though not as heavily armored as her companions, the Mage had a higher natural resistance to magic than they did; moreover, if she stayed where she was, she could duck out of the way of a direct blast. But what about the other two?

Another quick glance at the battlefield gave the Mage her answer. Sten was muttering harsh invectives against the saarebas, but his expression as he shook himself and readied the Summer Sword was as stoic as ever. The snarl on Loghain's face, however, was heavy and furious and would not be dislodged, she believed, until Flemeth lay in pieces before him. He stood directly before the dragon's lowered head, boots shifting on the damp ground, his gaze locked onto the eyes of his enemy. Flemeth's jaws gaped at him in a terrible spiked grin; the Mage doubted that her attention could be diverted from the old Warrior even if Sten had brought Yusaris with him. The Qunari was pacing around the dragon's sides and back; the Mage tossed him the second of the lesser potions with a shout.

"Sten! Wings! Then the legs!" Sten acknowledged his commander with a nod, downed the potion, and set to work, aiming for critical joints and tendons that would most affect the dragon's mobility.

The Mage glanced back at Flemeth just in time to see the dragon's neck curl back in the way that she knew preceded a blast of flame. She ducked, hastily uncorking her own potion and tipping it down her throat as the flames came rolling over the ridge and across the field below. She hefted the earthenware flask and peered back over the ridge. Loghain, anticipating the burst of fire as well as his commander, had flung himself under Gaxkang's shield, sliding forwards feet-first until he was lodged nearly between the dragon's battered front legs. Flemeth backed up painfully, sweeping her horned head along the ground in an attempt to root out her enemy. The Mage checked the cork on the flask, took aim, and threw it low along the ground. It rolled to a stop a couple of feet to the left of Loghain's ear.

Please, she prayed. Let him notice it.

Duty's wings under the shield jerked back; a moment later, the distinctive sound of Loghain Mac Tir chuckling echoed off the silverite that encased him. A gloved hand snaked out and grasped the potion. Loghain rolled to his feet, yanking the stopper off the flask with his shield hand. Flipping up the visor of his helmet, he flashed the Mage a deadly grin before turning back to his enemy. No longer able to turn on all four legs, Flemeth was trying to skewer or bludgeon Sten and Shale with her great taloned wings and spiked hind legs and tail. From the edge of her vision she saw the Warrior rise; her head snapped round to face him just as the last of the Mage's potion slid down his gullet. Loghain tossed the empty flask into the rushes with a satisfied gasp, gripped his sword, and beat the pommel twice against the boss of his shield. He raised the Starfang, a bright and bitter spike in the dull, smoke-drenched air of the clearing. The fingers on the pommel curled at Flemeth in invitation. The dragon reared, lifting and spreading her wings as if to blot the world from her enemy's sight, and came roaring to meet him.

Even hobbled, a High Dragon was a dangerous opponent to face, especially at close range. Loghain was also unable to employ one of his primary weapons, as his shield attacks had almost no effect on the dragon's heavily armored hide. He was forced to employ a one-handed offense, using the shield almost exclusively to protect himself from the darts of Flemeth's head and snapping jaws. As the dragon Andraste had done before her, Flemeth seemed to be trying to catch Loghain in her mouth and either crush or shake him to death; Loghain, of course, had anticipated this, and held up the wolf's-head shield as a wall between swipes and stabs at her chest and neck. The dragon battered her face bloody against that wall, trying to reach him.

Though it obviously caused him no damage, Flemeth still periodically doused Loghain and their side of the clearing in flames. The Mage could not understand why she would do this, until she realized that the fire and smoke made it difficult for him to see. She was trying to blind him so that she could more easily catch him off guard when she tried to bite him. When he could anticipate the blasts, he would duck underneath them, so Flemeth attempted to stun him first by shrieking directly into his face until his ears rang and he became too disoriented to move. To do this, however, she had to put her head within reach of Loghain's blade and the heavy blows of his shield. It was a battle of action and counteraction, but in this battle the Mage believed the advantage to be the dragon's.

She knew one minor frost spell –not nearly as powerful as Morrigan's, but enough to stop the blast of flame if she could catch it just before it issued from the dragon's mouth. Sten and Shale were mostly blocked from view; she could sense their presences in the Fade, but could not see them. Sten, she knew, was not above calling out to his kadan if he needed healing. If Shale ever felt what others would call 'hurt', the golem never admitted it; the Mage was not sure if a healing spell would have any effect on her, anyway. At the moment, the two of them felt to her strained but not seriously injured. This meant that she had some breathing room to time her next frost spell properly. Grimly she recalled that this was Morrigan's favorite game—

and just when had she learned to play that?

—and shifted to a spot that gave her a clear view of the base of the dragon's throat. The neck itself will move around too much, she thought, but the base remains stable as she readies the spell. If I can freeze that spot just as the blast exits the lungs—

Flemeth screamed in Loghain's face, stunning him; she was gathering the fire in her breast and wanted him as defenseless as possible when she released it. The Warrior stirred as soon as the screaming stopped, but Loghain now only had a handful of seconds to gather his thoughts and evade the blast from wherever it came. He shook his head and readied his shield-arm; the dragon reared back and the Mage conjured up a stream of freezing energy, aiming it directly at the spot where the long neck met the torso. Her timing was slightly too late; a short spout of flame did escape to cover Loghain's head and shoulders, but the wash of fire was cut off abruptly. Flemeth choked; Loghain started in surprise, laughed, and charged in with the Starfang, looking for the finishing blow that Sten had performed on Andraste.

Backing away, the dragon raised herself almost entirely off the ground, beating her wings in front of her in an attempt to repel the attack. But Sten had managed to nearly sever one wing from its joint so that it flopped uselessly, pulling her down on that side and tangling the Qunari and his sword in the great pinions like a man trapped under a tent that had collapsed. Flemeth roared in pain and frustration, thrashing her tail and stamping her great hind legs so that the earth shook. Sten was tossed to the ground and viciously yanked about; the Mage could not see him but could feel his injuries through the Fade and hear his muffled voice crying out to his commander for aid. She could not pin his physical form as a focus for a healing spell, and was reluctant to cast one for fear of accidentally healing Flemeth instead. Sparing a glance at Loghain –he was darting between the flailing front legs and attempting to slash the softer underbelly—the Mage shut her eyes and cast her consciousness into the Fade, searching for her staunch lieutenant. Here, all she might do was heal his spirit and revive his energy, but she hoped it would give him the strength to withstand his physical hurts a bit longer.

She found him on one of the Fade's endless twisting paths, nearly as large as a golem, shielding his kadan from a screeching raptor whose wings conjured whirlwinds of fire. He was bowed, crumpling even as he cursed his enemy; she healed his spirit's wounds and he sprang up, bellowing defiance in his own language. It was all the Warden could do for him. Clasping her staff, she yanked herself quickly back to the waking world and opened her eyes to see a wall of flame surging towards her. The Mage ducked behind the ridge once again, her heart hammering in her chest. Had Loghain managed to avoid the blinding smoke and fire once again? As soon as she could, she scrambled up and peered over the ridge.

The spot on the ground where Loghain had stood was empty. But Flemeth had something in her mouth.

"No!" She tried to heal him, but once again could not focus as the dragon's head tossed and shook him mercilessly. The Warden yelled at Shale to bash the beast in the ribs, throw rocks at her head, anything to get her to drop her prey. Hearing this, Flemeth turned and caught the Mage's stricken expression in one wickedly gleaming eye. The dragon's grin hitched up even further; still staring at the Mage, she tilted her head to one side and bore down, her jaws grinding together like a man wrestling a particularly stubborn piece of meat off the bone. Loghain's breath left his body with the horrible sound of an old man crying out from a dream of death. At last satisfied, the dragon released him; he tumbled from her jaws and lay motionless on the ground.

Flemeth now turned on Shale, who was still intent on breaking one or both of the dragon's hind legs. Sten remained trapped in the membrane of the dragon's wing, hindering her movements; with a jerk, she ripped away the last of the muscle and tendons joining the wing to her body, knocking the Qunari aside with a sweep of her tail. He lay unresponsive, alive but too weak to fight back; the Mage again tried to heal him but was blocked by the dragon and by Shale, who flung curses and blows and anything she could lift from the ground at her adversary. Flemeth, in her turn, doused the golem repeatedly with flames that the Mage could not block, as the dragon's back was to her and she dared not come forth from behind her protective ridge –both her sword and her shield were in the back of Bodahn's cart, trundling towards the clearing by the longer road. Shale's crystals were designed to provide good protection against periodic fire damage, but not to withstand a relentless series of direct hits from a High Dragon. Flemeth battered her with kicks and lashings of her tail, and then bathed the golem in torrents of flame. The Mage heard more than one of the crystals explode in the heat. Shale's body began to glow red as molten lava; smoke issued from her joints as she aimed one last punch at the dragon's face, and fell.

"Pigeon… Curse it…"

They were all down. The Mage took a deep breath and willed herself not to panic. All of her companions were down, and she was alone in this clearing with a High Dragon. But from each of them, the Mage could feel a faint thread of life still stirring. They needed more healing than she could give them, but they might still live if she could get Morrigan to come down from the skies.

Only one way to do that, she thought as Flemeth turned her blackened gaze on the Warden.

Flemeth was in a bad way. With only one wing, she could not fly; her front legs were shattered and Shale had caused enough damage to one of her hind legs as to make walking virtually impossible. From her place behind the ridge, the Mage was in no danger of a physical attack and could easily duck out of the way of a blast of fire, if she could not freeze it in time. For her part, the Mage aimed shards of lightning and arcane bolts at the dragon's head and the vulnerable spots on her body where sword or stone had broken the flesh. Gradually, she felt the Witch's life force slipping away.

Why doesn't she shift back? she thought. Surely if she was in human form, she'd have more than fire spells at her disposal.

Because if she shifts back, she'll be an old woman with at least three broken limbs, that's why. Also, I'm not sure she's got all that much mana left.

The dragon was panting in pain and exhaustion; her gaze swept over the Mage as she stood regarding her enemy.

She wonders why I've stopped, thought the Warden. I'll bet she thinks I'm out of mana too.

Still glaring into the eyes of the dragon, the Mage slowly reached for her belt and pulled out one of the flasks by her right side. She pulled the stopper and held the flask up for Flemeth to see and smell, and then tipped the lyrium potion down her throat. The dragon screamed, but it was a sound of more than frustration or defiance. There was despair and loss in it as well. The Mage set her jaw and summoned another round of lightning bolts, and at last the light went out of Flemeth's eyes. Her lungs expelled the last spark of life with a cough; the body swayed and collapsed, and the head with its now-vacant grin thudded to the ground.

The Mage held her breath. Morrigan would not come until she was sure the demon had been sent back to the Fade –but how would she know? The Warden scanned the skies as the air cleared. Soon she realized that more than just the smoke of battle was dissipating; a heaviness in the air that the Mage had always felt in Flemeth's presence as an oppressive hum from the Fade, dampening her own senses, was lifting. She blinked, and took a deep breath. The air was bleak and sodden with the chill of a marsh in winter, but it was clear. The yard was silent.

Not long afterwards, the silence was shattered by the call of a hawk. The Mage ran up onto the top of the ridge and waved. The hawk soared into view; from below she looked like a dark acolyte, robed in black and white with blood-drenched limbs. She hovered over the scene while the Mage waved more frantically, pointing to the three still figures on the ground. At last, Morrigan folded her wings and dropped, resuming her human form just as she alit near the dragon's corpse. The Mage still pointed wordlessly, not trusting herself to speak. The Witch nodded and began the incantation that would revive the fallen, but not the dead.

Unable to wait, the Warden ran to Loghain's side. His helmet had stayed on his head while he was being shaken, but the visor had flipped open. His face looked sunken and pallid, with deep bruises under the eyes. His lips were pulled back in a grimace, the pink tip of his tongue protruding slightly from between his teeth. The Mage felt an irrational impulse to push the tongue back. It seemed the decent thing to do, like closing a dead man's eyes, or modestly arranging the skirts of a fallen woman. Instead she held her closed fists at her sides and waited.

She had wondered if the Revival spell would have any effect on Shale; the Mage was still a little confused as to where Shale's earthly nature ended and her spirit began. The golem, however, was the first to regain consciousness. "Strange," she wheezed as she hoisted herself to her feet. "I must have fallen asleep. I dreamed that an enormous talking pigeon killed me with its awful breath. Preposterous." She began patting her back and shoulders mournfully, lamenting her lost crystals as she found them.

Sten was next: "Parshaara!" he yelled suddenly, as if waking from his own dream in which he still fought the High Dragon. He thrashed against the last tattered remnants of Flemeth's wing. "Get off of me, bas saarebas! Now you will die!"

"Sten!" the Mage called out to him. "It's all right, it's over; Flemeth is dead. You did well." But she remained with clenched fists by Loghain's side and did not look up, willing her fellow Warden to stir, to open his eyes, even to curse her for bringing him on this ridiculous errand. He's still alive, she thought, I can feel it. But then why doesn't he wake? Was I too long in killing Flemeth; has he gone too far along the path to the Maker's side that he can no longer turn back?

"Fight, blast you," she whispered fiercely to him. "You're still alive; now fight."

His shoulders jerked; his chest heaved once, twice, and then he coughed so violently that the visor of his helmet slammed shut. He raised himself to a sitting position and flung the helmet off, revealing an ashen face, a reeking mass of sweat-soaked hair and a glare like two poisoned daggers aimed directly at the Witch. "You..." he snarled as he struggled to his feet, but he was interrupted by a blaze of white and red as the Grey Warden bore down on Morrigan in a rage, leaving Loghain stunned in her wake.

"What in the name of Maferath's blue balls was that?" she shouted.

"Oh—right—carry on…" muttered Loghain, biting his lip and gazing off into the trees. Morrigan lifted her eyebrows but said nothing.

"You –you bloody wad of Deepstalker spittle!" yelled the Mage, shaking with fury. Sten frowned; Mac Tir covered his mouth and coughed as solemnly as he could into his hand. The Warden took no notice. "Do you not think," she railed, "it might have been the slightest bit helpful for you to warn us that your mother might just shapeshift into a High sodding Dragon?"

The Witch folded her arms and looked supremely unconcerned. "You came out of it all right," she answered with a shrug. "'Tis not my fault if the others were unprepared."

"They nearly died, doing you a favor!"

"They were not doing me a favor," said Morrigan, "but simply following your orders. I am under no obligation to them; indeed, if they are to be angry, 'tis at you, for engaging them in a task that was plainly too great a challenge for them."

"And if your mother had killed us, what would you do then? Slay the Archdemon all by yourselves? Even Flemeth did not have the arrogance to believe that possible."

"My mother was old, and had lost both the vigor and the flexibility of her youth along with her beauty. She had grown too comfortable here in her marsh hut. I, on the other hand, am young and adventurous. I need not stay and wait for the Blight to overtake me. I can fly beyond its reaches, if I must –or endure with the wild creatures until it passes."

"And just how much enjoyment could you get from a Blighted land?" asked the Mage. "A land with no living woods to roam, no people to watch, no shops, no golden mirrors? No men to tease or take advantage of, and only tainted creatures and Darkspawn for company? But then what would you do? Would you and Flemeth march to Redcliffe and offer yourselves to lead the armies in our stead? Or would you trust the Arl to do the errand for you?"

"I would ransom my services, as both you and my mother lacked the wit or the will to do," answered Morrigan. "Your Arl, I imagine, would pay much gold to the hero who saves his pretty wife from the big bad horde. You are the one who persists in wasting your talents doing favors for people who are in no position to repay you. If I took advantage of your weakness, whose fault is that?"

The Warden was seething. "You… ungrateful… self-centered little piglet," she said. "You think that your meanness makes you superior to the rest of us? You take pride in the fact that a dust-hearted block of stone has a greater sense of loyalty and duty than you do? But you are right: if they did anyone a favor today, it was me, not you. Not one of them would have lifted a finger to help you today, if I had not ordered them. Think of that, the next time you find yourself in need."

Morrigan's teeth flashed white in the shadow of her mother's corpse. "May I remind you, Warden," she said, "that I now have everything I need… and now that my mother is dead, the only obstacle that might keep me from doing whatever I want… is you."

Behind her, the Mage heard two swords and a shield being hefted and readied, and the grinding noise of a golem making a fist. Morrigan's glance flickered past the Warden from one spot to the other. Sten growled. The pacing, rocking beat of Loghain's boots heralded a charge that waited only for his commander's signal. She did nothing but gaze coldly into Morrigan's eyes.

The Witch gave a sudden, scornful laugh. "Such devotion," she said. "Or perhaps they simply recognize that you would never defeat me on your own. You could not hope to best me in magic, little teacher's pet –nor could any Circle cow. But do not trouble yourselves," she added, waving a dismissive hand at them and stepping past the indignant Qunari to the door of Flemeth's hut. "I remain at your command until this Blight is over. My dear mother would have wanted it that way."

As she reached the door and opened it, she turned back. "Do not count on always having friends around to save you," she said to the Warden. "Such things never last." The door shut.

The Mage looked at Sten, frowning, and then at the dragon. Suddenly she ran down the path to the hut and pounded on the door until Morrigan opened it and poked her head out.

"When you shapeshift," asked the Mage, "you are that animal physiologically, are you not? Your soul stays your own, of course; but your body has all the properties of its new form, just as your mind does?"

"'Tis how I was taught," answered Morrigan with a shrug, "though I can't say I ever—"

The Mage nodded and turned back to Sten. "Drain her," she ordered, pointing her chin at Flemeth's corpse. "Every drop. Get the others to help, when they arrive. Use whatever vessels you can find in this hut. I'm sure," she said with a sickly grin at Morrigan, "her dear daughter will be happy to help."

Sten gave a satisfied grunt and advanced on the carcass with his sword raised. Shale, curious, followed to offer assistance, pausing at Sten's direction to gather the empty flasks that had been cast aside during the battle. As the Mage cast healing spells on himself and the Qunari, Loghain looked concernedly at the sky. "We ought to be getting on to our next errand soon," he said to her. "Your scouts should have reported back by now."

"Perhaps they ran into trouble," said the Warden.

Morrigan's head and shoulders appeared in the open doorway of the hut's upper story, into which she was letting some fresh air. "They are safe," she called down to the two Wardens. "My mother had summoned protective charms around this house that repelled the Darkspawn. Your scouts were inside the perimeter when I left them."

The Mage blinked. "Thank you," she said. Morrigan shrugged and moved away.

"Of course, we now have a crimp in our plans," she said to Loghain. "Or several crimps, depending on how many dents this dragon managed to put in your armor –and in you."

"Strangely enough, I don't think there are any," he answered. "I've had a look, and my armor looks nothing like it did after the beloved Andraste got a hold of it. Check the back," he suggested.

The Mage obeyed, and saw nothing worse than a minor dimple or depression in a handful of places. Peering more closely, however, she did detect a new vibration off the armor that she had never noticed before.

"Some enchantment's been added to this," she said at last.

"What?" asked Loghain, peering over his shoulder at her.

"It's true," she said. "It had some magical enhancements before, but there's a new one here –a rather strong increase in defense, it turns out."

"Huh. I expect Wade must have done it."

The Mage smiled. "You must remember to thank him," she said sweetly, "for taking such special care of you."

"Someone has to, it seems, if you insist upon feeding me to the wild beasts."

She looked skeptical. "Still, I don't like the idea of sending you straight to Ostagar without—"

"I am well enough," said Loghain. "We will stop the night near the gates; a few hours' rest will be all I need."

The Warden shook her head. "'Well enough' is not good enough," she said. "I need to be sure that you are in top condition to fight –and run—if necessary. Morrigan's mother healed me; I'm sure that if we looked inside her hut, we could find something—"

"I will put nothing that old woman has brewed into my body."

"Do you wish to join me on this mission?" asked the Mage. "Or shall I leave you here for another forced day of convalescence? There is a spare bed in Flemeth's hut; Morrigan could tuck you in…"

Loghain groaned. "Oh, by Gaxkang's rancid innards," he said, "fine. As you command, Grey Warden, I shall ascend into the Witch's lair and beg a tonic –if for no other purpose than to cure this nascent headache."

The Mage accompanied him back to the door of Flemeth's hut, composed a calm and pleasant face, and knocked again –more politely this time. Morrigan raised a supercilious eyebrow at Loghain when the Warden explained what they wanted, but stepped back from the doorway after a moment, leaving it open for them to follow her.

She opened a cupboard and extracted a large bottle of emerald-colored glass that contained a thick, syrupy liquid. Loghain eyed it suspiciously.

Morrigan rolled her eyes at him. "Do you suspect 'tis poison?" she snapped. "Or that it will turn you into a toad, as Alistair once feared?" She plunked the bottle onto the plain wooden countertop and moved away to resume her inventory of Flemeth's possessions. "Witches get hurt, and ill, and they require healing just the same as anyone," she said. "You can't believe that nothing my mother kept in her hut was without some sinister purpose."

Loghain folded his arms as he watched her. "All right, then," he said stubbornly. "I want to see you drink it first."

Morrigan stopped what she was doing and looked shiftily at the Wardens. "I am not injured," she protested.

"You see?" said Mac Tir to his commander. "She won't take it."

The Mage shut her eyes and prayed to the Maker for patience. She appealed to Morrigan. "If it's harmless," she said, "why not humor him?"

The Witch sputtered feebly, and then sighed. "All right; it tastes horrible! Mother used to force me to take it when I was a child and came down with fevers and other ailments." She made the disgusted face of every child when confronted with medicine. "The worst was when I was a teenager, though," she continued. "I had shapeshifted into a deer and some fool hunters shot me full of arrows. Flemeth had me in bed and swallowing that stuff every six hours for four days."

The Mage snickered. She opened the bottle and sniffed curiously at its contents.

"This smells familiar."

"It ought to," said Morrigan grimly. "It was given to you and that superstitious oaf after Mother rescued you both from the Tower."

The Mage frowned. "I don't remember that."

"You were unconscious," answered the Witch with some bitterness. "Guess who had to administer it to you."

The Warden looked bashful. "Thanks?"

Morrigan snorted. "At least you kept yours down."

The Mage winced. "Ew."

"Indeed. You have not truly lived until a naked Templar vomits on you."

Reluctantly, the Mage smiled. No one said anything for a long moment as they all stared at the bottle.

"Oh, all right," said Morrigan at last. "Give it here."

The Mage handed over the bottle; the Witch took it and held it for a moment, gazing into its emerald depths. She raised it nearly to her lips and then stopped, a peculiar frown clouding her features. Then she turned abruptly on her heel, stalked over to the kitchen counter and rummaged through one of the drawers underneath, eventually fishing out a large spoon with a carved handle. She poured a dose of Flemeth's medicine carefully into the spoon and positioned it near her lips with the handle pointing away, as though it was held there for her by an invisible mother. She closed her mouth around the spoon and swallowed.

Good girl, thought the Mage sadly, and looked away.

After nothing resulted from ingesting the liquid other than a series of disgusted faces, the Mage turned to Loghain expectantly.

"Go on, then," she prompted him.

With a deep sigh, Loghain took the bottle and the spoon from Flemeth's daughter. He swallowed his own dose and grimaced; only a warning look from the Mage prevented him from spitting it out. The three of them waited in silence as the tonic took its effect.

"I didn't know about the dragon," said Morrigan suddenly. "Not for certain, anyway. At least, I remember now that Mother had mentioned it, years ago" –Loghain glared at this—"but you know Flemeth: she speaks mostly in riddles and lies. You only know if what she says is true when it actually happens." She shrugged. "She never actually shifted into a High Dragon, so I –I forgot."

The Mage covered her eyes and rubbed wearily at her temples. "I suppose," she said, "that it wouldn't have been to your advantage if you had known, and not warned us."

"Yes, well, far be it from me to introduce logic into the conversation when we were having so much fun spitting at one another like cats."

The Mage picked up the bottle from where Loghain had put it back on the counter. She sniffed at it again, wrinkled her nose, and replaced the stopper firmly.

"Would you be able to make any more of this?" she asked.

Morrigan blinked in surprise, and then shrugged. "If Flemeth has stocked all of the necessary ingredients, yes. Some of them are rather rare, however."

The Mage nodded. "If she has," she said, "I would appreciate it if you could brew as much of this as possible before our party returns from Ostagar. Regardless of its flavor, this stuff is still better than anything we currently carry for serious injuries."

"It would require me to divert available vessels from your great mission to drain my mother's corpse," said Morrigan blandly.

The Warden nodded again. "It will be worth it."

She thanked the Witch again for Loghain's cure and the two Wardens prepared to leave. The Mage discovered a crate of empty flasks in a corner of the kitchen and gathered it up. Loghain opened the front door ahead of her and was immediately struck in the midsection by something large and brown. It barked.

"Hello, Alpha," he said to it.

"Get that mangy dog out of my house!"

The Wardens herded Alpha back up the path and into the yard. The remainder of the scouting party was trudging into the clearing; the tall poles of Bodahn's cart could be seen tilting to left and right as it made its uncertain way towards them along the broken end of the Imperial Highway. Alpha bounced around the corpse of the High Dragon, barking excitedly.

"Yes," Loghain said to him, "you missed a thrilling battle –of which I'm rather glad, all things considered. You might have been hurt quite badly."

Alpha barked in protest.

"Oh, I was hurt, too –we all were, except for the Witch and young Dragonslayer over there. She saved us, or I would have been chewed up and swallowed like one of your snacks."

The Mage smiled and gave the grateful Mabari a pat after relinquishing her crate of flasks to Shale. "It is not my fault, Dragon Crunch, that the poor old things find you so tasty," she said.

Oghren was next to enter the clearing. He had opened his mouth to hail them, but whatever greeting he had prepared was stuck in his throat as he caught sight of the great horned carcass.

"Jumpin' nuglets!" he exclaimed. "What the –I thought you said it was just that skinny broad's mother!"

"It was," replied the Mage. "I mean, she is…" She gave up and waved an arm in Flemeth's direction. "Sten will explain," she said.

"Uh," said Oghren, catching sight of the Qunari at his task. "More blood, eh? Warden, I'm startin' to think you got a real serious problem…" He trudged off muttering to himself.

Zevran and Leliana came up together and stood before the Wardens to deliver their report. Ostagar, they said, was a wasteland. They had stuck to the campsite and its outlying area, but they had not seen one Genlock grunt, not one tainted beast, only crows ("And not the interesting kind, either," added Zevran). By the looks of things, they said, the bulk of the horde must all have gone back the way it had come, rejoining the Archdemon in the Dead Trenches. However, it appeared as though the Darkspawn had meant to keep the fortress guarded by a relatively small number, as they had blocked most of the exits.

"They are still holding the place for something, then," said Loghain. "Possibly the eventual point of exit for the horde's march on Redcliffe?"

"If so," said Zevran, "it will not march any time soon, by the signs." Leliana nodded in agreement but said nothing; a chill had settled on her countenance and she looked distractedly at the ground. "I do not presume to say that Ostagar is completely deserted," continued Zevran. "In fact, I would swear that it is not. But I have been involved in wars before. There is an atmosphere in a camp when an army is just about to move. I did not feel it there."

The Warden thanked them and sent them off to see Morrigan about getting some blankets and a fire. "This is good news," she said to Loghain when they had gone. "It seems that we need not send a large party into Ostagar after all."

Loghain looked at her skeptically. "And just how many had you planned to send?"

"Well," said the Mage, "somewhere between the lot of us and none at all, depending on the scouts' report and the state of our health after dealing with Flemeth. If I could, I had wanted to avoid forcing any of the scouting party to turn around and go back to Ostagar straightaway…"

Alpha, who had stuck his head in between the Wardens, barked.

The Mage sighed and looked around the clearing with her chin in her hand. "However," she continued, "Sten and Shale should not be asked to go, either –and nor should you, really, except that you know precisely where Cailan's man hid his key and I don't. So I'm stuck with you, it seems." Loghain smiled ruefully.

"So, just the two of us, then?" he asked.

Alpha barked, a little more loudly this time.

"Unless you fancy asking Morrigan," answered the Mage. "She is the only one of the lot of us besides me who is both rested and unhurt."

Mac Tir curled his lip.

"I don't intend for this to be a full-on attempt to recapture the fortress or anything," continued the Warden. "As far as I'm concerned, our main objective is to dig up that key, unlock Cailan's chest, remove those papers, and get out."

"Maric's sword—"

"—is in the chest as well, according to you. As for the rest of it… well, I know what we told that old soldier; but honestly, I'm not all that fussed about retrieving either a suit of armor or a set of bones that has already been duly mourned in absentia by his widow and his people. If either of them present themselves, of course we'll do as we said; but otherwise—"

"Warden," said Loghain, "I could not agree more with either your sentiments or your plan, except for one thing."

"What is that?"

"Don't assume that just because you plan for only certain things to happen, that only those things will happen. You should know by now" –he waved an arm in the direction of the dead dragon—"how seldom that turns out to be the case."

"So how do I plan for what I can't see coming?"

"You can't," answered Loghain with a smile. "The best that you can do is to leave yourself another option."

"So, General," she asked him. "Whom else would you bring on this mission, under these circumstances?"

Alpha broke into a frenzy of barks, bouncing between the two Wardens and butting them in the ribs. Loghain looked at him and laughed.

"I believe that someone has already volunteered," he said fondly.

The Mabari stretched his forelegs on the ground in what Leliana called his 'play bow', his rump and stubby tail wriggling high in the air. The Mage nodded.

"Thank you, Alpha, we shall be honored," she said. Alpha grinned.

"One more," said Loghain.

"I'm sorry?"

"Four is a good number for a small party," he told her. "You have done well with four. I see no need to break from a practice that has proven effective. Bring one of the Rogues; they have travelled lightly and are unhurt."

"They are freezing," said the Mage, "and with more than just the cold. Ostagar and the woods around it may be deserted, but they are blighted. You know what effect that can have on those not inured to it by the taint."

"This is war, Commander," said Loghain. "A little fatigue should not keep those who fight from doing what is necessary."

"And if I thought it necessary for one of them to come with us, I would ask one of them to go. But I do not, and they shall stay here."

He pressed his lips together and sighed heavily, but did not press the matter.

Bodahn and his apprentice arrived, checked at the sight of the dead dragon and the growing collection of blood, and set up their cart under a tree at the opposite end of the yard. Sandal knocked down the slatted side so that it rested on its hinge, forming a display area for their goods; his guardian shoved a block of wood against the roll of each of the great stone wheels, and they were in business.

The Mage made sure that the Dwarf had plenty of empty flasks for sale, setting a half-dozen aside for Morrigan's use. She then hoisted herself into the back of the cart and located her sword and shield from amongst the goods that Bodahn allowed her company to store there. Loghain, upon seeing her emerge with the shield on her arm, raised an eyebrow.

"Another option," she explained with a shrug.

"Huh," said Loghain.

She slung the shield at her back along with the Spellweaver. Meanwhile, Loghain had made his way to the display area and was examining a crossbow with a critical eye. Both of the Mage's eyebrows went up. "You?" she asked him.

"I didn't exactly grow up in sword-and-shield circles, Warden," he answered gruffly. "And a hunter in the forest generally has more success with arrows than with steel."

"Poachers do too, I imagine," said the Mage with a smile.

One edge of his mouth sliced upwards. "Yes," he said, "though my poaching instrument of choice was the longbow. This, however, is more practical for our needs." He turned the weapon on its end and ran his hand over the lath, frowning. "Unfortunately, crossbows also tend to be a bit more expensive," he added. At this, the Mage let out a gasp.

"Just a minute," she said to him, holding up one hand and returning to the back of the cart, where she hauled herself up once more and disappeared under the canopy. She emerged a moment later brushing the dust from another crossbow. "This one's ours already," she said, holding it out to Loghain. "No charge –if it's any good, of course."

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully. The stock of the weapon was of a blond wood elaborately carved, but the lath was dark and thick, curved like the horns of a charging beast. "Where did you get this?" he asked.

"Soldier's Peak," said the Mage.

"Some Dryden I have yet to meet is a bowsmith?"

She chuckled. "No," she replied. "We, er –acquired it in the usual way."

"And you didn't sell it?" he asked, surprised. "It's obvious that none of you have used it, though it's kept remarkably well in spite of your neglect."

"Alistair meant to learn," said the Mage. "He seemed to think it was his duty, or something. Taking the baton from his fallen Warden comrades, and all that. See: griffons." She pointed to the design carved into the stock. "He just never found the time to practice."

"Huh, said Loghain with a snort. He slung the crossbow along his back next to the Starfang. "I feel more glorious already," he said.

They piled blankets, food and camping gear onto a sled that the company had used in the past to haul loot from places like the Brecilian Forest and the Deep Roads. The sled had belts of leather nailed into its sides that they used to strap the gear in place in case the trail became uneven. Their plan was to walk that night as far as the campsite in the Korcari Wilds that the Mage, Daveth, and Jory had found while gathering Darkspawn blood for their Joining. They would rest there, and enter Ostagar at dawn. At last, they were ready to leave; the Mage called to Sten and left him in charge with Shale as a witness. Oghren had already started a fire and was burning the dried marsh grass and the giant, frost-stiffened cattails. He offered Loghain a farewell snort of ale, which his fellow berseker accepted.

A moment later Zevran, wrapped in a blanket and carrying a mug of something steaming, slipped through the doorway to Flemeth's upper rooms and onto the balcony. There he leaned over the slatted railing to watch his companions from the vantage of height, unobserved. Below, Sten and Oghren bickered over whose turn it was to cook that evening's meat, if there was any in the swamp for Leliana to shoot. The Bard, her own mug in hand, helped the golem to equip a new set of crystals –purple ones, this time. And side by side, already gone along the road, were the Wardens: Loghain with his slightly hunched and determined gait, like a war hound on the scent; the Mage sleek as bone in her new armor, keeping stride with her Champion and adjusting her shield somewhat awkwardly against her back. In her other hand she held the old Warrior's map; as they reached the curve in the lane that led to the Imperial Highway, she checked, studied the sky and the forest for a moment, and then pointed in the opposite direction, southeast between the trees, towards higher ground. Her dark companion nodded and followed. The last of the day's light glinted off the griffon's wings that adorned the helmet he held under one arm; the flames embedded in his starmetal sword seemed to flare up and hail the setting sun. Alpha bounced around his humans with eager good cheer, urging them on. The three figures dwindled into the distance, heading for a gap in the undergrowth from which a chilled and creeping mist blurred sight and perception like fog on a mirror. Zevran shivered and retreated back inside, shutting the door behind him. The mist absorbed the Wardens and shrouded them from sight. Night would soon be falling over Ostagar.

Translations from the Qunari:

Saarebas – "Dangerous thing".

Bas saarebas – Literally, "thing dangerous thing". Practically, it refers to any Mage who is not of the Qun.

Saar hissra – "Dangerous illusion".

* And in case anyone cares, the type of hawk I have Morrigan transforming into is the Harris hawk, which has a distinctive color scheme I think she'd find appealing.