A/N: Everybody, thank you so, so much for following Part I. :) In Part II we'll learn of Teresa's disappearance, Jowan's flight from danger, and how Abigail, the Grey Warden, deals with personal betrayal as she begins the adventure that has implications for the rest of Ferelden–and the world. This story, like the one before, focuses on character development throughout the game.

Enjoy!


Ostagar (1 day before Loghain betrays the King)

Long before sunrise, even before the faint blush of gold had touched the green peaks of the flora-filled mountains surrounding the fortress of Ostagar, the signal-torches were waving. The sky above was still dark overhead, the moon sailing silver-bright between fading stars as the soldiers gathered underneath the large arch overshadowing the bridge. Twenty tough, brave men stood completely still, their polished armor gleaming brightly in the moon, their breath rising in puffs of mist in the cold, crisp air.

The soldiers did not whisper to one another. Shivering as the cool metal touched their bare skin, they watched with darkened, intense eyes as the small group of individuals walked slowly over the stone bridge. The quiet footsteps of the incoming visitors and the swish of their robes made a kind of wordless murmur beneath the harsh silence. Most of them carried long, thin staffs of wood.

As one, the soldiers began to clap as the representatives of the Circle of the Magi approached, their shoulders and spirits sagging from the harsh pace they'd endured to reach the fortress in time. A quick count put their numbers to seven mages in total, but they were also accompanied by some without a staff. All were led by a dignified woman in the red robes of a Senior Enchanter. Her white hair was scrapped behind her head to form the smallest of ponytails, and even that seemed to shine in the moon's rays. Her eyes were bright and intelligent. She used her magical staff as a walking stick, and even it seemed to emit a faint, silvery glow. It was different from the ones used by the others; it was bone-white and beautiful, like a petrified tree branch.

At the head of the soldiers, a man in fine golden armor stepped foreword. "Welcome to Ostagar," he said, the tone of his voice suggesting that he'd never frowned a day in his life. "Your help is most appreciated."

"We thank you for your hospitality, King Cailan" said their leader, bowing her head a little in respect. She reached within the folds of her robes and handed him a sealed letter. "Duncan shall arrive tomorrow, if he is able. The details are in the letter."

King Cailan was a tall, imposing man with a cheerful face and long, wheat-colored hair that was pulled back for battle. He cut a handsome figure in his polished gold battle armor, and more than one of the younger females in the mages' company gave him their full, undivided attention. He took the letter and turned it over to check the Grey Warden seal, then tucked it into a pouch on his waist. "Thank you, I'm very eager to read it. I understand your haste and thank you for it, but the time for talk will have to be tomorrow. Come, we'll take you to your campgrounds so you can rest and prepare yourselves for tomorrow. May I have your name, dear woman?"

"My name is Wynne, your majesty," she said with another gracious tilt of her head. "Sleep would be most welcome."

Another man, as tall and imposing as King Cailan, but bald and nowhere near as handsome, said, "And I am Uldred."

"Wynne, Uldred." King Cailan nodded and motioned for the soldiers, his personal honor guard, to clear a path so they could pass through underneath the arch, past a large bonfire attended to by several elves, and towards their designated camp grounds. As they walked, the King pointed out several features of the camp and told them where their talents would be needed most. "My adviser, Teryn Loghain, will place you each within a regiment," he said. "If you need anything and you can't find me, he will most likely be in his tent going over the battle strategy."

Those who accompanied the mages, wore their clothes, but carried no staff, immediately set about preparing the campsite to their liking. Uldred payed them no mind, but Wynne noticed the King's eyes wander towards them and said, "They are Tranquil. They cannot fight, but their skill in the arcane arts and in herblore is unparalleled. Perhaps we'll speak more of it later."

"Indeed," he agreed, looking thoughtful. "Have a restful night."

Wynne bent down to help the Tranquil, as did several of the other mages, but Uldred and his followers merely set their packs on the ground and sat on them, resting their legs. Mages were vastly superior, at least physically, to most of the soldiers in the camp. Having trained, swam, and built up muscle for much of their time spent within the Circle, they could conjure more magic and aid them in the battle. It was a gratifying sight, but also humorous to some, for, despite a mage's great physical strength and stamina, they had no experience in martial combat. Hitting people over the head with their staffs would work just as well, but a staff won't bring down an ogre. It was vital that these newest additions be protected vehemently by their regiments.

"You really think the girl will make the right choice?" Uldred grumped at Wynne once the soldiers had gone away.

Wynne glanced up at the stars, at the shining face of the moon, and said, "I do not know. I hope so."

Uldred grunted, making it clear what he thought of her hope, then said, "Let's not hold our breath, then."

Back at the King's yellow canvas tent, which bore the King's seal on the front, Cailan and his advisor looked closely over the letter sent by the Grey Warden leader. "Nonsense," said Loghain, twirling a strand of hair around his finger as he contemplated the deeper meaning behind the message. "To stay behind for one mage is foolishness to the tenth degree."

"It does seem that way," Cailan agreed rather hesitantly. "But I trust his reasoning, sound or not. She's obviously capable of great feats of magic–perhaps we should put her in a combat posting instead of a defensive one?"

"You are assuming, of course, that she's actually released," Loghain said testily. "If she agrees to join, and if the situation at the Circle is resolved." When the King didn't reply, he said, "We'll press on under the assumption that neither Duncan nor his new recruit will make it. I'll see to it that the mages are put to work in the morning. You cannot rely on the Grey Wardens for victory."

To this, the King did not answer. Instead, he folded Duncan's letter up. "Good night, Teryn Loghain."

Loghain bestowed on him a courteous nod and left the tent. The King merely shook his head at his friend's foolishness and stood. Following him out, he asked one of the elven runners stationed by the bridge to fetch Warden Astor from the west watchtower. Earlier that day after the battle, King Cailan had stationed the rest of the Grey Wardens at various lookouts throughout Ostagar, believing that they would be able to detect both threat and friend faster and better than the rest of his more mundane men, brave and valiant as they were, and so far they hadn't disappointed. Loghain might have thought it was folly, but he was just pouting and he knew when to draw the line, so the King wasn't very worried about him.

Astor was a middle-aged elf, smaller and slighter in build than the others, with a shock of dark hair cut curiously close to his scalp and an elegant tattoo upon his face colored in a deep purple ink. He was armed with a bow and arrow, as was his wont, and carried a hunting horn on his hip that blew a volume so loud that if he winded it now, then the Archdemon himself would have heard it. Elves weren't unheard of in the army, or in the Grey Wardens, but they were certainly rare enough to raise eyebrows. Duncan had placed him as a temporary leader in his stead, and from Kaing Cailan could see, Astor was proving to be a remarkable choice for his inventiveness, foreword thinking, and force of personality.

"My King." Astor crossed his arms over his chest and bowed, as was custom, then stood at ease until he was motioned to sit down on a small stool across from the King's own chair. "Duncan did not arrive with the mages. Did they bring a message?"

"He'll be a day late by their reckoning," said he. "Until then, you're still in charge. Also, the mages ferried a message from him to me. He's found another Grey Warden recruit at the Circle of Magi, but she couldn't come right away due to her Harrowing taking place that following night, which was two days ago."

Astor frowned. "An apprentice?"

King Cailan nodded and handed him the letter. Astor's hands, smaller than his own, took the parchment and began to read, his eyes flickering this way and that to make out the words in the soft candle-lit canvas tent. He read it one more time to memorize, then handed it back to the King. "Abigail Amell will be welcome in our ranks," he said, both his voice and tone neutral. "I have complete faith in Duncan's judgement."

"Good," said the King, nodding as he placed the letter in his breast pocket. "Now, have the darkspawn been doing anything I should be aware of?"

As Astor gave his report, the King could not help but long for the easygoing friendship with Duncan to replace this formal procedure. The elven Warden was decent, hardworking, and a viper on the battlefield when given a high spot and freedom to launch his arrows where he will, but he was also a very hard man to talk to about feelings in and of themselves. At least, he would not talk about them with the King, a human who allowed the segregation of elven-folk into the Alienage and whose government allowed them to become nothing more than servants to those who were their better. There was a stark contrast between he behavior towards he, Cailan, and the rest of the government to how he acted towards his fellow Grey Wardens. The King took it more as a personal opinion than something representative of the rest of the Grey Wardens, for he walked and talked with them whenever he got the chance and they seemed just as the stories described them–warriors without equal, ready to do whatever it took to defeat the darkspawn.

All of them seemed convinced it was a Blight, likely from Duncan's muttering, but the King was not so sure. The darkspawn had come together in a group bigger than he'd ever seen before, true, but it didn't mean that an Archdemon was behind it. It seemed to be just what it appeared on the surface: a really big group of idiots.

Astor finished his report quickly enough, saying that no, there was still no sign of an Archdemon, but it didn't mean that they should let their defenses drop in the slightest. The King agreed, then sent him on his way for a meal long overdue and rest, relieving him with a watchman from his own company, and glanced up at the sky, which was slowly but surely lightening up since he'd last been out. Across the way, near the mages' campsite, all was still with peaceful sleep, for some perhaps their last. It wasn't a cheery thought, but that was war, though this wasn't one, not yet. The best the King would be able to do would be to remember them in songs and tales, and more than one soldier today would live to tell their grandchildren about this fight–he swore it.


Alistair woke with a start as he always did, his heart pounding with a sudden surge of adrenaline that only seemed to intensify the pounding in his head. He looked up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, and for the first time noticed the small, lithe form of Astor kneeling by the tent's open flap. His aged face was sympathetic. "More dreams?"

"Uh. . . yeah, kind of." Alistair's tongue felt thick and fuzzy in his mouth. He stretched, working out the kinks in his back from sleeping on the cold, hard ground, and sat up. A burst of cold air hit his chest, and if he hadn't been wearing a thick shirt and breeches to bed it would have most surely stung like ice. "Same ones, over and over. . . never gets any easier. Are the mages here yet?"

"Seven, plus a few of their Tranquil according to Ser Jory." Astor had a tendency of becoming as still as stone when something was bothering him, something Alistair had discovered only recently. "Duncan was not among them."

Alistair was instantly alert, all sleep banished from his eyes. "What? Is he okay?"

"Hold your peace," said Astor. "He sent a letter ahead. He's found a new recruit at the Circle, a human woman. He'll be staying with her through her Harrowing. He should arrive by tonight."

Alistair evaluated the cautious look on Astor's face. "Well, that's good, right?" he asked, trying to play optimist. Yeah, awesome, if he can get past an entire army of darkspawn on his way here. Duncan had a history of cutting it close, but this was going to really be pushing it. "One more recruit for us, and a mage. What did Duncan say about her?"

And, almost reluctantly, Astor explained that her name was Abigail Amell, tall enough to look him in the eye, with light brown shoulder-length hair and brooding eyes. "Though she is only seventeen," Astor muttered in distaste. "Not even a full mage when they set out for here. If she does not make it out of the Circle alive, it will be a waste." Before Alistair could answer, Astor just shook his head as if ridding himself of an irksome tick. "My apologies. My nerves are jumpy, and I'm taking it out on Duncan. Battle is easy, but waiting is the hardest. That is what they say, anyway."

"What did you mean about her getting out of the Circle alive?" Alistair asked cautiously. "Duncan doesn't think she's practicing blood magic, does he?"

Astor treated him with a glare. "If she was, I highly doubt that he'd put that in a letter to King Cailan."

"Well. . ." He wanted to say that Cailan probably wouldn't care and that he'd bend over backwards for the Wardens, but it didn't seem particularly tactful. Astor was gripped in a foul, black mood, and there was no way Alistair was going to provoke him further. "Then what did you mean?"

"She–oh, blast it." Astor twisted his chest around nearly all the way back. "Daveth," he cursed, getting up. He disappeared. Alistair hurriedly put his armor on and made sure his sword was on his hip before following. Astor looked as thunderous as an elf could look, one full foot shorter than an average man. But what he lacked in height he made up for with pure aggression, and Alistair found the sight of him bullying Daveth, who was a tall man, quite funny. His arms were crossed and he stood as still as only an elf could, laying out in direct, short detail about women's rights.

Daveth looked uncomfortable, hiding an item of clothing behind his back, and upon further investigation Alistair realized that it was a support-cloth for one of the maidservants. One of the elven maidservants.

"Ooooh, drama," Alistair whispered jokingly towards one of the other Grey Wardens who had come out of his tent to investigate the racket before he had.

"Indeed," replied the man, grinning smugly.

"Five bronze on Astor killing him before the Joining?"

"No way. We all know that's going to happen."

"Huh." Astor took the woman's bra from Daveth's hand, seemed to think better of it, and shoved it back. His voice low and controlled, he explained that Daveth was to put them back before she realized it was gone and told him that the incident would be reported to Duncan. Daveth was cowed, a nervous smile on his face as he took his dressing-down, and saluted smartly when Astor seemed to be done with it. He ran off, clutching the bra in his hands for all to see, and Alistair dearly hoped he wouldn't go romping about with the thing on his chest. That would just be too much, and he'd be honor-bound to kill him just to restore the Grey Warden name. He chuckled at the look on Astor's face. "He does not look happy at all."

"We lost three Grey Wardens in the fighting yesterday, under his command," his comrade reminded him, suddenly sober. Alistair recognized him as one of the older Wardens in the camp, though he didn't know his name nor how long he'd been a member. "With an Archdemon on the horizon. . . well, that's a lot. We're too few to begin with. Reinforcements from Orlais are going to be too slow in coming. By then we could fall. It's not an easy burden for Astor, nor Duncan."

"What's going to happen when the Archdemon decides to come?" Alistair asked, glancing up at him.

He deeply-tanned face was grim. "We'll kill it, at the cost of many lives. Mine. Yours, probably."

"You're such a cheery person," he said drily.

He rubbed his brow. Astor was walking away back towards his tent, unbuckling his weapons as he did so. He disappeared inside and wasn't seen again for the remainder of the morning. "The dreams are getting worse."

Alistair remembered with a jolt the dream that had visited him during the night, a vision of a dark, twisted dragon corrupted by the Taint. Its eyes smouldered with white flames, too bright to look at directly, and it roared a battle cry that chilled him to the very center of his bones, even now. "You, too, huh?"

"All of us, probably. If only Cailan and Loghain would believe it's a true Blight. . ." The senior Grey Warden sighed. He clapped Alistair on the back and went to go help Jaing, a mage originally from Antiva, who had been wounded in the last fight. The poor man was sitting on the grass rubbing a piece of slate over the tip of a soldier's spear despite the amount of bandages holding the muscle in his shoulder together; his arm had been partly severed from an ax. Tears were in his eyes.

With a start, Alistair realized who the spear belonged to: a woman with short copper hair and an open, honest face. She had been in his group of protectors, and they had both taken a liking to each other. From Jaing's demeanor, it was clear she didn't make it.

How could somebody find love so quickly, only to lose it in the blink of an eye?

The senior Grey Warden, his comrade, bent at Jaing's ear and whispered a few comforting words he seemed not to hear. He kept talking, and finally Jaing lay down the spear and stared at the fire with his head bowed so low his chin nearly dropped on to his chest. The Warden, who Alistair suddenly recognized as Marcus, took off his cloak and placed it around Jaing's shoulders. He walked off, carrying the stone so their mage wouldn't hurt himself as he sharpened the spear's point. Alistair caught up with him. "Duncan found a new recruit," he said, trying to push away the thought of Jaing sitting there behind him, lonely and depressed. "A woman from the Circle. They'll be here tomorrow."

"So you'll prepare the Joining ritual?" Marcus asked.

Alistair nodded. "Can you tell the others at breakfast?"

"Might as well."

And so ended their great conversation.


The mages made themselves useful hours later when they woke. The Tranquil sat in a large group of seven around the giant campfire, piles of mushroom roots and Andraste knows what else at their feet. Their hands worked quickly and nimbly as they created poultices out of nothing, stirred up formidable potions, and enchanted the weapons of the King's chosen with small amounts of lyrium. Like the dwarves, the Tranquil could touch liquid lyrium, the essence of magic, without fear of dying or becoming insane, though, in Alistair's opinion, they already were. They were all so calm and collected, speaking only when spoken to, putting up with their work with no complaint, no twitch of expression. They were just there, empty husks devoid of personality or life, given a task. Slaves. It didn't endear the rest of the soldiers to them, and many crossed themselves as they passed to ward off evil spirits. If mages had to arrogance to bring about a fate like this on people as close to them as kin, then what, then, would they deign to do with the world if they were set free?

The mages themselves were spread about the camp, seven in number as the Tranquil were. Wynne, their leader, had retreated to the shadow of a large tree next to the speaker's podium, her supplies laid out around her. What she was doing was a mystery, and some thought she was even praying until she got up and, taking her things, went to the stretch of field where the injured lay and set about curing those she could without overexerting herself for the battle. Four other mages, guarded by a group of Templars, were contacting the Fade in another area far away from the others. Uldred had disappeared into Teryn Loghain's tent to better understand the roles his people would play in the battle. And the seventh mage. . .

Alistair was having trouble keeping his self-control. Bad fish-wife tales of angry magicians turning their adversaries into toads gave him enough caution so he wasn't overly rude. After all, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. . . well, not close enough to regret it later.

It was late afternoon when Mother Tora found him eating lunch near the quartermaster's area, keeping an eye on the archway that would belie the presence of his mentor and his new mage recruit as soon as they arrived. Mother Tora was a tall old woman, thin as a stick, with coal-black hair that smelled curiously of ashes. Alistair didn't even know how it happened or how she got him to agree, but soon enough he was done with his lunch and was off to find the seventh mage, a mocha-skinned man named Dugran. It was past time to tick off the senior mages, anyway. Finally, Alistair had him cornered across from the King's pavillion, and he was not happy.

"What is it now? Haven't the Grey Wardens asked enough of the Circle?"

"I simply came to deliver a message, ser mage," said Alistair cautiously. "The Revered Mother. . . desires your presence."

Alistair wasn't totally clueless–he'd been chosen for the errand because he was a former Templar, and she knew that, and now the mages did, too. He would have preferred not to do it. The only upside of being turned into a toad, he thought offhandedly, is that he could jump from one darkspawn to another, eat flies, and have an absurdly long tongue.

Dugran wasn't clueless, either. "What Her Reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me," he said, flustered. "I am busy helping the Grey Wardens–by the King's orders, I might add!"

"Should I have asked her to write a note?" Alistair asked lightly.

Dugran took a step closer, jabbing his finger outwards to poke Alistair in the chest. The air around him smelled vaguely of electricity. "Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner," he ordered.

"Yes, yes," Alistair said, his eyes tightening in preparation despite the casualty of his tone. "I was harassing you by delivering a message."

"Your glibness does you no credit." They locked eyes for a moment, brown against green, and the mage took one step backwards. Obviously, he didn't wish to turn him into a frog yet. More's the pity, I suppose.

"Here I thought we were getting along so well," said Alistair. "I was even going to name one of my children after you. . . the grumpy one."

"Enough!" Dugran snarled, glancing to his right. Alistair glanced that way, too, out of habit, and saw that they had an audience. A young woman, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, was watching the exchange with a neutral expression most commonly associated with the Tranquil. But Alistair could see some life in her eyes, negating that theory. She wore a long black traveling cloak over yellow robes stained with the dirt of the wilds. Her light brown hair seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, and her eyes were squinted against the glare of the light upon the stone, hiding its color. Her tall, athletic build was superimposed in the bright glare. "I will speak to the woman if I must," Dugran continued, albeit quieter. He turned away and stalked off, pushing the woman to the side as he did so. "Out of my way, apprentice."

Alistair watched him go, the brief surge of frustration in his gut asking for permission to hit him over the head with the hilt of the biggest sword in camp. "One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together," he muttered, glancing at the woman with a small, amused smile on his face.

"You are a very strange man," said she. Her voice was quiet, like she'd spent the whole of her life in a library, but the way she carried herself spoke of confidence.

"I've been called that before," he said, chuckling. He tried to place her as one of the faces he'd seen around the mage section of camp, but came up clueless. "Wait, we haven't met before, have we? You must be Duncan's recruit."

He held out his hand to shake. "Abigail Amell," she said wistfully, glancing around Ostagar. "And that was Wenn Dugran. He doesn't like me, either."

"Ah. . . so you're a mage."

"Scared?" she asked quietly.

"Hardly," he said sarcastically. "Just want to know my chances of being turned into something unnatural on any given day."

She looked tired and worn-out, but she snorted anyway.

"Glad to meet you," he said. "As the junior member of our order, I'll be accompanying you through your Joining."

"More tests," she grumbled. "I've had my fill of those."

"Ah, yes, that's right, you just completed your Harrowing." He tried to appear knowledgeable in the fact, smiling and nodding. "Well, yellow robes. . . I take it you succeeded?"

A shadow seemed to flicker over her eyes. "I did. Thank you."

"What was it like?" he asked. "I've always wondered."

She ignored him. "What were you and Dugran arguing about?" she asked.

"Oh, you caught that, didn't you?" he asked. He just shook his head and shrugged. "Okay, before you get any ideas, I'm a Templar. Actually, I'm not–I never completed the rights or anything before Duncan recruited me. But words gets around. It was the Revered Mother's kind of sick joke to send me as her errand boy. Obviously, he picked up on it, though being made fun of seems like a regular occurrence to him."

She didn't seem happy about his Templar status, but she didn't press it. He wondered if it was her common sense telling her not to make a big deal about it r if she was ordered not to say anything. "Duncan is by the large bonfire near the bridge. He wants us the report to him with the other recruits. Daveth and Ser Jory."

"Ah, okay. Have you met them yet?"

"No, I haven't."

"I'll just go fetch them, then. Meet you there."

Without another word Abigail turned around and began to walk back the way she'd come, and he was confused. Suddenly he remembered Astor's words, about there being trouble at the Circle, and that she might not make it out alive. Obviously, she had.

And then another thing hit him.

Why didn't she have a staff?

After rounding up both Ser Jory and Daveth, then sending an elven messenger to the Wardens to let them know that Duncan was back and the Joining was going to start soon, Alistair led the two men to the bonfire. The Tranquil had abandoned it and set up stock somewhere behind them, but the lingering smell of acid and mushrooms still remained. Duncan clasped Alistair's arm in greeting, then set about telling the recruits the bare minimum that they would need to know to complete the Joining.

"The Joining relies heavily on your ability to get a single vial of darkspawn blood that you, yourself, have killed," he said. "You will be sent into the Korcari Wilds to kill any stragglers from the Horde you might find. Alistair–" Duncan turned his way "–I have a separate task for you. There is an old Grey Warden outpost you must visit while you're out. A strongbox lies within, which protects a variety of treaties that may help us later. They were written after the last war, promising aid from various alliances across Ferelden. It is essential that you find these and return them to me."

Alistair bowed his head. "I won't let you down, Duncan," he said seriously.

"Do this quickly," said his mentor, "for we don't have much time."

He dismissed them then, but Alistair stayed, motioning for them to continue ahead. "I'm glad you're all right," he said quietly. "I thought you'd miss it."

"I pushed as hard as I could," Duncan assured him, then said more quietly, "Watch over Abigail, Alistair. She's had a rough few days."

"Is she up for fighting without a staff?"

Duncan nodded. "Yes. But Alistair, no matter how confident or cold she may appear on the surface, she's hurt." He held up one finger, cutting Alistair off before he could say anything. "I'll tell you enough so you know what to expect, but do not bring this up with her. Abigail's best friend called upon her aid after she finished the Harrowing. He was a blood mage, but led her to believe that he wasn't, that he was being falsely accused. When we cornered them he performed it, which hurt many, and she was going to die for helping a friend escape the Circle. She's a powerful woman, clever, and she does what good she can, but I believe that her judgement may be warped after this. She's not likely to trust you, nor anybody."

Alistair's mind was blank, and he threw another glance her way. She was inside the dog kennels, petting a mabari hound and whispering to him. She glanced up as if she felt his glance and knew she was the object of their conversation, and for the first time he noticed the hurt and agony in her shoulders. "That's horrible," he said, looking back at Duncan. "Did you know it would happen?"

Duncan nodded, stroking his beard. "Yes. Unfortunately, yes. I would have saved her from the pain if I could, but the Knight-Commander insisted she prove her loyalty to the Circle the hard way. The only thing I could do was force the Right of Conscription." He looked away towards the fields, tense. "We have spoken too much. You must hurry, Alistair."

"I will," he promised.

He motioned for the others to join him at the gates leading out into the Korcari Wilds. Abigail kept looking at the dogs as if she'd never seen one before, smiling softly and holding out her hand for them to sniff. They responded well to her, to the amazement of their owners, and Alistair almost had to drag her into the Wilds himself. "You can't go petting every strange dog you see," he told her.

"I. . . yeah, I know."

When he leaned closer to her, he noticed she smelled like a dog, but not like the mabari she'd been petting. She threw one last glance behind her at the dogs, as if committing them to memory, and continued onwards.


Deeper they went into the woods, crouched low and making as little noise as possible. But neither Ser Jory, a red-haired man from Highever, nor Daveth were trained for it. Alistair led them in the general direction of the ruins. He knew of them and where they were located, so going by the sun's positioning in the sky he was able to lead them through the woodlands without going too far off target. He had to widen the search arc by about two miles, for he could sense the darkspawn infestation in the forest and he had to make sure his charges could do battle. The sun was beginning to drop in the sky when the first darkspawn came in sight.

They were monstrous things, and smelly, and when they came into sight both Daveth and Ser Jory took out their blades. Alistair did, too. The sound of their weapons being drawn from their sheaths wasn't loud, but the darkspawn scouting group, which included at least six Hurlocks and three Genlock archers, had sensed him. They turned around, their black, disfigured skin emitting the smell of rotten eggs and sulfuric gas, and roared a battle cry. As one, the six Hurlocks ran for them.

"I'll take left," Ser Jory said, and ran out with a battle cry that sounded across the forest. Daveth cursed and followed, running quickly, and Alistair used his shield to deflect an oncoming arrow.

A red light made itself known to him, sailing past his ear to engulf one of the archers in red flames that flickered with blue. Ser Jory was an excellent swordsman and was holding his own quite amicably as Daveth danced beside him, knocking away swords and dodging blows as only a thief could. Two of the remaining Hurlocks ran for him and he charged, hoping that their resident mage could keep the archers busy enough.

They were doing well, but Alistair was taking the brunt of it. Then, without warning, one of the Hurlocks detached himself from the fray and ran for Abigail–smart guy. Then Alistair realized something else, about the same time as Ser Jory–she didn't have a staff.

Ser Jory yelled and spun around, running after the Hurlock, and out of the corner of his eye Alistair watched Abigail face it, her face a mask of hatred and fear. She held out her hand to do something, but he was closing in too fast. With a cry of triumph the Hurlock swung his greatsword. Just as Alistair thought she was about to become a mage-ka-bob, she dipped underneath the slice with nimble dexterity. Without a body there to stop his fall, the Hurlock stumbled over. He would have regained his balance if Abigail hadn't kicked him in the rump and sent him sprawling in the ground, right on his own sword.

Ser Jory stopped himself just in time and caught her eye. A look of understanding, relief, and fear passed between them. Then Alistair had to look away, and he was caught up in his own fighting.

Systematically they drove the darkspawn back until their feet were in the swampy waters and their mobility was damaged. Daveth let out a yell of triumph and sunk his blade deep into one throat, kicking the body to dislodge it from the blade. Another froze into a block of dry ice as it struck and, yowling in pain, it fell face-foreword into the waters and didn't rise again. Soon, everything was silent.

"Hurry up," Alistair said, sheathing his sword. He walked up to the Genlock archers on the small hill overlooking the battle and checked their pockets as quickly as he could without touching their blood–or what was left of it. Abigail had been pretty thorough, and most of the bodies were just charred corpses.

Somewhere to his left, one of the men was vomiting into the brush. He didn't even bother to see who it was–many, after all, had that same reaction when dealing with the darkspawn.

Done with looting the corpses, Alistair jumped from the hill and landed directly in front of Abigail. Her hair had been scraped back into a hasty bun and he noticed the color of her eyes for the first time. They were a pretty color of bluish-gray. Without a word, Alistair handed her the knife he'd taken from the dead of her first kill. "This pointy object is a skinning knife," he explained, handing it to her. The handle was still warm from the fire. "You stick these in darkspawn to see what comes out. I'd prefer you use it until I find you another staff."

She took it hesitantly and nodded, her cheeks reddening. "Alright. Thanks." She crossed over to the Hurlock she'd killed and siphoned some of the black blood into a tiny glass vial, using the blade of the knife as a sieve to direct the flow.

Alistair watched her, a small grin on his face. When she'd finished and caught him looking, he said, "You'll do, I think."

He went to see how Daveth and Ser Jory were faring. Ser Jory had eyes only for the small, frozen hand peeking out of the water, but Daveth seemed to be having a hard time. "I can't stand the smell," he complained, bent over in the bushes. "It gets to me, worse than the others."

"I know, and the only thing I can say is that it won't get any easier," said Alistair. "A ton of people vomit their first time, it's nothing to be ashamed of."

Daveth sighed and hid his mouth and nose in his shirt as he imitated Abigail and placed the blood in the vial. Soon, they were ready to depart the small battlefield.

". . .wonderful spellwork," Ser Jory was whispering at the back of their procession. "Duncan found me at Highever. I beat all of the dueling champions. When he offered, I couldn't refuse. If there really is a Blight, I want to protect my wife. She's heavy with child, now."

"Congratulations," said Abigail softly, almost too quiet for Alistair to hear. "It will be an honor working with you, ser knight."

"And you as well, madam."

Alistair wondered how long Daveth would hold out against the new Jory-and-Abigail tag-team, and, with a small smirk on his face, climbed over an upturned log bearing a pure white flower with a red center and his the ground. "The ruins are northwest of here, about another half-hour," he said. "With any luck we might pass one of the scouting parties Teryn Loghain sent out earlier after yesterday's battle."

"And out of this forest as fast as possible," Ser Jory said furtively. "The very air feels tense, like someone is watching us."

"You just worry too much, ser knight," said Daveth.

Alistair stopped them about two minutes later when he caught sight of the fallen oxen. He crept foreword silently, his senses alert for any nearby darkspawn, and beheld the mess that had been made of the party. He grimly walked among his dead fellows, spattered with gore, and called the other three of them up. They walked slowly, surveying the carnage, and Abigail closed her eyes. "What fiends did this?" she asked. "Darkspawn?"

Alistair surveyed a triangular pit in the shoulder of one of the horn-blowers. "Be–"

"Crap, someone's moving!" Abigail pointed at a man underneath one of the oxen. He stirred at the noise, groaning and moaning beneath his breath. She knelt next to his head, her hand already on his temple. "Shush, we're here now. You're safe."

"Grey Wardens?" he whispered, his breathing labored. He coughed. "Darkspawn. . . attacked us. Ambush."

"Where does it hurt?" she asked, rubbing his head.

"My ribs–ung! I think. . . think they're broken."

"Quickly, you three get this ox off of him," she said, turning to Alistair and the others. As one, they lifted the dead animal off the man and Alistair had to steel himself against his cries of pain. Abigail was whispering something underneath her breath, her hand resting on the poor man's chest. Alistair watched, fascinated, as she performed the healing ritual. He noticed a particularly bloody gash on his leg and dropped down to bandage it with a poultice and supplies in his pack.

The man coughed experimentally a few times and gripped her hand with his. "Maker bless you."

"And may Andraste lend you her courage," she replied. She glanced up at Alistair. "Shouldn't we bring him back to camp?"

"No need," said the wounded soldier. He grunted as he stood, but his breathing was better and he wasn't as wobbly. "I can make it back on my own now. I hope you survive this night. Maker knows we need more Grey Wardens. . ."

He went along, limping profusely as he did, and Alistair watched him go. "Darkspawn," muttered Ser Jory. "If they could ambush and kill a force like this, without our knowing–"

"Relax," said Alistair, holding up a hand. He put on his best, smoothest voice. "All Grey Wardens can sense the darkspawn, and I won't let anything happen to you."

"You hear that, ser knight?" Daveth asked cheerfully. "So if we die, at least we'll be warned about it first."

"Keep your head in the game," said Abigail. "We have a mission–we can either talk about it or do it. Alistair–lead on."