The Call of War

Foreword

Greetings, dear reader. This particular story is the sequel to my first Dragon Age fan fic, titled A Hero's End. I would be very grateful for any reviews you may care to leave, and I will answer to each one personally. Thank you for reading, I hope you're as excited about the sequel as I am. There will be civil war, invasion, political intrigue and last stands on an epic scale. I can't wait.

It is Dragon Age 9:57, twenty seven years after the defeat of the Blight and two years after Teyrn Aedan Cousland, King Alistair and Oghren have been lost to the Calling, the final act that all Grey Wardens must go through.

Aedan's wife Leliana and his three children are trying to adjust to a life without the Hero of Ferelden. Aedan's oldest son Rolann sits in Highever as the new Teyrn, his daughter Aeryn is married to the Crown Prince, and his younger son Darien is roaming the land with Ayden, Oghren's son and a mighty warrior in his own right. Little do they know that events are about to unfold which will rock the foundations of their lives and irrevocably alter the fate of the nation. Ferelden is ruled with an iron fist by Queen Anora, and even in the sleepy villages there are rumours that the Qunari armies are girding themselves for war in distant Par Vollen. Slipping by unnoticed however is the witch known as Morrigan, intent on recovering the son that was stolen from her. Rolann Cousland, the mage whose soul is imbued with the power of an elder god.

Chapter 1 – Something Wicked This Way Comes

Dragon Age 9:57

Denerim

Rain hammered down on the streets of the city of Denerim, drenching the stones, turning dirt to mud, filling the air with its relentless roar. It was the kind of torrential downpour that made even the most desperate cutpurse and pickpocket give up and seek shelter. The feral cats and enormous black rats and Denerim's working ladies who usually prowled the streets after dark were nowhere to be seen. The capital slumbered, like some great hibernating beast, and waited for the dawn and clear skies. Rain was bad for business of all kinds, be it legal or cutthroat.

Rain was something the city guard thanked the Maker for every night. The city's indomitable mob would resist an attack of darkspawn to their last breath, but a bit of water sent them all scurrying for cover. Although the guards scheduled for patrol on wet nights would inadvertently get soaked to the bone, and complain loudly about it afterwards, secretly they were pleased. Rain washed away the filth, kept the riff-raff indoors and there was less chance of getting your throat cut.

Two guards were making their rounds, a sergeant and a corporal. They stomped happily through the puddles, safe in the knowledge that while they were getting drenched outside, all the thieves and murderers were keeping warm and dry on the inside. The guards had been part of Denerim's infamous browncoats for as long as anyone could remember. Somehow or other it was always their turn to go on patrol whenever the clouds began to gather.

"Sarge?"

"Yes corporal."

"What I want to know is, sarge..."

"Speak your mind, corporal."

"Is why Queen Nora is queen, and not the prince."

"Are you asking, corporal, why the prince cannot be the queen? I should think the answer was obvious to a man wise to the world."

"It's funny you should say that sarge, because my cousin Errol told me once about this Antivan lord who became a lady, if you follow my meaning."

Under his helmet, the sergeant's eyes rolled upwards to the heavens.

"Your cousin Errol."

"Yes sarge."

"Corporal, has your cousin Errol ever been to Antiva?"

"No sarge. He's never even left Denerim, matter of fact."

"What, never?"

"No."

"Not even when the bloody darkspawn overran the city?"

"Don't think so sarge. We found Errol in his hovel after it was all over, drunker than a monkey's uncle. He didn't even believe that a Blight had hit."

"Blow that, what were we taking about again?"

"I dunno sarge."

They walked on in comfortable silence. Forty years on patrol had taught them the thread of a lost conversation would eventually pop up again sooner or later.

"Oh, right. What I wanna know sarge, is why Prince Duncan didn't become king when his father died."

"Did he really die? Thought I heard he was just going to Orzammar."

"It's been two years, sarge. He ain't coming back."

"Pity, that. I quite liked the old bugger. He really looked out for the little man."

"What, you mean like the dwarves?"

"No, I don't mean – well yes, ol' King Alistair was always friendly to them dwarves, but I meant the common people. People like us."

"Can't rightly call you little sarge, you must weigh more than twenty stone - "

"The point is, corporal, the old king was a sight better than Nasty Nora. I remember when she was married to some other bugger, Callahan his name was. Or Cullen. Can't quite recall. She led him by the nose, she did. We had to pay taxes and everything."

"We pay taxes now, sarge."

"Aye, because that old dried up prune Nora's got her arse on the throne once more. Ol' Alistair wouldn't have stood for such nonsense."

"Didn't we pay taxes when Alistair was king?"

"No, because we always locked the door and hid under the table when the taxman came a-calling. Now the palace just takes it straight out of our monthly wages without asking, as cool as you like! Bugger that Nora. I hope she snuffs it soon and we get Dunc on the throne."

"Been meaning to ask you about that sarge, why isn't Dunc on the throne?"

"You see corporal, Alistair went up in front of all the nobs and bigwigs and told them Nora would be queen until her death. Was forced to it at swordpoint, I shouldn't wonder."

"And now we have to pay taxes and keep to the curfew and kill the rats and everything."

"S'right. Curfew. That's another bloody shame. Chokin' the lifeblood of commerce and all that. Time was I could get a sausage-inna-bun at any hour of the bloody night. Now everything's locked up and I have to eat them cold."

"Not to mention the ladies from the Pearl plying their trade after hours."

The guards fell silent for a little while as they considered the working ladies who lodged at the Pearl. For some reason, not a lot of clothing was involved in this recollection.

"Damn shame."

"Too right."

Through the curtain of rain, the guards noticed a dark figure coming down the street towards them. They exchanged nervous glances. Everyone else was supposed to be indoors after curfew. After a moment's hesitation, the sergeant hailed the shrouded traveller.

"Oi, you!"

Whoever it was, he could run fast. As soon as the sergeant opened his mouth he was legging it down an alley, splashing water everywhere.

"Should we go after him, sarge?"

"Negatory corporal, I knows that alley. It leads to a dead end. We'll have 'im trapped, whoever it is. We're two against one. Easy as winking."

"In that case sarge, feel free to lead the way."

"Shut up. And you go first."

The guards inched their way towards the alleymouth, steeling themselves for a sight of all manner of horrible abominations. When you were in the Denerim city guard for as long as they had, there was very little that could surprise you. Terrify, yes. Surprise, not so much.

"Is it huge green things with teeth what broke out from them Fade dimensions again? Maker's arse, once was quite enough."

"I don't believe it sarge, there's no one here!"

The sergeant poked his head around the corner. True enough, the mysterious figure had disappeared. Facing them was a stretch of blank wall and nothing else.

Well, not entirely nothing. There was the usual pile of rags and other rubbish strewn all over the ground. And pressing itself against a wall, was one very wet and bedraggled cat.

"Well I'll be buggered. You're right. He's disappeared."

"What about the cat?"

"What about it?"

"Poor little mite, out in the cold and wet on a night like this. We ought to take it back to the guardhouse, we should," protested the corporal. He had a weakness for creatures smaller and weaker than himself, the reason being that there weren't many. The sergeant once had to deal with a baby drake that the corp had rescued. It had eaten everything in the guardhouse that wasn't nailed down before exploding.

"Very well, if you must," he sighed. The corporal approached the cat, hands on his knees.

"Come here little kitty, I ain't gonna hurt you – OW! Son of a bitch, that mog scratched me!"

The cat arched its back and hissed, its bright amber eyes glowing eerily in the darkness. The corporal retreated to the alleymouth, where he presented his injured hand for inspection.

"Look at that! Clawed right down to the bone I shouldn't wonder."

"Serves you bloody well right, next time you'll learn not to touch those bloody fleabags. Let's get back to the guardhouse sharpish, I want a cup of something hot and you want that hand looking at."

"Right, sarge."

The guards wandered off. After a while the sound of their ceaseless conversation died off, replaced once again by the endless pattering of the rain. Nothing stirred in the alley for several minutes. Then suddenly, where it had previously contained a soaked black cat, it was now occupied by a naked woman.

She cursed furiously as she scuttled around the alley, gathering up the bits and pieces of cloth that had been her garments before she was forced to discard them in a hurry. That was the trouble with shapeshifting, one's clothes rarely survived the process. Eventually she was hooded and cloaked once more. She picked up her staff, the guards having overlooked it as just another piece of trash. They did not know how lucky they were however, because if she had her staff in hand when facing them they would have been little more than sad piles of ash.

"Back again in this vermin-infested city," she muttered. "'Twas a sight better when the darkspawn were ruling the roost."

She was the Witch of the Wilds, the Unnamed, the Other, the Forgotten one of Teyrn Aedan Cousland's fabled band of nine. Morrigan had returned to the capital of Ferelden.

She supposed she was an old woman now, although she hated everything about that term for it brought up far too unpleasant associations with her mother, Flemeth Demon-touched. It had been twenty seven years since the Blight, since she was barely past her girlhood. Sent away from her forest home in the company of two wardens, a lordling and a templar fool to save all the land. No doubt that idiot bard would have found the story worthy of a song. She was Morrigan, and she could no more sing than a spider could fly.

Beside the commonplace ailments of time and old age, she had sustained massive injuries in a fight with her former lover, the man the sheep of Ferelden dubbed the Dragonslayer. Even now, all those years later, the memory of that fight still burned like wildfire. Not because the only man she had ever loved had come calling with the red-haired whore he took to wife, disturbing her peaceful solitude. No, because the men worshipped as a hero by so many had attacked her with the sole purpose of stealing her son, her only child away from her. She had unleashed all her magic, used her shapeshifting abilities to transform into a monstrous spider. Yet damnably he had prevailed, and had her at his mercy. She looked into his eyes and begged for death in her moment of weakness, unwilling to live if her son was to be torn from her side.

He did not. He could not, would not, despite killing entire armies, despite having vanquished countless evils, despite having slain a dragon. He had stayed his hand and his blade, and Morrigan had escaped.

Doubtless the Teyrn had thought it an act of mercy. Or perhaps he still harboured some residual desire for her, a savage lust that his simpering songstress could never hope to fulfill. Long were the nights when he would come to her tent and they would mate like wild animals. Morrigan would ride him fiercely, without pause or respite, glorifying in the new heights of depraved agonising ecstasy in which she scaled with her Warden bedmate.

Whatever the reason he had let her go, and she had somehow found the strength to carry on. To heal her broken body and scarred flesh and shattered bones, while deep in her the emotional pain and loss and grief bled like a poisoned wound. Her physical wounds would heal. The pain she felt at being separated from her son would not. She had fled as far as she could get, while still trying to use her magic to catch even the most infinitesimal glimpse of the little baby who would grow up into a tall, pale, solemn young boy, fond of books and scholarly discourse. She had seethed as the red-headed whore had cast aside the name she had chosen for him and given him a new one instead. She had laughed with triumph as her son had cast his first spell, raged as he was sent away to be enslaved at the Circle Tower. Aedan had struck a huge blow against her that cold winter's night, and the memory of that defeat was humiliating.

But all things change in their time. The Teyrn was dead, or good as dead, having undertaken his Calling and setting off into the Deep Roads. Morrigan did not believe in a god of any sort, but if she had she would have thanked it for seeing fit to make Alistair accompany him as well. And Oghren too, now that was a bonus. All of them lay rotting in unmarked graves, while she still lived and breathed. It would seem that in the end, she had won.

But victory was far from her grasp. The bard still lived, and was a great influence in the politics of the kingdom as a member of the royal council. She had come to Denerim hoping to kill her once and for all. From the information she gathered, however, the Lady Cousland had returned to Highever. Fair Highever far to the North, serenaded by the sound of the Waking Sea crashing onto the shore and battering the cliffs, the city and lands where her son apparently now held dominion.

Her son, the mage with the power of an elder god. He was known to the commonfolk as Rolann Cousland, Senior Enchanter of the Circle Tower and now ruling Teyrn of Highever, but to her he would always be Morgan, the son she had loved and lost.

As a result of the injuries Aedan had inflicted on her she had nearly lost an eye and struggled to walk without her staff, not to mention a hundred other afflictions. Yet as long as she possessed her magic, she would appear to the world exactly how she wished.

Her features blurred subtly and smoothly, her body straightened and stood proud and upright. Sagging flesh firmed, wrinkles smoothed, scars healed over, hair grew long and thick and luxuriant, in the shade of midnight black. An old woman had been bent double in the pouring rain, yet it was a beautiful young girl who knocked on the door of the Grey and Gold.

The inn was named for King Alistair, for his golden armour and Grey Warden status. It was one of the larger ones in Denerim, and was open at all hours of the night. The door creaked opened, and a suspicious face poked out. Behind him were the smells of fresh-roasted meat and the sounds of a hundred different conversations.

"Yer?"

Morrigan used her sultriest smile, a game played long ago but one in which all the steps were well remembered.

"I lost my way and need a bed for the night, kind sir."

The doorman cast an appreciative eye up and down the length of Morrigan's shapely frame. "From the Pearl, are yeh?"

"Indeed."

"Can't get in after hours then," he said triumphantly. "Queen's curfew."

Morrigan cursed silently, while moving closer and allowing the front of her robe to drop lower. "I'm sure we can...come to an agreement."

The doorman barked harsh laughter. "I'm sure we could. Get in quick then. I have to see to the ale round, but I'll be back." He opened the door and Morrigan stepped in.

"I can hardly wait," she muttered. Looking around, she thought it best to get what she came for without further delay.

After stealing a mug of ale and a bite of something hot, Morrigan quickly charmed a number of men into telling her the quickest way to get to Highever. She had been over all Ferelden with Aedan, but he had never gone near his ruined home. She needed to know the layout, the best possible routes, the location of nearby forests that could come in handy. Every scrap of information would be vital.

Eventually she made to leave, but the doorman caught her by the arm before she could do so. His grip was painful, his ragged nails digging into the flesh.

"Where do yeh think yer going?"

Morrigan forced herself to smile. "I haven't forgotten, my sweet. Let us just step outside for a moment."

"It's raining."

"If you could find us a better spot inside..." She had him there, the place was packed. After a moment's consideration in which his unibrow knotted furiously, the lout was forced to agree. Still holding her arm, they went out of the door and were once again in the back alley.

"Now then," he leered, undoing his breeches and pulling them down. "Get to work."

"'Twould be my pleasure," said Morrigan. She felt the familiar rush of power burning through her arms, the utter joy in tapping into the deep wellspring of magic in the world around her, to use that source of power to shape the world according to her whim.

Right now, she wished for the lout to be silent. So he was struck dumb.

Before he could react, she wished for him to remain rooted to the spot. So his feet were transfixed to the ground. His eyes widened in terror, his mouth open in a silent scream of horror.

Flinging her robes aside, Morrigan reveled in the rain slicking down her naked body. The storm itself was a source of unimaginable power. She let her mind open up to it, felt the energy coursing through her veins...

And transformed into a monstrous spider.

She barely fit in the narrow alley, her hairy legs scraping the walls. Her fearsome mandibles clicked and clattered like the gates to hell. Her bloated body gave off a powerful, rotting stench. Her eight eyes, all amber like her human ones, glowed with a fierce evil.

She allowed herself to savour the terror that the lout felt, seeing this nightmare made life brought before him, wanting nothing more than to run away and never stop and not being able to move an inch. His bowels spasmed and he fouled the breeches that were around his ankles, his arms waving around in abject, all-consuming terror.

The gigantic arachnid that was Morrigan advanced, and for a while there was the sound of the crunch of bones. But not screams. There were no screams to be heard.

A little while later, a cloaked and hooded figure was seen leaving the alley beside the inn of the Grey and Gold. And inside there was little more than some unidentifiable bits and a stain of blood, which was washed away by the pouring rain.