The Grey Path - Chapter Fourteen, Part One

Title: The Grey Path
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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Chapter Fourteen: Far Horizons - Part One

For a moment, Bodahn Feddic refused to acknowledge what he was seeing, his mind rebelling against the sight. He was only a recent arrival to the surface, and like many dwarves before him, had some problems adjusting to the world beyond the stone of Orzammar, so he briefly dismissed the sight as the product of vertigo or heatstroke or the agoraphobia that came from living beneath the seemingly endless blue sky.

But it was not a mirage, or an illusion, or the fevered imaginings of a dwarf losing his stone-sense. It really was a pack of darkspawn, not pounding at the gates of Orzammar like they always were, but here on the surface, now, bearing down on their defenseless wagon. “Get back, Sandal! Don’t let them touch you!” Bodahn cried, hustling his son behind him. There were at least ten of the monsters bearing down on them, and the merchant raised a stout quarterstaff in a futile gesture of defiance, hands trembling like wind-blown leaves. The Imperial Highway offered them little cover, and hiding beneath their wagon would be futile; the darkspawn would tear it apart in moments. Behind him, the merchant could hear his son rummaging through their belongings, probably looking for one of his enchantments, but he doubted even that would save them. Was this some punishment from the Ancestors for coming to the surface and setting aside caste and clan? If it was, Bodahn merely prayed that Sandal would be spared for his choices, and prepared to defend his son to the last. “Run, boy! Get out of here!”

And then the lead hurlock turned eastwards, just in time to catch an arrow to the face. Thunder boomed from the cloudless sky, drowning out the monster’s howls, and Bodahn stumbled backwards as the lightning bolt fried the darkspawn and hurled its corpse away in the same moment. The remaining darkspawn shrieked at the affront, the dwarves forgotten, as a new party charged towards them. Awestruck, Bodahn could only watch as they attacked the darkspawn without hesitation, the young elf at their head cutting through two of the genlocks at once. At his command, a massive warhound threw himself between the dwarves and their attackers, shielding them even as a giant figure wielding a greatsword began scything the beasts down. The newcomers were outnumbered, yet to the merchant’s astonishment, they were winning, skillfully dispatching the enemy without any losses of their own.

“Enchantment?” came Sandal’s small voice, the dwarven boy skittishly poking his head out from beneath the wagon’s canvas coverings, hands pressed tightly over his ears to ward against the clamour of the fighting.

“It’s alright, my boy,” Bodahn reassured him, a relieved smile coming to his face. “It seems our luck is finally turning…”

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With a grunt of effort, Sagramor wrenched his sword free of the hurlock’s skull, eyes downcast as he wiped the tainted blood from the steel. The darkspawn were moving quickly, much more quickly than he had hoped, and if scouting bands like these were already as far north as Lothering, then the main horde’s arrival was only a matter of time. The village’s death was closer than it had ever been.

Sheathing his blade, the Warden thrust aside his melancholy. They had done good work today; saving innocents and killing darkspawn was nothing to scoff at, and to his utter relief, they had brought down the entire warband without suffering any significant injuries. Moreover, it had been a good test of the newcomers’ commitment; Sten’s willingness to fight the darkspawn was expected, but Sagramor was pleasantly surprised at how fearless Leliana had been. I should not be so quick to question her courage, he rebuked himself. He was still getting used to the notion of a Chantry Sister fighting, but that did not give him the right to belittle her skills or her commitment, whether he meant to or not. “Alistair, any sign of more?”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” the other Warden replied, staring southwards impassively. The wretched, crawling sensation along his flesh the elf associated with the presence of the darkspawn was absent now, but Alistair’s ability to sense the monsters was more developed and effective than his own. “We should be safe for now.”

“Best not to linger,” advised Morrigan. “’Twould be unfortunate if we were to fail our mission because we tarried and allowed the darkspawn to catch up to us.”

“Indeed. Are you two alright?” Sagramor asked, turning to the dwarf.

“We are now, ser, thank to your mighty timely arrival,” the merchant replied, coaxing his son from out of the wagon. Brown eyes squinted against the sun’s harsh rays as he looked over the aftermath of the fighting, and a callused hand stroked his blonde beard fretfully. “Stone preserve me, but you dealt with them right quick!”

“It’s merely duty, nothing more,” Sagramor answered humbly. “We’re just glad we managed to save you in time.”

“Well, we’re much obliged. Name’s Bodahn Feddic, merchant and entrepreneur. This here’s my son Sandal. Say hello, my boy.”

“Hello,” the dwarven boy intoned dully, great moon-calf eyes fixed on the Warden and company. Ragnar approached cautiously, sniffing away, and Sandal beamed in delight. “Fuzzy doggy want pets?”

Sagramor smiled as Ragnar rolled onto his back, the hound crooning as the boy rubbed his belly. “You were fortunate we came along when we did. The area around Lothering isn’t safe of late.”

“Indeed. Roads are mighty dangerous these days, but I never expected to see darkspawn on the surface,” expressed Bodahn, examining the curious gathering. “Mind if I ask what brings you out here? Perhaps we’re going the same way.”

“Wherever our mission takes us, really,” said the elf. “Any place the darkspawn threaten may very well be our destination.”

“You mean… you’re Grey Wardens, then?” Bodahn asked in shock, seeing the elf tense up. “Believe me, ser, I have no quarrel with your Order. Saw one or two of them during my time in Orzammar myself. Besides, you saved my boy, and for that, I’m grateful. Probably a bit too much excitement for us, though. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not keen on courting that kind of danger.”

“Fair enough, master dwarf. In that case, you should stay away from Lothering, it’s right in the path of the darkspawn horde.”

“A true horde, you say?” asked Bodahn, the colour draining from his ruddy face. “It can’t be… it’s not actually a Blight, is it?”

“Believe it,” Sten muttered darkly.

“You may wish to head north, master trader. You should be safer there,” suggested Leliana.

“Perhaps not for much longer, milady,” informed the dwarf. “There are rumours of rebellion afoot against Teryn Loghain, and with the recent trouble in Highever, the Coastlands aren’t exactly secure either. Still, I thank you for your counsel, and your aid. Come on, Sandal, time to hit the road again!”

“Bye, doggy!” Sandal remarked, giving the warhound a final fond pat before helping his father with the wagon. With a flick of the reins, the dwarves hurried away, skillfully manoeuvring the wagon to avoid contacting the fallen darkspawn. Sagramor watched them go for a time, the iron-rimmed wheels rumbling on the Highway stones, before leading his company away. Morrigan was right; to linger was to court unnecessary danger, and there was no more they could do here…

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27th of Solace, 9:30 Dragon.

Among my people, it is the responsibility of the Alienage elder to preserve the stories of our kin, and carry our history to guide future generations. I am no hahren, but I do know that too often, the accomplishments of my people are belittled, censored or simply forgotten. The coming days will be instrumental for Ferelden, as it faces a crisis unlike anything it’s known since the Orlesian invasion, and I find myself in the middle of it all, perhaps even a critical actor in the drama to come. Perhaps it is merely vanity masquerading as a scholar’s impulse, but such events should not be forgotten, and my people’s role in them never buried. Hence, this ongoing account.

We have set upon the western road towards Redcliffe today; Alistair has convinced me that seeking the aid of Arl Eamon would be a logical first step. The irony of the situation does not escape me; between Vaughan’s cruelty, Loghain’s betrayal and the general bigotry of their peers, asking a nobleman for help would not have been my first choice, but Alistair, for whatever reason, believes in this Eamon enough to turn to him, and for the moment, I am persuaded. The story about the Arl’s ill-health seems to weigh heavily upon him, and I pray his judgement is not compromised by it.

The rest of the party seem to be in decent spirits, and the newcomers have accepted my commands readily enough, both in and out of combat. Still, I must make the effort to get to know them better; I have no right to demand their absolute obedience. Practical reasons aside,  I find myself curious about them, Leliana in particular. Did the Maker truly speak to her? If so, I hope it proves to be a good omen.

We should reach Redcliffe in the next few days. Maker grant we find the help we need there.

“How’s the stew coming along, Sagramor?” Alistair interrupted, drawing the elf back to his task. “Smells great from over here.”

“Should be just about ready,” answered Sagramor, stuffing the journal into his pack and turning his attention back towards their supper. The light of the cooking fire burned comfortingly within the confines of the woodland grove where they had made camp for the evening, the smoke burning cleanly out into the cloudless sky. Dipping his ladle into the bubbling stew, Sagramor portioned out some to taste, smacking his lips in appreciation. “Yeah, I think we’re good.”

“Alright!” said Alistair, approaching the pot, bowl in hand. “Sorry, but digging the latrines is hungry work.”

“How about we switch jobs next time? Being regulated to latrine duty forever would be a fate worse than death for anyone.”

Alistair gave a small chuckle. “Sagramor, when it comes to my cooking, latrines are a necessity.” Receiving a generous portion from the elf, Alistair immediately tucked in. “Mmm… is this rabbit?”

“Courtesy of Leliana and Ragnar,” Sagramor explained, handing a bowl to the red-haired archer. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“Your hound did most of the work, to be honest,” Leliana replied humbly, gesturing over to the nearby stream where Ragnar tore happily into another rabbit, bloodstained jaws withdrawing from his meal at mention of his name. “It has been quite a long time since I did any hunting.”

“Probably not much call for in the cloister, I’m guessing,” said Alistair. “Still, Sagramor’s right. Fresh rations are always appreciated.”

Morrigan came next, taking her portion of the stew and withdrawing back to her lean-to without a word. The apostate seemed uncomfortable bivouacking in close-quarters with the rest of the party, and placed her own bedroll at the opposite end of the glade, far enough to give her some privacy but close enough to be on-hand in the event of an attack. Sagramor didn’t begrudge her this; going from the solitude of the Wilds to having a slew of constant companions she barely knew would be a shock, and there was nothing to be gained by dragging her out of her shell.

Alistair, of course, wasn’t even vaguely worried by Morrigan’s unsociable nature, digging into his stew. “This is some good stuff here. Mind if I have seconds?”

“Leave some for Sten, in case he’s feeling hungry too,” suggested Sagramor, filling up yet another bowl, this time for the Qunari warrior. “Will you take second watch?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Might as well take him some now, before it goes cold,” remarked Sagramor, leaving his own food untouched. Leadership brought with it the responsibility to look out for the welfare of those he commanded; only when he was certain the others had eaten would he take his supper. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“May I join you?” asked Leliana, drawing some stares from the two Wardens.

“I don’t think Sten’s really in the mood for… a theological discussion,” cautioned Alistair.

“Oh, I’m well aware of that. But, as a company, don’t we have an obligation to ensure each other’s welfare? I just want to make sure he’s alright.”

Smiling, Sagramor accepted her request with a nod, heart quickening at the thought. Part of him was ashamed; only last night, he and Hawke had been in each other’s arms, and already, he found his interests turning to a different woman. True, they were not lovers, and they owed each other nothing in that regard, but the elf had always hoped he would be less flighty than that when it came to matters of the heart. Perhaps it was because he knew so little about Leliana. The girl’s vision, her fighting skills, the way she spoke about the Maker, she was unlike any Chantry Sister Sagramor had ever met, and his natural curiosity could not be restrained. “I’d be happy to have you join me, Leliana. Alistair, keep an eye on things over here. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Take your time. We’ll be alright.”

Watching the ground so they didn’t trip and spill the bowls of stew, Sagramor and Leliana made their way through the trees towards Sten’s picket to the north. As before, the Qunari warrior had insisted on taking first watch, taking up his post some distance from their camp so as to intercept any threats before they came within striking distance. “Tell me, Leliana,” Sagramor asked casually. “What was someone like you doing stuck inside the Lothering cloister?”

The young woman halted, gaze fixed on the elf. “What is meant by ‘someone like me’?” she inquired, a note of steel entering her voice.

Caught flat-footed by the swiftness of her verbal riposte, Sagramor blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “You know, beautiful, charming women like yourself,” he declared, wincing at how mawkish and condescending the words sounded. He half-expected her to feel slighted by his crude remark, especially coming from an elf, and braced himself for her offended scorn.

To his astonished relief, the red-haired woman merely laughed, blushing in delight. “And there were no beautiful, charming women in the cloister, you think? You would be wrong. There were many lovely young initiates in the Lothering chantry, all of them chaste and virtuous,” she remarked wistfully, a mischievous gleam coming to her eye. “It added to their mystique. Because then they were forbidden, and forbidden fruit is all the sweeter, no?”

“I doubt any of them were as lovely as you,” said Sagramor, daring to test his luck once more.

“Flatterer,” Leliana teased. Far from being offended, the human seemed to appreciate the elf’s flirtations. “In any event, the Chantry became a home for me, and I came to enjoy the serenity I found there. Away from the fuss and the flurry of the cities, I found peace, and in that stillness, I could hear the Maker.”

“And that when was you had your vision.”

“Yes.” Leliana examined him curiously. “You don’t really believe me when I say the Maker spoke to me, do you?”

“I don’t know enough to decide,” the elf remarked honestly. “I know the Chantry says the Maker will only return when the Chant has spread to every corner of the earth, but I’m not really sure I believe that either. Still, I’d like to hear more about it, if that’s alright with you.”

Leliana hesitated momentarily, seeking the rights words needed to convince him, and Sagramor waited patiently, genuinely curious, until at last, the archer spoke. “I had a dream one night, a powerful one. In it, there was this great darkness, so dense and hateful that nothing could ever escape it, and it was emitting this terrible, ungodly noise, a song of some kind that tore at the very soul. I watched from a peak as the darkness spread, consuming everything, even the sky itself, and when it had devoured the last light of the sun, I… I fell, and the darkness drew me in.”

Sagramor felt a chill run down his spine at mention of the song, and he tightened his cloak about him. “Your vision was of the Blight?”

“I suppose it was. That is what the darkness is, no? But when I woke, I went to the chantry gardens as I always did first thing in the morning, and I found that the old rosebush in the corner had flowered.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t understand the significance,” Sagramor muttered, confused. “How does a rosebush fit into this?”

“You see, that rosebush was dead, and everyone knew it. It was grey and twisted and gnarled, the ugliest thing you ever saw. But on that day, a single, perfect, beautiful rose had sprouted from it. It was as though the Maker stretched out His hand to say, ‘Even in the midst of darkness, there is hope and beauty. Have faith.’”

“It’s a beautiful sentiment, but do you actually think the Maker would be so concerned for a world He apparently abandoned?”

“He hasn’t abandoned us, Grey Warden,” Leliana chided him gently. “He’s still here. I hear Him in the wind and the waves, I feel Him in the sunlight, and I know He loves us all. There are so many good things in the Maker’s world, Grey Warden, all gifts of His love. How can I sit by while the Blight devours everything?”

“I don’t suppose I could either,” admitted the elf.

“Of course you couldn’t. You’re a Grey Warden, and protecting the world from the darkspawn is what you do. And the Maker loves you all the more for it.”

Sagramor smiled, intrigued by the girl’s words. “I have to say, Leliana, your beliefs are very interesting. Different from Chantry orthodoxy, certainly, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps, when we have some time, we could discuss them further?”

“I’d be honoured. And what about you? Do you believe in the Maker and Andraste, Warden?” she asked innocently.

“Well, I’m observant, but it’d be a stretch to call myself devout. If I had to choose between the dictates of the Chantry and that of my own conscience, I’d probably choose the latter.”

“I feel much the same. I know what I believe is different than what the Chantry preaches, but I must act according to my heart, not by what others tell me is the right thing to do.”

“We’re very much alike in that regard,” said the elf, pleased at the notion. “But what did you do before you came to the Chantry? They don’t exactly teach lay sisters to fight, I know that much.”

“Of course not. Before I was affirmed in the Chantry, I was a travelling minstrel in Orlais. Tales and songs were my life, and I performed in the taverns and marketplaces of Val Royeaux for applause and coin. After a time, though, I wished to consider the course of my life, and came to the Chantry for safe harbour while I contemplated what path the Maker meant for me to travel. As for my skill in battle? Well… Val Royeaux is not always the safest of cities, and a young, unmarried woman needs to be able to protect herself, yes?”

“Fair enough,” said Sagramor, catching sight of Sten through the trees. He’d heard rumours that the minstrels of Orlais doubled as spies for the Imperial nobility, but such tales seemed more the subject of drunken gossip in Ferelden’s taverns than anything rooted in fact, no more valid than the racist fictions surrounding his own people. Certainly, no account of the Empire from the lips of its formerly-annexed subjects could be deemed unbiased, and the elf had no desire to offend Leliana by spreading such xenophobic slander. “Still, I have to pity the hapless cutpurse who assumed you’d be an easy mark. Doubt anyone could get the upper hand on you.”

“Yes… I’ve had my fair share of scrapes in the past,” Leliana said tersely, apparently uncomfortable with that particular line of discussion. “Shall we bring Sten his food now?”

Must’ve touched a nerve there, you idiot, Sagramor cursed himself. “Would you be willing to share your stories with me sometime, Leliana?” he asked, trying to make up for his blunder by lightening the mood. “There’s nothing I love better than a good tale.”

“Of course. I love stories far too much to keep them to myself,” came the redhead’s earnest reply. “And what of your people? Do they share stories of elven heroes past?”

“There are fewer of those than you might think, regrettably,” lamented Sagramor. “So much of our history has been lost or destroyed over the centuries, and some days, it’s hard to find champions of my folk worth singing about.”

Leliana gave a bright smile. “Well, there’s you, isn’t there?” she reminded him. Blushing, Sagramor watched as she went on ahead, moving so stealthily over the fallen leaves and dead branches that she didn’t make a sound. Chuckling, the elf followed, failing to suppress the surge of pride instilled by her words. It was gratifying to have the respect of the human woman, and as he observed her lithe figure, he indulged himself by pretending he might one day have more.

Sten had taken up his watch amidst an old rock formation beside the trail that led into the grove, and within his impromptu shelter, so motionless was the Qunari that he might as well have been a statue carved from the ancient stones around him. “Brought you some supper, Sten,” Sagramor greeted him, offering up the stew.

The Qunari’s eyes remained fixed, staring deep into the night. “Why have we stopped, Warden?” he asked, ignoring the proffered bowl.

“What do you mean?” asked the elf.

“There are darkspawn threatening these lands. Is this delay needful?”

“I doubt we would be able to find them in the dead of night,” Leliana reminded him. “Besides, don’t you need some time to rest?”

“Leliana’s right,” added Sagramor. “You were stuck in the felon’s cage for two weeks, was it?”

“Actually, it was closer to three,” amended the Qunari, finally taking his eyes off the horizon to look at them.

“Three weeks, then. And from what Leliana’s told me, you had very little food in that time. Pencil in the fight against the bandits, and it’s a wonder you haven’t collapsed from exhaustion.”

“Do you believe me so weak, Warden?” Sten growled in reply.

“Not at all,” Sagramor answered, unperturbed. “But even the best soldiers can’t function without food and rest, and I have to duty to look out for those under my command.”

“You are… concerned,” said Sten, almost disbelieving. “No need. I am fit enough to fight.”

“As you wish. You’d know your limits better than I would. Still, if you don’t mind, there are some questions I’d like to ask you.”

“For what purpose?”

“We’ll be fighting alongside each other, Sten,” Sagramor elaborated, undeterred by the Qunari’s unsociable demeanour. “I like to get a better sense of who my comrades are before the swords come out.”

“What is there to know?” Sten asked, at last accepting his supper. “I am a simple creature. I like swords, I follow orders. What is there to be puzzled by?”

“For starters, what were you doing inside that cage in Lothering?”

“Standing, as you observed.”

The elf couldn’t help but give a small chuckle. “Very funny.”

For a moment, Sagramor could have sworn the Qunari cracked a brief smile. “Thank you,” Sten replied, a touch of amusement in his voice. “Is it the nature of the Grey Wardens to ask so many questions?”

“Why not? Against a foe as terrible as the darkspawn, we must use every weapon we have, including our minds.”

“Your reasoning is almost Qunari,” muttered Sten, examining the Warden with something akin to respect. “I had not thought the bas capable of such wisdom.”

“Do the Qunari place great stock in knowledge then?” asked Leliana. “All the stories speak as if you were a hurricane or an earthquake rather than people.”

Sten gave a contemptuous grunt. “Qunari are most dangerous because we are thinking men and not an unthinking force. If it were otherwise, I would not be here.”

“A scouting mission?” posed Sagramor, inwardly running through the possibilities. “For what purpose?”

“To answer a question.”

“And what question would that be?” asked the elf, a note of impatience seeping in.

“The Arishok asked, ‘What is the Blight?’ It is by his curiosity that I am here now. My people know little about the darkspawn, save they are not of the Qun, nor capable of ever accepting it. It was the Arishok’s wish that we learn of this foe in preparation for the day they threaten our lands.”

“Makes sense,” Sagramor admitted. The Qunari arrived in Thedas from across the sea in the decades following the Fourth Blight, and thus had been spared the horrors of fighting the darkspawn. Sten was clearly cannier than he first appeared; no one would rely on a simple, inflexible soldier for a sensitive fact-finding mission to a foreign and hostile land. “This Arishok, he is your king?”

“I don’t actually think the Qunari have kings, or nobles in general,” Leliana interjected. “It is a military rank, yes?”

“You are correct,” answered Sten. “The Arishok is warmaster of my people, he who commands the antaam, the body of the Qun.”

A troubling notion occurred to Sagramor. “This mission of yours… will it interfere with your oath to serve our cause? I’d imagine you’d have to report back to your people at some point.”

“No. I cannot,” was the Qunari’s blunt reply.

“Because you haven’t found the answer yet?”

“Because I cannot go back,” Sten remarked coldly, turning away from the Warden to resume his watch. “Is your curiosity satisfied?”

He’s an outcast? Sagramor wondered, disbelieving. Sten seemed loyal to his people and did not hold them in disdain as he imagined one deemed an exile might be. And why would the Qunari entrust such an important mission to one they had condemned, or had they officially condemned him at all? Was it the murders that had tainted him in the eyes of his people? The fact he was taken prisoner by outsiders? Or perhaps it was something else, some aspect of Qunari culture he didn’t fully understand. “For what it’s worth, Sten, you have my sympathy. No one should ever be bereft of a home. If your own people will not accept you back, then perhaps you could stay here, build a new life with us.”

“The Warden is right, Sten,” Leliana assured him, giving a sympathetic smile. “I lived most of my life in Orlais, but when I came to Ferelden, I became accepted in time. You can find a place for yourself here as well.”

Sten’s stoic demeanour slipped for an instant. “Thank you,” he at last managed, those two words alone a trial for the stoic giant to express. The Qunari was saved from having to express his gratitude further by the sound of a cart’s wheels rattling in the distance, and he immediately sprung to attention, blade drawn. “Someone approaches, Warden.”

“I hear it too,” said the elf, his own sword at the ready. “Leliana, get back to the others and make sure they’re ready for anything. I doubt Loghain’s men would bring a noisy cart to a sneak attack, but this may just be a distraction.”

Nodding in agreement, Leliana darted back towards the camp, silent and swift. The sound of the wagon was getting closer now, and Sagramor could see the outline of its laden bulk trundle out of the darkness, the oxen’s leather harness creaking. “They should be around here somewhere, my boy,” the familiar voice of the driver spoke, Sten and the Warden exchanging glances in recognition. “Hope we didn’t pass them by in the dark.”

“Master Bodahn, is that you?” called Sagramor, stepping out of cover to greet the merchant.

“Grey Warden!” cried the dwarf from the driver’s seat of the wagon, ruddy face beaming in delight. “I must say, it’s very good to see you again. I was hoping we’d catch up to you before nightfall, but I almost feared we’d overtaken you.”

“You were looking for us? Why?”

“Why, to offer you our services, of course!” Bodahn proclaimed grandly. Beside his father, Sandal gave a wide grin. “My boy and I are here to lend our assistance to your cause, Grey Warden.”

Leliana returned, the rest of the party following close behind. “Hardly the attack you were expecting, was it, Warden?” Morrigan stated archly, eyeing the dwarves with distrust. “What are they doing here?”

“Apparently, they’ve come to help,” explained Sagramor. “But I think a more interesting question is why. You seemed committed to keeping Sandal out of harm’s way, as I recall.”

“If this is a Blight, then we’re all in harm’s way, whether we like it or not,” said Bodahn, wringing his hands nervously as he approached the Warden. “I’d like to offer my apologies for my previous behaviour, Grey Warden; I should have thought about what I could do to repay you and your company for your assistance, rather than simply escaping any possible danger.”

“So that’s what this is about?” asked the elf. “Gratitude?”

“In part. Listen, one of the reasons I came to the surface in the first place was to make sure my boy wouldn’t die at darkspawn hands. Orzammar is constantly under siege by them, and I thought we could have a peaceful life up here. Sandal deserves better than to live in a blighted wasteland, and if your actions give him a chance at a better future, then I have to help, don’t I?”

Sagramor glanced over at Sandal, the dwarven boy sitting in the wagon, gaze fixated with wonder on Leliana. “And what exactly can you and your son do for us? I don’t mean to be rude, Master Bodahn, but the odds are against us and each must pull his weight.”

“No offense taken, ser, I understand entirely. Well, first off, I’d be happy to keep your company supplied, with a reasonable discount on any goods I have in stock. Should I have the space on the wagon, I’d even be willing to let you store your packs there while you travel.”

“A chance to march unencumbered?” asked Alistair, chuckling in delight. “Sign them up, Sagramor.”

“What about the boy?” demanded Morrigan. “’Tis obvious he’s addled in some fashion.”

“He’s a bit simple, yes, but I doubt you’ll find a more brilliant enchanter anywhere on the surface, or even back in Orzammar!”  Bodahn retorted defensively, the boy jolted out of his longing stupor by mention of his skills. “He’s not formally trained like you’d see amongst the Smith Caste, but don’t let that discourage you, for he’s just as good. He’d be more than willing to enchant your armour and weapons as needed, provided of course you have the required lyrium.”

“Enchantment!” Sandal shouted gleefully.

“And he loves doing it! What more could you ask for?”

“For you to be warriors,” Sten groused, eyeing Bodahn disdainfully. “They will burden us, Warden. Send them away.”

“Now hold on just a minute!” protested Alistair. “Let’s not go turning away people willing to help us, at least without giving them a chance first. Besides, having access to these supplies and Sandal’s skills might be handy.”

“And what if they should turn us in for Loghain’s reward?” Morrigan reminded them. “’Tis far too great a risk.”

“Rest assured, my lady, no amount of gold or favour would ever convince me to betray you to the authorities,” Bodahn hastily reassured her. “You saved my boy’s life, something I have to repay you for. Still, I have something here that might convince you that we’re serious about aiding you. Sandal, could you get the special chest, please?”

Sandal beamed in delight, clapping his hands. “Magic stick! Magic stick!” the boy cheered as he darted back onto the bed of the wagon, emerging after a moment with a small wooden chest. Bodahn produced a small brass key from his belt, opening the chest to reveal a strange golden baton, the bands of dwarven runes circling the metal lighting up at his touch. “See? Magic stick!”

“It is indeed, my boy,” Bodahn stated proudly, offering it hilt-first to Sagramor. “Our gift to you, Grey Warden; your very own golem control rod.”

“Golems…” muttered the elf, examining his new acquisition. “I think I’ve heard of them. The stone men, right? Some sort of ancient dwarven superweapon?”

“That’s right. The Paragon Caradin built them during the First Blight in order to protect the old Empire from the darkspawn, and each had its own control rod like this one here to activate it. Caradin built hundreds of them in his time, but when he vanished, the secret to making golems vanished with him. It’s a loss my people have never fully recovered from. The few Orzammar has left it wouldn’t trade for all the lyrium in the Deep Roads.”

“And yet you’re willing to give the control rod to me,” Sagramor muttered. “Where exactly is the golem that goes with it? I’m assuming it’s not tucked away in your wagon somewhere.”

“It’s in the village of Honnleath, just a few days ride south of here,” Bodahn explained. “The merchant who gave me the rod said that the golem had been abandoned by its owners years ago, just left immobile in the middle of the town square. With that rod, and the command phrase he gave me, you should be able to get it moving again and under your control…. in theory.”

“Always the most inspiring of statements, ‘in theory’,” Morrigan remarked sarcastically. “You do not know if the rod will work? Or even if the golem will function? Or if it’s even in Honnleath to begin with?”

“Well, we’ve not been ourselves, no,” the dwarf admitted nervously. “It’s one of the reasons I’m making this a gift instead of offering it for sale; I’m not the sort to beggar a customer for a bad product. If the control rod works, then you’ll have a golem of your own to fight the darkspawn with. If not, or the golem’s not there, it’s no skin off your back. Besides, you’d make far better use of such a weapon than I would.”

“All the tales of golems speak of them as unstoppable soldiers, great war machines that have saved Orzammar from countless darkspawn attacks,” expressed Leliana. “I would accept this gift, Warden, and their presence in the bargain. We could certainly use their assistance.”

“Well, access to a golem is certainly one hell of an incentive,” said Alistair. “Let’s bring them along.”

Both Morrigan and Sten looked scornfully at the dwarves, but Sagramor remained focused on the control rod. “If we let you travel with us, Bodahn, then there’s certain caveats you’ll have to consider. First, we rise early and march fast. Time is against us, and I cannot have you slowing us down. Second, while I’m not going to throw you into the fight, my companions and I are still going to be actively facing the darkspawn, and as much as I wish otherwise, I cannot guarantee your safety. Third, and perhaps most importantly,” the elf insisted, staring Bodahn down. “I want your oath that you will not betray us to Loghain. That I must have if you’re to travel with us.”

“You have it, ser Warden. My boy and I are with you, though thick and thin.”

“Then be welcome among us, Master Bodahn,” declared the Warden, shaking hands to seal the pact. “Redcliffe is our immediate destination, but be we’ll be sure to check out this golem in Honnleath when we get the chance.”

“Honnleath is just on the southern road from Redcliffe, so that should be simple enough,” Alistair reassured him. “Good thing we were heading that way, isn’t it?”

“Yes, how utterly fortuitous,” said Morrigan, rolling her eyes. “Make sure you stay away from my billet, dwarf, or this partnership shall be as short as you are,” she proclaimed imperiously, turning on her heel and stalking back to her own fire.

Sagramor gave an apologetic shrug. “Don’t mind Morrigan, she just takes a bit of time to get used to newcomers. Still, I’d do as she asks.”

“Of course, ser,” said Bodahn. “It’s not like us to intrude on a lady. We’ll be ready to move when you are, and should you need anything at all, we’ll do our best to provide.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO...