Chapter 28 - Mahariel's Calling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Urn?" Nimue remarked. "What's all that about?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They're that intelligent?" asked Geoffrey. "I thought the darkspawn were just animals."

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

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

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

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

"Well, that, and you want to see just what I'm capable of, right?"

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

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

"That's all I can ask. Thank you."

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

"Then we link up and all go in together. Ragnar and Morrigan can guide us back to each other."

Sten offered a disapproving grunt. "Such a course may cost us time, Warden, and allow any other breaches to remain undiscovered."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That shouldn't be a problem," affirmed the former Templar. "How long do we have?"

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

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

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

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

"Is what like I imagined?"

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

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

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

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

"Truly?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Maybe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shall we keep going, Sagramor?" prompted Leliana.

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

Ragnar's ears perked up, the hound suddenly focused on the woods around them. "Ragnar? What is it?"

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

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

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

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

That was how he met Merrill.

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

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

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you," said Merrill. "I hope I'm not keeping you from something."

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps she's returning to warn her people," suggested Leliana. "Her clan could very well be nearby."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which is?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So why run away then?"

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

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

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

"Any idea how far ahead she is?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If the space before the cave's mouth had been horrifying, what waited for them inside was the stuff of nightmares. The darkspawn, it seemed, had not been content to simply lurk within the winding tunnels, but remake every inch of them in their foul image. Ghastly symbols, daubed onto the walls in blood or faeces, decorated every bend and stretch of rock, while severed heads stood mounted on poles at even intervals, the bloody pits where eyes once sat observing their passage. It was not a mere cavity hollowed out of the earth either, but an entire interconnected network of caverns, linked by passages carved out by the passage of time and the darkspawn alike. Necessity demanded that Ragnar take point, the hound's nose sensitive enough to pick up Merrill's trail even through the abominable stench the darkspawn had left, while the rest of the little company followed close at his heels, the darkness held in abeyance by the three floating orbs of light Nimue conjured. Grim as death, Sagramor found himself peering into every darkened alcove and jerking his head to face every slight noise, the latter amplified by the tunnels' acoustics until it seemed like darkspawn waited in ambush in every shadow.

Abruptly, the tunnel opened into a vast cavern, clusters of great stalagmites standing proud like the graven idols of pagan gods, while stray beams of light filtered in from where the roots of mighty pines had broken through the ceiling above. Merrill was there, her locator ring burning a steady blue glow, and she barely registered the arrival of the Warden's company, her voice echoing out into the dark before her. "Mahariel, I'm here. Everything will be all right."

From out of the shadows came a bright flash of blue and a woman's voice, tainted with a sickly, phlegm-ridden gurgle. "Merrill, no. You can't see me like this…"

"I'm not abandoning you, ma vhenan," Merrill insisted. "Please, let me help. Come away from this place, before the darkspawn find you."

A shadow detached from the cave wall, creeping hesitatingly towards them, and Sagramor went rigid as the sorcerous light laid her ravaged features bare, blade poised to cut the figure down at a moment's notice. "You can't help me, Merrill," Mahariel whimpered, deaf to the horrified gasps of the party. "Nothing can…"

She had been beautiful once, but the darkspawn infection had taken that from her, just as it had her health and sanity. Across now wasted and sunken features illuminated by the locator ring at her throat, a plague of boils had spread, all but coating the right side of her face and leaving her arms marred by throbbing pustules. Beneath her pallid skin, Sagramor saw her veins had turned black from the corruption they bore, causing great chunks of ashen hair to fall from her scalp and marring her wide eyes with milky-white cataracts. Her close-fitting leather armour was in tatters, the fine Dalish craftmanship soiled beyond repair by both her own blood and that of the darkspawn, and as she advanced, Sagramor could see her right hand repeatedly clench and unclench around the hilt of the longsword at her waist. The ghouls he'd encountered on the road with Duncan had been barely cognizant, reduced to raving, maddened fiends by the Archdemon's influence, and if Mahariel was not at that stage already, she would be soon. "Oh, ma vhenan," Merrill wept, her hopes turning to dust before her very eyes. "Creators, what have they done to you?"

"Please, Merrill, run. You need to get out of here, before they… before they…" Mahariel's warning died with a scream of utter anguish, and she fell to her knees amidst the filth, fingers digging into the sides of her head. "Creators, make it stop! Please!"

"What's happening?" Merrill demanded, stepping forward to assist. Prepared this time, Sagramor snagged her arm before she could slip past. "Let me go, I need to see to her!"

"There's nothing you can do," insisted Sagramor, refusing to loosen his grip. "She's hearing the call of the Archdemon, just as a darkspawn would. And when it asserts control…" He left that obvious outcome unspoken.

"Maker, the poor girl," Leliana murmured, taking care to keep her bow strung and nocked. "Could this befall the rest of us if we're infected?"

"I'm not letting that happen," spat Nimue, fire kindling at the tip of her black walnut staff in sympathy to her outrage. "I don't care what it takes, better I die then turn into one of these things!"

"It wants me down in the deeps to worship and obey and suffer. It wants us all to suffer," murmured the wretch. "I won't do it! I won't be what it wants me to be!" Mahariel's head snapped up, milky-white eyes fixated on the Warden, and Sagramor forced himself to remain steadfast under her twisted scrutiny, the sight of his own blade enough to keep her at a distance. "You've seen it too, haven't you? The shadow in your dreams? Urthemiel. You know what's waiting for us. I can see it in you…"

"What's she talking about, Sagramor?" Nimue snapped, fear sharpening her tongue.

Another helpless groan from Mahariel spared Sagramor the need to answer. "I can feel its anger, Warden, like needles in my brain. It hates your kind more than anything, and it knows you're here now. Please, take Merrill and leave this place before they return."

"I'm not leaving you! We'll go back to the clan and have the Keeper heal you again. We just have to keep trying!" Choking back a sob, Merrill whirled on Sagramor, eyes welling up with desperate tears. "Please, you're a Grey Warden. You must know something that can help her."

"Not when it reaches this stage," Sagramor stated. "The Order knows ways to minimize the risk of becoming infected, but something like this is beyond our capabilities. I doubt even Wynne's magic could help her now. I'm sorry, Merrill."

"But… but…" stammered the Dalish girl. She slumped in his grip, a wave of despair threatening to drag her under, and the hand restraining her from foolish action fell away to offer her own a comforting squeeze. "Oh, Mahariel…"

"End it. End it, please. I can barely hear myself think, the song is so loud!" Mahariel suddenly doubled over, retching black blood onto the cavern floor, and even through her tainted cataracts, Sagramor could see the desperation and anguish, the constant struggle to maintain control over her own will. "Don't let me hurt the people I care about, Warden! Don't leave me like this…"

"Do it," came Geoffrey's urgent hiss, the horror of Mahariel's condition robbing him of his usual affability. "Maker's sake, she's suffered too much already."

"I'll do it," said Leliana, withdrawing a small vial from the pouch at her waist and dumping its contents into her waterskin. Astonished, Sagramor watched as she approached the sobbing ghoul, any protestations about the risk dying at the hard look in her eyes. "I would not have anyone else suffer the burden of such guilt."

"But there has to be a way," Merrill mumbled brokenly. "There has to be a way…"

Sagramor felt it before he saw it, and quicksilver-fast, his belt knife was out, hurtling past Leliana's head to lodge deep into the shriek's right eye, the beast dead in mid-pounce before it hit the ground. Fresh shadows boiled up from out of the nearby tunnels, their presence given away by their echoing howls, and just as suddenly, the question of Mahariel's fate became rather academic.

For they had real monsters to contend with now.

Uttering a curse that would have earned her a caning back in the Circle, Nimue slammed her black staff against the cavern floor, sending the globes of light flying outwards to rip away the shadows. At least a score of darkspawn stood revealed, their numbers swelling as more stormed out of the nearby tunnels, and without thinking, Sagramor charged directly for the nearest knot of enemies, greatsword taking the head of a hurlock with his first strike.

"Get back!" Nimue shouted, bringing up her staff. Fire engulfed the closest darkspawn and reduced them to screaming torches, their heedless flight spreading the flames yet further, and a smile of cruel delight more suited for Morrigan's dark beauty appeared on her face, the fear and revulsion that had curdled within her since the battle at the steading finally offered an outlet in the beasts. More flames raked the mass of darkspawn like the claws of some great beast, reaping a notable cull, and the rest of the party seized the initiative, striking hard before they could recover. "You bastards like that?!"

"Stay focused!" Sagramor urged, carving a fresh breach into the mob. His greatsword was a living thing in his hands, riposting their frenzied blows with a practiced ease and leaving them wide open for its killing edge, while any attempts to encircle and strike him from the flanks ended with the rip of Ragnar's fangs and claws. A hurlock swinging an immense warhammer made for him, its charge halted in its third step by a red-fletched arrow, and at the back of the cavern, Leliana continued sniping, other such priority targets falling to the lethal, measured rhythm of her shots.

In the darkness beyond Nimue's light-globes and the general chaos of battle, the black line of the noose was all but invisible, even to the elves, the first sign of its presence the strangled cry Leliana offered as it looped around her throat, instantly robbing her of breath. The twisted forms of a half-dozen darkspawn dropped from out of the shadows enshrouding the cave's ceiling, yanking her into their midst, vile chuckles sounding as she clawed desperately at the cord. "No!" roared the Warden, the greater fight forgotten, Ragnar instantly following his master.

Howling, the darkspawn pressed forward. Geoffrey's voice boomed, sonorous in the deeps, and the front ranks of the enemy were catapulted backwards, hurled into the cave walls or their vile kin with bone-shattering force. Nimue joined him, flames sweeping over the howling beasts, hot enough to burn the stone black, yet still they came on, their losses forgotten in their haste to rend the intruders apart, the best efforts of the mages like fighting back the ocean tide.

There came the sound of thunder, and lightning exploded at the heart of the pack, the shockwave throwing darkspawn of their feet and scattering the smouldering and blasted pieces of those caught at the epicentre across the cavern. "You're not hurting anyone else!" the Dalish girl proclaimed, the song of her incantation a demanding threnody. The darkspawn who'd ensnared Leliana were repaid in kind, clusters of thick, thorn-laden brambles sprouting into existence beneath their feet to wrap around their limbs and tear them away from their prize, their outraged shrieks at the intrusion silenced for good by the Warden's vengeful sword. A few emphatic gestures sent the brambles racing throughout the cavern like a plague, infesting the ground where the main body of the darkspawn warband stood, stalling their charge and buying time for Nimue and Geoffrey to bring further sorceries to bear.

The hated noose finally gave way and Leliana gasped, frantically taking in air. "Are you all right?" demanded Sagramor, panic colouring his words, desperately peering about her face and neck for any sign the darkspawn infection had taken hold. A flash of motion in the corner of his eye, and Sagramor whirled about, the hurlock's blade stopped dead in mid-air before it could plunge into his spine, as if slamming against an invisible wall. Sweat pouring down his face, Geoffrey shouted a second incantation, and more such barriers closed in about the hapless darkspawn, its limbs resisting the pressure but a moment before it was crushed in on itself into a hands-breadth of space.

Nodding in thanks, Sagramor helped Leliana rise from the cavern's floor, bow restored to her grip. The flow of the battle was shifting towards them, the sorceries of the two elves wreaking devastation upon the darkspawn even as the flow of reinforcements slowed to a trickle. "We can do this," Sagramor insisted to himself, gritting his teeth and hurling himself back into the fray. "We can do this! Stand firm and kill them all!"

And from the deeps, the terrifyingly familiar sound of monstrous footsteps sounded in answer, any more defiant words turning to ash in Sagramor's mouth. Immense horns scraped free from one of the far tunnels with the ghastly screech of bone against rock, and the cavern shook with the heavy crash of their feet, the rest of the party faltering in shock at the gargantuan monstrosities come to join the fray.

Ogres. A pair of them, bearing down on the party in an avalanche of muscled flesh and inhuman rage, lesser darkspawn crushed underfoot or swatted aside. Leliana was the first to recover, and the lead ogre stumbled, clumsy fingers striving to take out the arrow lodged in its left eye. Bolts of fire and spirit energy peppered their thick hides, slowing but not stopping them, and Sagramor cursed the lesser darkspawn that crowded around him, keeping him from preparing to meet the ogres' charge.

For there was one factor to the fight they'd all forgotten about…

The moment the darkspawn were revealed, Mahariel had taken the opportunity to scamper out of the proverbial line of fire, her flight going unnoticed in the ensuing struggle. Panting, the Dalish huntress fled to the relative shelter offered by a great stalagmite, hands clasped against her head, her whimpers going unnoticed in the symphony of clashing steel. "She shouldn't have come…" she whispered to herself, daring to look back towards Merrill, visible through the chaos by the halo of lightning that wreathed her, blasting darkspawn apart. "It wants her now. It wants them all…"

Except for one. Except for the Warden, and Mahariel felt her blood churn at the very thought of him, its anger for the darkspawn slayer so intense her hands moved of their own volition, drawing her veridium longsword free. Milky-white eyes turned towards Sagramor, judging the distance between them, and she shivered uncontrollably, the song so loud blood began pouring from her ears and nostrils, its presence stronger than it ever had been. From her tainted blood, from the very depths of all the hells there ever were, it called to her, the whispers that defined her nightmarish existence coalescing into a single, sanity-shattering demand.

SUBMIT.

Something broke inside Mahariel, and with a feral scream, she charged into the madness, eyes wild. Down came her longsword, not towards Sagramor, but the nearest hurlock, a single wild slash tearing it apart, and Sagramor gasped in shock as she laid into the rest of the pack, their momentary confusion at being attacked by one so infected all the opening she required. "I am the last of the Elvhenan!" she raved, all knowledge of proper swordcraft lost in her frenzy. "And never shall I submit!"

Howling in outrage, the darkspawn moved against this new threat, yet she barely registered the kiss of their blades against her flesh, such was the endless agony of her condition. The first black iron sword bit deep into her side, and Merrill let out a wail of anguish, a half-dozen darkspawn paying the weregild with their lives, lightning blasting them to clouds of ash. Still Mahariel pressed the attack, a whirling dervish of death seeking her own, the voice that sought to command her drowned out by the fury of battle.

The first of the ogres reached the press, the shaft in its eye joined by five more buried deep into its chest, great fist slamming down towards Mahariel. Barely dodging, she counterattacked in a mindless fury, driving her longsword home in its guts, her scream of triumph dying as its other hand closed around her midsection with the sound of snapping ribs. "Take it down!" ordered Sagramor, leading by example as his greatsword struck at the tendons in its right ankle.

Weathering the party's strikes, the ogre bore Mahariel off the ground, her sword tearing free of its midsection. With the last remnants of her strength, the infected huntress thrust the blade forward, and the ogre stumbled backwards, its grip on her forsaken to paw at the length of metal jutting through its windpipe. Dalish girl and darkspawn monster hit the ground hard, but it was the former who rose while the latter thrashed about in its death throes, and she turned to Merrill, hideous features twisted into a smile. "It's going to be all right, ma vhenan. You'll s-"

Blood, black as sin, welled up in her mouth, washing away her words of comfort, and Mahariel looked down at the pair of rusty spearheads jutting out her chest. The pikes holding her dying body upright fell away, and the darkspawn fell upon her from all directions, drowning her beneath a tide of corrupted flesh, her life's blood splattered about them in their fury. Heeding Merrill's despairing screams, more roots exploded from out of the rock to entangle Mahariel's attackers, but the darkspawn were too many and the approach of the second ogre far too pressing for the Warden's party to ignore.

"No more." Somehow, Merrill's small voice made itself heard in the chaos, and Sagramor finished slicing another genlock open in time to see the Dalish mage cast her staff to the floor, hands darting to the little knife at her side. Beneath the floating magelights, fresh steel gleamed in her right hand, and a fear greater than anything the Blight had provoked in him took hold at the sight of the little dagger, only Ragnar's intervention keeping the foe from taking advantage of the otherwise fatal distraction. "I won't let you take any more of my clan. No more!"

Down came the blade, slicing cleanly through pale flesh, and the magic poured from the wound, Nimue and Geoffrey's own sorceries faltering at the sheer power the girl projected. "Andraste…" Leliana whispered in horror, bowstring slackening, and even the darkspawn became transfixed, the more cunning among them trying to close the distance before Merrill could bring her powers to bear.

Too late. With an anguished cry, Merrill throw her hands outwards, droplets of blood suspended in midair. As one, the darkspawn began to scream, a dozen, two dozen, until every last beast in the cavern was united in a chorus of agony, malformed bodies shuddering as if caught in the grip of a palsy. To Sagramor's horrified fascination, they began to swell, like waterskins filled to bursting, flesh straining against cages of skin and bone. The ogre stumbled onto its knees, its now bloated limbs unable to bear its own weight, while the pack that had been savaging Mahariel were torn away from their victim by invisible talons, hurled away to strike the walls with wet, fat pops.

"Everyone, stay close!" Merrill cried, leaping to Mahariel's side. As the last of the party darted over to her, she drove her staff the ground, sending thin walls of stone rising protectively around them just as the anguished screams of the darkspawn reached a crescendo.

It was a mercy, perhaps, that the conjured barriers spared Sagramor the sight of Merrill's blood magic finishing its grisly work upon the darkspawn, but it did not stop him hearing their howls of agony violently cut off as they popped like blisters, the sound of bursting flesh accompanied by repeated wet splashes against their stone shelter. It took half a minute for the last of the darkspawn to die, and when the walls crumbled away, only blood and scraps of bone remained of the foe, every surface painted black with their gore. "Mahariel!" Merrill cried as she knelt over the dying elf, the devastation she'd wrought and the horrified expressions the Warden's party bore mere transient details in her desperation to save her clanmate, bloody hands frantically rummaging through her many pouches and satchels, hoping against hope to find the answer to her survival. "I'm here, just hold on!"

Maleficarum. She's maleficarum.

Fear, inescapable as an ogre's grasp, took hold of the Warden, and before he could stop himself, he was moving behind Merrill, belt knife whispering free of its sheath. Only a few paces separated the two, and its edge had been whetted keen only the night before. A single swift thrust to the nape of the blood mage's neck as she knelt over Mahariel, and any threat she might conceivably pose to his companions would be ended quickly and painlessly, the atrocities that Uldred and the Connor-abomination had wrought never to be repeated by her.

And all it would take was to give into that fear, to literally stab someone in the back who'd fought so hard for their sake and even now wept hopelessly at her inability to save Mahariel. All it would take would be to break the promise he made his mother, to fail that test when it mattered the most and discard all honour. "No," Sagramor murmured, blade lowering of its own accord, the fear replaced by a profound disappointment in himself. No, it was not fair to condemn Merrill for the crimes of others, even other blood mages, and harming someone over what they might do would make him no better than all those who'd persecuted his people in the past. Fear was an enemy like any other, and good men did not bow to it.

No matter how much they wanted to.

"You can't die, ma vhenan, not in this horrid place. Don't leave me alone like this, please!" Sagramor's hand fell on her shoulder in a comforting gesture, and Merrill sobbed, turning to the Warden helplessly. "You have to help her, Warden: a potion, a healing spell, anything!"

"I'm sorry, Merrill," Nimue answered for him, her own misgivings about the blood mage likewise tabled in the name of compassion. "She's beyond even Wynne's power to save now, and Geoffrey and I are nowhere near the healer she is."

"But…"

"Merrill." Mahariel's voice, calm and soothing, halted any further protests from the blood mage, and even as her life's blood drained out of her, a reassuring smile appeared on her ravaged features, the chains of her Blight-induced madness falling away with the approach of death. "It's going to be all right."

"No, it isn't! We were going to set things right for our people, ma vhenan, together! You must live, Mahariel. I can't…" Merrill's throat swelled shut, grief momentarily robbing her of speech. "I can't do this without you."

"Yes, you can. You've always been stronger than you give yourself credit for," Mahariel whispered. "You'll make a better world, I know you will. I just wish I could be there to see all the great things you'll achieve." The ghoul gave a deep, bone-rattling cough, wracking her dying body with pain. "I can't hear the song anymore, Merrill. Would you sing for me? Something nicer…"

Merrill nodded, taking a shuddering breath to steady herself, and softly, she began to sing, the first verses sending a chill up Sagramor's spine at their power.

Hahren na melana sahlin
Emma ir abelas
Souver'inan isala hamin
Vhenan him dor'felas
In uthenera na revas

Without missing a beat, Leliana joined in perfect harmony, enunciating each of the elven words as if born to that tongue. In her final moments, Mahariel donned a contented smile, and Sagramor saw her slip peacefully away, carried off to her final rest by the pair of angelic voices lighting up the dark.

Vir sulahn'nehn
Vir dirthera
Vir samahl la numin
Vir lath sa'vunin

The final note faded in time with Mahariel's last breath, and Merrill wept afresh, hunched over the still form of her clanmate, thin body shuddering in her grief. "You did all you could for her, Merrill," Sagramor consoled her, kneeling at her side. "It's not your fault."

"I should have… I should have…"

"There was nothing more to be done. She was in pain, Merrill, but now she's free of it. The darkspawn can't hurt her anymore."

Forcing the tears away, Merrill rose to her feet, her magic singing back to life. Across the cavern, shattered hunks of stone levitated upwards, quickly assembling into a cairn over Mahariel's body, and with a sharp word of power, the individual rocks fused together into a smooth, uniform cocoon of hardened stone, impenetrable to darkspawn claws and blades. "Falon'Din watch over your rest, ma vhenan. May the Trickster never find you in the Beyond," Merrill intoned. "Do any darkspawn remain, Warden?"

The echo of distant howls reverberating down the length of a nearby tunnel gave them their answer, sending lightning flaring vengefully from the tip of the Dalish mage's staff. "Then let us finish this, once and for all!"

There was no need for a Warden's senses to tell them where the darkspawn had come from, the monstrous howls echoing throughout the blood-splattered tunnels doing an ample job of guiding them onwards. For all their savagery, the darkspawn had been cunning enough to fall back and regroup rather than throwing themselves at the Warden's company piecemeal, and in the few minutes it had taken them to make their way to the breach point, at least two dozen of the beasts had rallied, a howling mass eager for bloodshed that greeted the first glimpse of the interlopers at the tunnel's mouth with a volley of crossbow bolts.

The cavern floor suddenly convulsed, bucking and writhing like a maddened steed trying to dislodge its rider, hurling darkspawn off their feet and reducing the storm of missiles to the merest trickle. Volcanic heat bubbled up from the mouth of the tunnel, washing over the foremost darkspawn in a tide of flame, and in its wake came Sagramor, bursting through the clouds of ash like some avenging angel, greatsword singing its deathsong as it bit deep into the ranks of the foe. Darkspawn archers began falling, Leliana's red-fletched arrows finding their mark, their attempts at reprisal stopped dead in their tracks by Ragnar's claws and whatever spells Geoffrey's waning strength could muster. More darkspawn poured up through the breach, and the Warden cursed, feeling the engagement start to turn in the enemy's favour. "Kill them all!" he roared, slashing the nearest genlock open and booting the dying beast back into the mob.

Then, with the sound of bare feet padding upon stone, the pendulum of war swung back to those who dwelt above.

Steady and certain as death, Merrill made her way towards the raging melee, neither her stride nor the passionate rhythm of her incantations faltering for an instant despite the tears streaming down her beautiful features. Sagramor's schooling in the abilities of the Templars had barely begun, relatively speaking, yet there was no denying the power radiating from the Dalish girl, beautiful and terrible in equal measure, like the heavy stillness before a great summer storm. A single quick slash along her right palm, and the storm broke, the magic surging forth with a strength he doubted even Wynne could match. It was as if the earth itself had finally awoken to the vile creatures infesting it, its disgust made manifest in Merrill's sorcery so that the very ground on which they fought turned against the beasts, their strength and fury rendered meaningless. From above, the roots of great trees heeded Merrill's furious call, growing to unnatural size and punching through solid stone to entangle the darkspawn, seizing swordarms in mid-swing and squeezing tight about their necks with the brittle crack of snapping vertebrae. From below, the skin of the cavern floor suddenly split to reveal a series of wide stone maws, the shrieks of the darkspawn falling into them lost beneath the rumble of great granite molars masticating flesh and steel and bone. At the rear of the darkspawn mob, genlocks burst into clouds of gore, obliterated on the raw edge of her grief, while those at the front seeking her blood fell prey to the great arcs of lightning that lashed the air about her like taskmaster's whips, hurtled away as scraps of scorched bone and charred meat.

Witchfire slammed into Merrill's arcane shield, driving her back across the cavern, and Sagramor saw the emissary rise out from amongst the press, the collection of Chantry amulets brandished as trophies from the tip of its staff proof it was responsible for plaguing the Aeonar Templars at the farmstead and beyond. Leliana's aim twitched, sending a bodkin-tipped arrow towards its face, only for a single gesture from the darkspawn mage to dissolve the heavy oaken shaft in midflight. A series of throaty howls rallied the surviving darkspawn, and Sagramor cursed as he and Ragnar were forced onto the defensive. "Don't let them isolate you! Stick together and cut them down!"

The emissary's head snapped towards him, lipless mouth pulling back to expose rows of jagged fangs, and Sagramor leapt aside, witchfire licking at the edges of his cloak. Darkspawn fell upon him, blades scoring his breastplate, their screams of triumph lasting for but an instant before Geoffrey's force magic plucked the beasts from the ground and dashed them against the roof of the cave with enough force to baptise Sagramor beneath a rain of gore.

Thunder boomed once more, deafening in the tight confines of the cavern, and at the heart of the storm, Merrill and the emissary clashed, stray bolts of lightning and spirit energy reflecting off their arcane shields and laying waste to the surrounding darkspawn. For all her incredible power, the emissary was managing to hold her at bay, its remaining minions heedlessly charging against the Warden's party to keep them from intervening, their lives thrown away to buy it time.

Time enough for the beast to kill her.

Through the chaos of the melee, Sagramor glimpsed Merrill tremble, arms wavering with the strain of holding the emissary at bay, and the gallantry Morrigan had so often mocked spurred him forward, cutting down the darkspawn with renewed fury. Ahead, the emissary pressed its advantage, a fresh sorcerous blast forcing Merrill to her knees, and in his mind's eye, he saw her claimed by the same contagion that had warped Mahariel, the mere thought more than he could stand. On instinct, his right arm rose, reaching out for the emissary, and in his panic, he failed to register the power making itself known within. "No!"

Light, the un-magic of the Templars, exploded outwards, catching the emissary unawares and hurling it back against the wall of the cavern, shrieking in agony. Gasping, Sagramor fell to his knees, utterly drained, greatsword reduced to a walking stick in the effort to keep his body upright, and only Ragnar's fangs and the skillfully wielded Green Blade kept the darkspawn from exploiting that weakness. Beyond, the emissary struggled to regain its own footing, staff torn from its grasp by Sagramor's attack, its magic reduced to impotent sputterings of witchfire at its fingertips. Blank white eyes turned to the source of its weakness, and with a savage howl, it leapt upwards, claws raised to rend the Warden limb from limb.

The first tree root descended with a viper's swiftness, snagging about the creature's right arm and bringing its charge to a violent halt. Obedient to the strident call of Merrill's sorcery, dozens more fell upon the emissary. Howling, it brought its remaining magics to bear, roots bursting into flame, entropic energies crumbling others into dust, yet for each the emissary destroyed, three more emerged to take its place, seizing its limbs and bearing it above the floor of the cave. Nimue sent another wave of fire forth, cutting off any attempts by the lesser darkspawn to come to its aid, and above the crackle of burning flesh, Sagramor heard Merrill speak, every syllable made unto steel.

"You will never threaten my people again."

Merrill's fists clenched, and the emissary gave a final scream as the roots pulled savagely at its limbs, ripping it asunder in a burst of fetid gore. Momentarily taken aback by the loss of their leader, the rest of the darkspawn warband was quickly dealt with, Nimue's Circle-trained sorceries and Merrill's blood magic scouring them into oblivion, and no sooner had the last of the beasts fallen did the former whirl upon Sagramor, staff levelled against him in condemnation. "You're a bloody Templar? Maker's breath, having Alistair around is bad enough, but-"

"I've only just started learning their ways, and only because we've been encountering demons far too often for comfort," Sagramor protested between laborious breaths, sweat pouring down his forehead. It felt like he'd just run up the side of a mountain in full plate, and inwardly, the elf marvelled at how Alistair could employ his Templar powers and remain standing, much less remain capable of fighting. I really do have a lot to learn, he told himself, accepting Leliana's helping hand. "I'd never use such powers to hurt you, Nimue, I swear it."

The apostate refused to be mollified, her suspicions whetted keen from her time in the Aeonar. "You should never have damn well taken them up in the first place! If I had known-"

"You really believe that if I bought into the way the Templars sees things, I would have given you the choice to begin with? That I'd even consider trusting you?" Sagramor demanded, her mouth tightening in answer. Sharply, he gestured towards Merrill, the Dalish girl engrossed in applying a sharp-smelling balm to her self-inflicted wounds. "Or her?"

"Could we save the debate on the ethics of the Templar Order until after we've left the festering pit of horror? Please?" Geoffrey interjected, holding his ground at Nimue's withering stare. "I mean, far be it from me to insist on what your priorities should be, but we still got a great bloody passage to the Deep Roads here. Maybe that takes precedence?"

"Let's see what we're dealing with," acknowledged Sagramor. "Could we get some more light, Nimue?"

For a moment, he wasn't certain Nimue would comply, so palpable was the anger that lingered around her, but at last she conceded, fresh globes of magelight emerging to throw the breach into stark relief. It was far larger than he'd anticipated, a great aperture hacked out of solid rock wide enough for five darkspawn to walk abreast, and cautiously, Sagramor stepped into its mouth, blade raised. A word of power from Nimue sent one of the magelights racing down the slope of the tunnel, deeper and deeper into the earth, exposing bracings of earth and timber at roughly even intervals, and at the very edge of his vision, Sagramor caught the suggestion of vast carved pillars down in the furthest reaches before the light faded to nothing. "It really does reach the Deep Roads," Leliana marvelled, moving to the Warden's side.

"Yes, and it looks like the darkspawn built this tunnel to last, too. Maker knows how many troops they planned on bringing through here," said Sagramor, pausing to consider the matter. "Nimue? Geoffrey? Any thoughts on how best to take it down?"

"I can do it," Merrill stated, drawing every eye towards her. "I have strength enough, I think."

With her blood magic. The unspoken assertion hung rank in the air, and it was only sheer force of will that kept Sagramor from visibly squirming at the notion, the reminder of what Merrill had involved herself in an uncomfortable one. Benefitting from blood magic that she decides to employ without our input is one thing, but actively encouraging her to use it?

It was a particularly sticky moral quandary, and one he did not immediately have an answer for, so Sagramor was grateful for more reason than one when Nimue approached, clasping hands with the Dalish girl. "There's no need for you to do this alone, Merrill. Tell me, have you ever cast a spell in unison with another mage before?"

"Once or twice, but only with the Keeper. I've never even met a Circle-trained mage before today."

"That's all right, we'll manage. Now…"

Gingerly, Nimue took Merrill aside, only the barest fragments of their hushed conference reaching Sagramor's ears, and after a moment, he gave up trying to follow the interplay of arcane phrases. Dimly, the pain of the small wounds he'd suffered over the course of the fighting made themselves known, but he stoically ignored them, fixing his attentions towards the tunnel, Warden senses reaching out for any sign of the foe and finding nothing. But for how much longer?

"Stand clear, everyone!" Nimue called out. "You too, Geoffrey; you're worn down enough as it is."

"You sure about this?" asked Geoffrey. "I know a little bit of Primal magic, enough to be of use, at any rate."

"It's all right, us girls have got this. Right, Merrill?" The Dalish girl nodded in answer, the first motes of light gathering at their fingertips. "Now, just like I said…"

Softly, the elven mages began to chant, Sagramor's Templar abilities detecting the flare of sorcery almost immediately, and across the walls and ceiling, stone began to flow like water, funneling into the mouth of the breach. Sagramor caught a glimpse of the tunnel's walls swelling closed, the darkspawn mineworks giving way with the snap of timbers, cutting off any glimpse of the Deep Roads beneath a shower of falling rocks. The incantation took on a new urgency, and a tidal wave of liquid stone gushed through the length of the tunnel, filling up every last inch of space and welling up through the breach. A few moments spent magically sculpting the flow before it set hard as Tevinter concrete, and the breach was sealed completely, their work so thorough nothing but smooth granite remained where it once stood.

The magic faded, and Merrill gave a small sigh, legs buckling out from under her as the full force of her exertions finally caught up with her, only Leliana's hasty intervention keeping her upright. "I'm… I'm fine," the Dalish girl murmured, wide eyes half-lidded in exhaustion.

"You did good, Merrill," Sagramor exclaimed, receiving a grateful smile in response. "Nimue? You all right?"

"Just need to catch my breath, that's all," Nimue assured him, wiping sweat from her brow with a shaking hand." Give me a minute, and I'll weaken the ceiling of this cave when we go. Even if the darkspawn manage to hack out a new tunnel here, an extra few hundred tons of rock blocking their way might be enough to deter them. That is, if it meets with your approval, Sagramor."

"Whatever you think is best," Sagramor replied, forcing himself to remain civil at her snide tone. Ahead, Leliana was gently guiding Merrill out of the cave, her own sense of compassion likewise winning out over fear, and Sagramor resolved to follow that example. My fear nearly cost us victory today, not to mention Merrill's life. I can't fall prey to such weakness again, not with so much at stake…

A/N: Good Lord, has it really been over half a year since I updated this story? :(

In any event, I really hope you enjoy it despite the (quite frankly) shameful delay, as for all my many problems in putting it to paper, it's an installment I've been looking forward to posting for quite some time. Merrill is one of my favourite companions in the entire Dragon Age franchise, and as with the Hawke team-up, the creative possibilities offered by having her and Sagramor work together were simply too good to pass up, especially since she was present in Origins to begin with. How that plays out with her own character arc and the Warden's efforts to enlist the Dalish will be explored over the next chapter or so.

I also wanted a chance to show off more of Merrill as a powerful mage, a facet of her character that frequently gets overlooked. Too often, characterizations of Merrill boil down to one of two extremes: she's either a sweet cinnamon roll (accurate but limited), or an arrogant fool who blunders about without the slightest hint as to what she's doing (doesn't really hold up, and too many of the people making this argument seem to have no issue with Solas actively trying to destroy the world). Her strength of will, her determination to see things made better for her people, and her considerable magical abilities: these are often forgotten about, so I wanted to give her a chance to shine in that regard. She's a sweet cinnamon roll... with a will of steel and the ability to turn a small army into a fine pink mist :)

Finally, I wanted to bring Leliana's performance of "In Uthenera" into a better context; as lovely as the song is, it comes across as a bit random in-game, so using it to comfort Mahariel's final moments seemed to fit a lot better.

Hope you enjoyed this installment, and thank you all for your continued support and patience. Going into the new year, I've resolved to be more productive when it comes to my writing and try not to let these writer's blocks get me down. Just have to keep moving forward. Thank you for everything, and have a wonderful holiday season!