disclaimer type=standard

Anything you recognise is Bioware's. I dare say anything else belongs to them too.

/disclaimer

o_ooo000ooo_o

"Is that possible?" the Seeker asked, her curiosity piqued. The idea that the Fade occupied a sort of parallel plane was a long standing theory; indeed there was proof in the Warden's tale that places in the mortal realm had locations mirrored in the spirit world. But the possibility of demons being thinned out in an area… It could revolutionize how Magi Circles were kept safe from demonic influences.

"Of course it is," Kathryn replied in an offhand manner. "We periodically send teams of Wardens into the Fade at Soldier's Peak and Vigil's Keep to slaughter demons. It's good training, and keeps it safe to conduct magical experiments that would draw them out."

Cassandra paled. "You- you train your Wardens by fighting demons?" she blurted, shocked to the core.

The elf gave a nonchalant shrug. "Why not? They're dangerous, sentient foes – capable of strategy and tactics. Anyone who can look a desire demon in the chest and still stick an axe in its head isn't going to be distracted in battle against darkspawn. And anyone who's smacked down a pride demon isn't going to be fazed by a charging ogre."

Cassandra rubbed at her forehead, unable to fully articulate her horror. "But that is absurd! What if one of them perished in the Fade? Their soul would be lost forever!"

The mage tilted her head to one side. "Is that official Chantry dogma?"

"I, what? I have no idea. The question has never been considered! The idea is absurd!"

Kathryn snickered. "Well, that's probably why everyone seems to have reservations about facing my Wardens in battle. Demons can think, adjust and react. Honing your armscraft on them is difficult and truly testing. It works, though. We do seem to be able to hold our own against most foes."

Now that was an understatement. Cassandra was fully cognizant of the Ferelden Grey Wardens' reputation. "Well, does that make the mages in your Circle safer?" Anything that could be used in negotiations for a truce between the mages and Chantry would be useful.

"For the non-Warden mages, sure. Many apostates return to Soldier's Peak less for the safety from the Chantry than consistent, uninterrupted sleep. A lot refuse to join the Wardens because they are life-long, self-reliant loners, but a few weeks of sleep without demons whispering temptations in your ear do wonders for your mood."

Cassandra paused to digest that. The idea, despite the tremendous risks involved, did offer many opportunities. She would need to think on it; perhaps pen a monograph for the Divine to peruse. "Did the apprentice Connor manage to escape? I have not heard any word of him. Not since his disappearance from the Circle."

Kathryn gave her a grin. "Yes you have."

The Seeker hesitated. The Warden had used those words before, when she had asked about the fate of her man Pickering. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly that. You certainly have heard of Connor."

Biting back her initial retort, Cassandra took a deep breath and calmly replied, "Not by that name."

"True. If I continue my story, you might pick up on his fate."

Cassandra sighed. "Very well."

o_ooo000ooo_o

The next morning, Aaron rowed Pickering, Thunder and I over to the shore with far less terror than he'd exhibited the previous day. It was a much more comfortable (not to mention drier) trip, all though Thunder appeared a little disappointed at how little the templar reacted to his toothy grins.

We collected one of our wagons from the inn and loaded it up. I made sure all of Fiona's belongings were placed in the other wagon. I was surprised to find myself a little bit sad; despite our initial disagreements and differences, I found that I actually sort of liked her. Well, the snarky, cynical person she'd become in the last week or so.

We trundled away to the south along the coast of the lake. Once we were a few miles away, Pickering spoke up.

"Is it really a good idea to help Arl Eamon's son escape the Circle? I mean, I know why you did it, but won't it make trouble for you?"

I took a deep breath. "Probably. But that boy has suffered a lot for the sins of others. Leaving him there for an inevitable execution was out of the question. As was directly breaking him out. I gave him the tools to escape himself, if that's what he wants. I will deal with the consequences as and when they come."

Pickering nodded. "What about Ser Bryant? Or the First Enchanter? Won't Connor's escape end up being a problem for them? And what if he escapes while Warden Fiona is still in the Tower? Won't she be blamed?"

I shrugged helplessly to cover my satisfaction that he was proving to be much more thoughtful and insightful than the usual armed thug. "I just don't know, Pick. But don't worry about Bryant or Irving. Let's just say that the letters that Tavish left behind give them a fair bit of protection. The Chantry will not want the crown finding out what's in them."

He swallowed. "A conspiracy, I take it?"

"Something along those lines," I agreed. "I get the feeling that Bryant isn't so hung up on his vows that he'd take the fall for someone who would agree to treating a child like that. If the priests in Denerim try to punish him, I suspect Eamon will get a copy of Tavish's papers and effects. The shit will really fly then."

He shook his head. "So what are we going to do?"

I scratched at my chin. "Well, we'll find a likely camp site and stay put for a couple of days. If Connor catches up with us, so be it. If not, then he's as good as dead."

"Arl Eamon won't be happy."

I shook my head. "No. No he won't be. And I wouldn't blame him."

Pickering looked down, as though ashamed. "I… I really hope Connor gets out. No one deserves that."

"Me too," I agreed, patting him on the shoulder.

He didn't seem to be able to let it go. "What are you going to do with him? He can't show up in public ever again."

I nodded. "Not right away, no. But later, who knows. First thing is to get him to a safe place."

"Soldier's Peak then." It wasn't a question.

I smiled at him. "Very good. Yes, I'll get him to the Peak. He should make a satisfactory assistant for Dagna. As a noble, his education would have included estate administration."

He still looked uncomfortable. "Soldier's Peak is a long way away," he pointed out. "Especially for us, as we're limited by the walking speed of an ox. I don't think we could make it before they discover he's gone and mount a pursuit."

"True. In that case, your standing orders are for you to take Connor east while I draw any pursuit off. He should be able to turn into a mouse, which will make it easier to conceal him."

His face screwed up into a mask of anguish. "But," he started.

I held up a hand. "I can do something similar. The templars won't be able to catch me."

He bit his lip. "Mice can't really run all that fast. And if they've got your blood thing, they could track you quickly."

"Phylactery," I corrected. "And no, my mouse form isn't my only form."

"As impressive as it is, your stone giant form wouldn't be able to move too fast either. And it's a bit on the conspicuous side."

I snorted. I hadn't even considered that. "No, I can't turn into a golem outside of the Fade. But a mouse isn't the only animal I can turn into. I could outrun any pursuit quite easily."

That piqued his interest. "Can you show me?"

I gave him a grin and tossed him the reins. I then shifted into the form of a mabari. Thunder barked in amusement at his expression. "Well?" I asked after returning to my base form.

He coughed. "I, er, I guess you could outrun them."

I punched his arm. "You guess?"

"Fine," he mock grumbled. "You could easily outrun them."

I turned to look over my shoulder. Kinloch Hold was still visible through the trees lining Lake Calenhad. Of course, the top of the tower was visible for a good third of the journey to Redcliffe. Not that it made much difference; there were few windows in the place. Historically, the templars didn't want mages looking out and fantasizing about the outside world. "I don't want to head down the road too far. Let's make camp soon."

"That's going to look a bit suspicious," Pickering warned.

I shrugged. "Let it look. We'll head east in three days or when Connor reaches us. Which ever happens first."

We set up camp at the next clearing. Despite the accessibility to the lake's fish and the road, it did not show signs of much use. Being less than three miles from the Spoiled Princess was probably the reason.

Still, it was a comfortable spot, and we put up our tents with a minimum of fuss and bother. Thunder scouted around and returned with a fox hanging out of his mouth. I showed Pickering how to skin it, saving the scalp and tail. Thunder was pleased with the result, and proceeded to chow down on the remains without the bothersome fur getting in the way. His powerful jaws crunching through bone, gristle and flesh with equal ease.

Once the camp was erected, Pickering and I sparred lightly for a few hours. He was picking up some very good habits, making his defence harder to pierce. A few travellers passed on the road, giving us the odd glance. We broke for a midday meal, sitting and eating in companionable silence looking out over the lake.

Thunder's ears pricked up, and he dropped the stick he had been holding in hope for the last ten minutes of our meal. He turned to face the road towards Kinloch Hold.

Pickering and I shared a glance. "Connor didn't mess around," I said softly with a grin.

"Hmm," Pickering hummed, expressing neither agreement nor disagreement.

We rose to our feet in time to see a pair of templars on horseback bearing down on our camp. They hauled back on the reins hard, causing their mounts to almost skid on the dusty road.

"Warden-Commander!" one bellowed in a raw, wavering voice. "By the authority of the Chant-"

"By the Maker, shut up!" his companion hissed.

"What?"

"I said shut up," the second templar repeated. He pulled off his helmet, revealing the face of a middle-aged man with a thick moustache. "Warden-Commander Kathryn Surana," he continued formally in a far more pleasant tone of voice. "We have been tasked with tracking down an apostate mage of your acquaintance."

I raised an eyebrow at their antics. "An apostate of my acquaintance?" I repeated with as much honest confusion as I could inject into my voice. "All my Warden mages are not apostates."

The polite templar nodded. "Indeed. Apprentice Connor Guerrin escaped from custody sometime last night. His phylactery was found broken. A search of the tower showed no sign of the boy."

The first templar looked like he wanted to say something, but held his tongue. A pity. It probably would have been entertaining.

"I see," I said evenly. "I take it that as I spoke with the boy just yesterday that I am a suspect in abetting his escape?"

The templar swallowed nervously, but nodded. "In a manner of speaking. The Knight-Commander charged Initiate Harold and I to seek you out and search your party."

I narrowed my eyes. "Did he now?" Thunder growled; deep, low and threatening.

Both templars suddenly drew back, radiating fear. "Only as a precaution. He was categorical that you could not have assisted, as you were in his presence for much of your visit. However, all avenues of escape need to be explored."

I sighed as though it were a huge imposition. "Very well. As you can see, only my bodyguard, mabari and I are here. But feel free to examine our camp if you feel it necessary to assuage the Knight-Commander's honour."

Thunder abruptly trotted over towards the horses and sat a few yards away, still as a statue and just as patient. The animals shifted warily under his gaze.

"Why have you made camp so close to the Circle?" the youth named Harold demanded hotly, not looking at my mabari.

"Harry! Will you shut up!" the older templar whined.

Pickering, his expression perfectly neutral, jerked his head to one side, towards our ox. "Bobby there pulled up lame. Figured giving him a break would be best," he grunted gruffly.

I glanced towards the animal, noting that Pickering had, at some point, wrapped one leg with what appeared to be a compress. He really was a clever chap. I wouldn't have thought to do something like that.

"I see. Thank you," the polite templar said with a pointed glare at his companion. Both dismounted and began a thorough search of our camp. It helped that there were two dirty plates and two half-empty mugs.

They took their time, looking all around the camp for signs of a third person, only avoiding Thunder. He would growl deeply whenever one or the other strayed too close. Eventually, even the youth appeared satisfied that Connor wasn't hiding with us.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Warden-Commander," the older templar said.

"Why are you travelling south and not east?" Harold blurted; his tone accusing and finger pointing away from the lake. "Your lands are that way!"

The older templar rolled his eyes and moved his lips in a silent prayer. "You are on report, Initiate!" he snapped.

"But Ser Allan," he whined.

"But nothing! The movements of the nobility are not your concern." He turned to me. "My apologies, Warden-Commander. With your leave?"

I nodded mutely at the unexpected civility. Ser Allan bowed and returned to his mount, gesturing at his companion to do the same. They mounted and rode off, with only the youth turning in the saddle to glare at me one last time.

"Well that was interesting," I said once I judged them out of earshot. "Connor? You can come out now." Thunder rose to his feet and moved backwards a couple of steps, revealing a small lump of fur.

Pickering looked at me questioningly before he gasped at the sudden shimmering in the air right in front of Thunder. "How did you know I was here?" Connor asked after resuming his true form.

I grinned at him. "What better way to catch up with me than hitching a ride with the templars charged with tracking me down? Good boy for guarding him Thunder."

Thunder barked happily.

Connor gave a wry smile. "He just about sat on top of me after I jumped off the horse." He shrugged. "I didn't want to risk hiding in a pocket or under their armour. Sorry I took so long, but I was very cautious. Honestly, after you spelled out how to escape in front of First Enchanter Irving, I was surprised that there wasn't an ambush waiting for me."

I nodded in sympathy. "I guess Irving thinks that he'd prefer you to be a free fugitive than a dead apprentice."

Connor seemed to accept that. He looked around and breathed deeply. "Oh, I've missed just standing out of doors."

I nodded to Pickering, and he began to break camp. "Well, you'll get to spend a lot of time outside now. You won't be able to visit your father or mother; not for a while at least. Or anyone who would recognise you, in fact."

He nodded, suddenly very sober. "I know. I can go west I guess. I can speak Orlesian well enough."

I snorted. "Don't be absurd. You're coming with me. You still need magical training, and I've got just the place for you to get it."

He blinked at me. "Really?"

"Of course. You don't really think I'd let you just wander off, do you? You have a talent we need to develop. And you being safe will bring your parents a great deal of peace."

He blinked his eyes rapidly as they began to glisten. "I… Thank you, Arlessa Kathryn."

I slipped an arm around his shoulders. "You are welcome, Connor. Come on. Let's get this camp broken down and we can take you to your new home."

Less than an hour later we were trundling north back towards Kinloch Hold. Connor stayed in his mouse form as we approached it. We passed the tower and continued along the highway. No one approached us, but we felt the proximity keenly. We kept moving long into the night.

I kept the road in front of us lit with sprites, and we gnawed on jerky to stave off the hunger from missing the evening meal. Connor spent his 'human' time quiet for the most part, though he would ask questions at odd intervals.

I explained to him about my new Circle at Soldier's Peak. He remembered Dagna, incandescently enthusiastic dwarf women being quite memorable in a mage circle, but not Daylen. He stiffened as I explained that Jowan was also stationed there, but assured him that the place was large enough that he never had to interact with his old tutor if he chose not to.

Near midnight, we neared a campfire set off the highway fifty yards or so. The sentry on watch made some noise at our approach, but those in the camp seemed to settle down as we approached the point on the road closest to the camp. Once we passed that point without incident, the camp quietened down almost immediately.

"Nervous folks," Pickering observed around a yawn.

I grunted. "A merchant train, perhaps? They'd be a bit cautious around anyone travelling at night."

"True," he said. "Although, I wouldn't have thought the activity would have died down so quickly. It was like they were trying to pretend not to be there."

I chuckled softly. "They should probably put out that great big fire if that's the case."

The wagon rolled steadily on for a while longer before Thunder's ears pricked up and he raised his head. He stared back along the road behind us, a low, warning growl emanating from his throat.

"Connor!" I hissed softly, shaking the lad awake. "Shift into a mouse and hide, now!"

He blinked owlishly at me momentarily before shimmering into the tiny form. He burrowed under the food sacks in the wagon. I placed a hand on Thunder's collar.

At the edge of my hearing I could make out a sort of panting whimper. Heavy footsteps drew nearer, but only one set. Whoever it was, they were running to catch up.

Our stalker was an emaciated figure, with torn clothes and long, scraggily hair and beard. He staggered closer with an odd, limping gait. He held an unloaded crossbow in one hand, and a single bolt in the other. He carried no quiver.

"Help!" he croaked. "By Our Lady Andraste, please help!"

I blinked at the voice. "Keenan?" I blurted.

He stopped abruptly, almost falling over in his haste. "C-commander?" he gasped.

I stared at my missing Warden completely dumbfounded. After a couple of seconds, I shook off my shock and leapt down from the wagon. Thunder joined me.

"Where have you been?" I demanded.

"Please," he whimpered, falling to his knees. "Help me! They're trying to get me again!"

The smell of his unwashed body washed over me as I approached. His clothes were stained with dried faeces. I almost retched. "Who?" I asked. "Who did this to you?"

He pointed back over his shoulder. "Them," he replied unhelpfully, his voice filled with despair.

Before I could speak, I heard noises in the distance. "Whoever it is, they're not taking one of my Wardens. Thunder, to me! Pick, take the wagon on a bit further, and guard our cargo." I didn't want Connor near this.

Fortunately, Pickering didn't argue. He flicked the reins and the wagon started rolling away. Keenan whimpered, clutching at his knees. Not knowing what else to do, I cast a healing spell at his legs. He gasped, but his pained cries softened.

"Load your crossbow," I ordered, readying Spellfury.

"Yes, Commander," he replied. With a trembling hand, he hauled back on the draw and slotted the bolt into the weapon. "I'm sorry. For everything."

"We'll talk later," I insisted, trying to make out the distance between us and Keenan's tormenters.

Keenan pulled a small leather tote from a pocket, and tore the cork out with his teeth. He lifted it high, emptying it into his mouth. A thin dribble of liquid dripped out onto his tongue. He swallowed, drew a breath, sighed, and then stood a little straighter.

"Is that one of your pain relief potions?" I asked, wondering why he still had even the dregs of one still in his possession if he had been held captive.

"The last of it. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Keenan. We can-"

He shook his head. "It's not okay. I'm sorry."

And with that, I watched as, with glacial slowness, the crossbow dropped low. As I fought for control over my non-responsive body and my mouth to open and scream, Keenan pulled the trigger.

Thunder yelped involuntarily as the bolt buried itself in his spine.

By the time I was capable of registering what was happening, Keenan was gone and my hands were covered in Thunder's hot blood. I cupped the base of the bolt protruding grotesquely from his back, trying to will the wound closed. Through my tears I could see his doggy expression of confusion at why his rear legs were lying splayed along the ground.

Despite their coating of gore, my hands were glowing blue with all the healing power I possessed.

"Kathryn!" a voice shouted in my ear.

I looked up, confused at the sound. Pickering knelt in the dirt beside me, his anxious expression cast in sinister shadow by the light of my magic.

I couldn't make out what he wanted.

He slapped me.

"Kathryn! Focus!" he demanded.

I touched my stinging cheek, smearing it with blood. "I… Thanks. I needed that."

He slumped in relief. "Come on, we need to go. That man set us up for an ambush. They're coming now; listen!"

I looked down at Thunder, my heart wrenching at his piteous whining. The red of the bloody wound suddenly filled my world. "No."

"Kathryn! We must…"

I looked back up at Pickering and fought back a growl. "No! Stay with Thunder and Connor and keep them safe." I felt as though someone else was using my face. "I will deal with this ambush."

The snarl on my face caused him to flinch back and nod quickly. With grunts from both man and dog, he hefted Thunder up onto his shoulder. Had I been thinking clearly, I'd have been impressed at the effort. "All right. Good luck," he offered.

I nodded, angrier than I'd ever been in my entire life. I pulled Spellfury off my shoulder and ripped off my potion bandoleer, handing them to him. "Potions for Thunder and a weapon for Connor," I spat shortly. I was not going to be using a staff in this battle. I wanted to feel flesh part beneath my blade. I wanted to feel hearts stop beating on Spellweaver's tip.

I rose and charged down the dark road towards the voices. Every step made me angrier.

"KEENAN!" I shouted in a battle cry that even Alistair would have been proud of.

My elf-vision aided me well. I spotted a handful of man-sized, armoured figures on the road, one holding tight to Keenan's silhouette. They all moved quickly to battle-ready stances at the sound of my approach.

A fireball scattered them like flies under a swatter.

The spell wasn't powerful; casting while at a dead sprint stripped you of the fine control necessary for truly powerful spells. But the effect had their defensive formation broken. I fell upon the group with a vengeance.

If I hadn't been in a berserk rage I probably would have noticed that they were not alone.

I inelegantly thrust Spellweaver's tip through the first man's breastplate with a steely, grating rasp before the first Holy Smite struck. I grunted at the unexpected mystical force, but forced it away.

I kicked my first victim off my sword and swung at the next. He caught my wild, arcing swing on his shield and stepped back as the next Holy Smite crashed down around me.

I pushed through it and leapt forward, shoving the warrior as he tried backpedalling. He went over in a metallic clatter.

Another Smite struck, and then another. I dropped to one knee involuntarily under the assault. How many were there?

In my peripheral vision, I saw two kilted figures approach. I lashed out and around, cutting deep into their shins. They fell screaming.

Another Smite hit. This one I barely felt. My unexpected assault had scattered their focus.

"She's not falling!" a panicked voice cried.

I rose and charged again, trying to scream my defiance. But I had no breath. Belatedly, I realised that I'd been screaming all this time. I drew a deep breath as I closed with another pair of shadowy figures.

"Stand aside," a soft, cultured voice said calmly.

My sword smashed down on the warrior's shield. I drew back for another shot when my world erupted with white light.

The Holy Smite was a step above and beyond any Oghren or Alistair could produce. The mind behind it was tight, focused and incredibly disciplined. I screamed as the energy flooded my body and stripped my power.

In the contrasting darkness that followed, I dropped helpless to my knees, and then face down on the road.

There was silence for a few moments, with only my laboured gasps breaking it.

"Bring her back to camp. Quickly!" the cultured voice ordered.

Someone pulled Spellweaver from my nerveless fingers. My helmet and gauntlets followed. I tried biting the hands as they came close, but after a surprised curse, a pungent-smelling cloth was pressed over my mouth and nose. I recognised the smell immediately, and tried struggling anew.

The magebane-infused cloth made me lethargic, even in the emotion-charged situation. I slumped under its foul influence.

Rough hands gripped my arms and hauled me up. I tried to struggle, but my body wouldn't respond.

"I thought for a moment that it wasn't her," the man on my right said. "I've never seen a mage ignore Holy Smites before."

The man on my left grunted. "That fire show at the beginning didn't tip you off?" he asked sourly.

"It ruined my night vision, I know that much."

Another grunt. "She's dangerous."

"Agreed."

The pair fell silent as they dragged me down that long, dark road.

Metallic manacles snapped shut around my wrists. I forced my eyelids open, and the blurry form standing over me coalesced into a familiar figure. "Ah, Warden-Commander. I have some questions for you."

"Sod off," I whispered automatically.

Knight-Commander Darrian nodded, as though expecting that exact response. "Just what were you doing travelling at night, hmm?" He ran his hands over my breastplate, searching in the darkness for my usual decorations. "No staff? No potions? No bodyguard? Very interesting."

I looked down at my wrists. A bar of silverite almost two feet long connected the steel manacles. In the light of the campfire I could make out lyrium-inscribed runes etched into stones embedded in the metal, but I did not recognise the designs.

"Those runes prevent you from accessing your magic," Darrian explained. "Inscribing them on an object small enough to be portable is a recent development, and a welcome one. Constructing a transportable, mana-damping cell around you would have been logistically challenging."

A templar approached us. "Knight-Commander, the camp is almost broken down. We will be ready to march within the hour."

Darrian nodded, his eyes still focused on me. "Thank you, Knight-Captain. We leave as soon as the strike team returns."

I frowned at the response. I would expect a painfully formal man like Darrian would know the names of his squad. "No names, eh?" I wheezed. "Afraid I'll tattle when I escape?"

He reached up and rubbed his chin, his attention returning to me. "A precaution I feel is necessary, given your resourcefulness. But do not mistake caution for opportunity. I have made a careful study of you, Kathryn. I believe the team I have assembled can prevent you escaping their custody."

I concealed a shudder at his words. Bluffs and taunts wouldn't do me any good here.

He continued in the same calm, collected tone he used back at the Landsmeet. "I did not expect you to travel at night," he mused aloud. "But those who do, they do so with stealth in mind. You lit up the road with your sprites to light your way. Why? Why is it so important that you travel at night, but not in stealth?"

I turned my head away, ignoring his questions. The magebane still coated my throat, and I coughed to shift the gunk and ease the prickly sensation.

"Knight-Commander!"

Darrian glanced around. "Report," he said shortly.

A nearby silhouette saluted. "We found the wagon. There was no trace of the bodyguard or the hound, Ser." The voice had the distinct accent of someone from the Free Marches.

Darrian rose out of his crouch. "This is exactly the situation I wished to avoid."

The templar wavered slightly. "Ser! We could not have foreseen that she would be travelling at night."

"Do people ever travel at night?" Darrian asked silkily.

"Er, occasionally, Ser."

"Then it could have been foreseen. But no matter; recriminations are not advantageous at this point. We need to adapt to this change of circumstance."

He stood still for a while as the templars broke down the camp. Though silent, I could almost hear his thoughts race. The templar who'd brought word of the unattended wagon remained still at attention.

Finally, Darrian reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "An apostate, most likely."

"Knight-Commander?"

Darrian spun to face the templar. "It was always possible that she would leave the Circle with another recruit; we were prepared for that. But any such mage would have been armed. She would not have just given her staff to a mage who wielded one already. As improbable as it sounds, they must have met an apostate after leaving the tower."

The templar did not sound convinced. "Er, that's quite unlikely, Ser. We are less than three leagues from Kinloch Hold. Apostates as a rule do not come anywhere near a Circle."

Darrian marched over to the much-taller man and glared up at him. "Her bodyguard left her. She does not have the staff she was seen carrying. She does not have the leather potion sash she customarily wears. So the most likely scenario is that they came across an unarmed apostate, and she gave orders to her bodyguard to escort him to her Grey Warden fortress while she exacted vengeance on those who mortally wounded her hound."

In my daze, I cursed myself and my actions. Thunder was quite possibly the only person he could have attacked to make me react like that. He'd played me so well. Thankfully it appeared that they had not heard the news of Connor's escape.

"Er, how do you know that the dog wasn't killed?"

"Her bodyguard wouldn't have taken the body it if it had been!" Darrian snapped. "Send word to the strike team that they are searching for a lightly armed bodyguard and at least one apostate. They are most likely carrying a large dog. Move!"

The templar bolted.

Darrian turned and looked down at me. He took a half breath and let it out in a short sigh and shook his head. "You make even something as simple as ambushing you so very complicated, Kathryn Surana."

"That's Arlessa Kathryn to you," I croaked.

He moved closer and crouched down in front of me. "I think we are both beyond titles at this point." He sighed deeply. "Do you recall our discussion at your Landsmeet?"

I ignored him.

He continued as though I had answered in the affirmative. "We spoke about the cause and culpability for the current rift between the Chantry and Ferelden. I am sure you have deduced that I have been charged with repairing that rift. A task made somewhat more difficult by your recent actions."

I coughed and snorted. "Morag and Rylock weren't singing from the same hymn sheet either."

"That is true," he agreed. "But mindless fanatics can be useful in some small number of circumstances. Sacrificing them cost nothing, but gained me much."

I felt cold shiver than had nothing to do with the night air. "I suppose sacrificing me gains you more then."

Darrian made no denial. "I am not usually given to exposition. However, I wish for you to know that I find the action I must take distasteful. But as they say, duty is a harsh mistress."

I gave him an ugly laugh. "The claim of a coward."

"If it pleases you to believe so," he accepted amicably. "You should know that Ser Rylock has been executed for her attack upon your person. Revered Mother Morag and Grand Cleric Murian have ostensibly been stripped of their ecclesiastical rank and returned to Val Royeaux. I strongly suspect their remaining years will be spent in a cloister. Certainly their failures should preclude them from ever gaining another position of power within the Chantry."

I stared up at him, straining to make out the details of his expression in the near darkness. "Ostensibly?"

He gave me a single nod. "Yes. I told you that the fault for this lamentable state of affairs lay within the character of the Grand Cleric. There could be no reconciliation between the Ferelden Crown and Chantry with her in a position of power. Given the hideous miscalculations and clouded judgement of both priests, they would likely have been stripped of their rank by the Divine. Such an action would have weakened Her Perfection's political position within her council at a critical time, so I managed to persuade both priests that willingly ceding their positions was in the best interests of the Chantry."

I shook my head. "And I'm the payment," I said flatly. "The sacrifice they demanded."

He nodded and responded in a rather satisfied tone of voice. "Just so. The fact that both of them eagerly chose deciding your fate as their price says much about their self-destructive vindictiveness. The Chantry is well rid of such folk."

"My fate," I repeated. "They gave up their power just to order my death?"

He actually sighed, doing a remarkable impression of a man truly sorrowful. "No. Such a demand would have been far easier to fulfil. No, you will live for some time yet." He rose to his feet. "I shall say no more. Good bye, Kathryn Surana. We shall not meet again."

I glared at him as he turned and left me, but the effect was probably lost on a human at night. "Oh, I wouldn't bet on it," I whispered to myself.

o_ooo000ooo_o

Cassandra swallowed. She had not been looking forward to this part of the Warden's story. "It was Murian and Morag who chose your punishment?"

Kathryn glared at her, but the Seeker noted that the elf's hands were trembling lightly. "Of course. Who did you think decided it? The templars? They're men. They don't have the vicious imagination necessary."

o_ooo000ooo_o

Rough hands stripped me of my remaining armour. Nothing replaced it, leaving me clammy and cold in my sweat-stained undershirt in the crisp night air. More hands gripped my head firmly and someone scraped my scarlet hair away with a cut-throat razor. Still weak from the Smites and without my Arcane Warrior strength, I could not struggle enough to stop them. A stout rope tied the manacles to a metal staple, hammered deep into the earth.

By the time the sun peaked over the horizon, the camp was packed and I got a good look at my captors.

Templars, to a man. As I studied each figure I noted that I was in rather esteemed company. Eight templars and there wasn't a non-titled bastard among them. Darrian and another man wore the armour of a Knight-Commander, while the remaining six were all Knight-Captains.

And there was a strike team out there after Pickering and Connor.

They really went all out to capture me. There were twice as many ranking templars as were needed to run an entire Circle of Magi. I didn't know whether to be honoured or terrified.

The only positive was that things didn't seem to be going well for them. The strike team had not yet returned, and it was dawn. Darrian gave some final orders before mounting a horse and riding off to the west.

I rolled over, shivering in the damp earth, but not yet capable of rising under my own strength. In the light of the morning I examined the manacles on my hands.

The long bar made it impossible for me to bring my hands together; making it impossible to work at the cuffs. Some of the runes embedded in the silverite were familiar; commonly used to dampen the mana of mages housed in a prison cell. But my classical education held that they were only effective on a stationary structure. The unfamiliar runes must be what made the bloody thing portable.

A tiny movement caught my eye. In the undergrowth a couple of feet away, a small grey mouse rose on its hind legs and waved a paw at me.

"Shit," I whispered.

The templar standing over me glanced down and smirked at me.

"Water?" I wheezed at him, theatrically making my throat sound drier than it was.

He snorted softly, but took a couple of paces and called out to another templar.

I snapped my attention back to Connor. "Orders," I breathed, as loudly as I dared. "Get to Soldier's Peak. Do not follow me. Don't try to aid me. I'll escape myself. Go!"

Connor's head drooped, but he nodded. He turned and vanished into the undergrowth. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I stared at where he had been standing for a long moment, praying that he and Pickering obeyed. Pain suddenly flashed in my back, and I grunted in agony. "Here, mage. Water."

I rolled back over and glared up at him.

"You want me to kick you again? Just keep looking at me like that. You wanted water; here it is."

I reached out for the canteen, but he simply upended it over me. I gasped at the frigid sensation as the liquid splashed on my bald scalp. The water ran unimpeded down my face and neck, and soaked my clothes. In the brisk morning air, the liquid felt like ice.

"Nice view Warden," the templar leered.

I glanced down and saw that my wet undershirt was almost transparent. I grabbed the collar and pulled the material away from my skin.

The templar snorted. "Why bother? It's not as though you have much to look at," he sneered at me.

With one hand, I pulled the material up to my lips and sucked as much moisture out of it as I could. He snorted, and then stood back at attention.

After perhaps another hour, the remaining Knight-Commander finally ordered the templars to move out. My guard levered the metal staple out of the earth and tossed it into the back of a wagon. He then hauled on the rope, pulling me to my feet.

"You try and run, and I'll hunt you down," he snarled in my face.

I figured I'd best test the waters, so to speak, to see just how much Darrian was prepared to take to keep me alive.

I thrust my knee hard into his groin.

He dropped like a sack of shit.

Calls of alarm rang out around the camp. I ignored them and lifted my foot. The templar's nose made a delightful crunching sound under my heel.

Two templars charged me, clubs in hand. I defended as best I could, using the silverite bar between my wrists. But the result was inevitable.

My ribs, shoulders, arms and legs were aching by the time the remaining Knight-Commander called them off me.

He stood over my trembling form and shook his head. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he said, wiggling his finger at me.

"It was worth it," I grunted.

"I shall change your mind, mage," he retorted in a thick, Orlesian accent. "For every attack on any man under my command, I shall repay you five-fold."

I grinned up at him nastily. "What a brave soul you are."

He frowned. "Do not try me," he growled.

I ignored him. "I bet you can't wait for your biographer. 'What did you accomplish in your life?' 'Oh, I ordered six men to beat up a helpless elf girl a third my size. Aren't I tough!' The priest will probably give me a medal."

He looked a bit taken aback. Several of the other templars looked a little uncomfortable. "I am doing the Maker's work," he declared.

I snorted. "Oh, I just bet he's overjoyed at His name being used as an excuse to do the bidding of a pair of vindictive bitches. Tell me, would you stand up in the Cathedral and tell the congregation what you're doing? Or are you too ashamed?"

He snarled at me, snatched one of the templar's clubs, and struck down.

When I came to, I found myself carried over the shoulder of a templar, sporting a splitting headache and blurred vision. My arms dangled down his back, pulled hard by the heavy metal shackled to my wrists. I twisted my head slightly and noted that the templar wasn't wearing a helmet.

I was being carried along a narrow dirt track; a hunter's path.

I didn't hesitate. Despite the deep ache in my head, limbs and ribs, I carefully manoeuvred my hands, managing to get a grip on both ends of the silverite bar. I took a few breaths, then with a sharp move, twisted my body and jammed one end of the bar up and into the back of the templar's head.

He grunted and dropped to one knee, but didn't black out or let go. I raised the bar again and struck down. He still didn't fall, but his grip slackened. I writhed about, getting some leverage, and brought one knee sharply up under his chin. His head snapped back.

This time he fell.

I broke free of his tensionless grip and raced off in a random direction through the light forest. The rush of possible freedom lent me a temporary relief from the pain, and despite my aches, I ran as fast as I could. Shouts echoed around me on all sides except one – directly in front. I didn't care what direction I was running; I didn't care what was in front of me.

I just ran.

I dodged trees and jumped over logs. Weirdly, I found myself noticing vivid details in the world around me. The shape of a spider's web. The pattern of moss on a bolder.

The mystical force of a Holy Smite struck at me; I forced it away and kept on running.

But running on bare feet in an untamed forest was not easy. My foot landed on the edge of an inconvenient rabbit hole and sank as the weakened earth gave way. I stumbled and fell forward.

My pursuers were on my before I could recover. Pain flared in my back and shoulders from their assault, but above it all a voice cried, "Subdue her!"

A large hand gripped the back of my head and pushed my face forward into a log.

The next time I regained consciousness, I wished I had not.

There wasn't a single part of me that didn't ache abominably. I groaned involuntarily.

"Ser? She appears to be awake."

The unnamed Knight-Commander's face appeared in my vision. "This is becoming tiresome, Warden," he snapped. "Do not try my patience again."

Through a jaw that felt askew, I ground out, "I bet I can keep it up longer than you can." As bravado went, it lacked a certain something, but it was all I could manage.

"Knight-Commander? Allow me," a familiar voice said. "The Warden and I are old friends. It will be my pleasure to, heh, adjust her behaviour."

The Knight-Commander glared at me intently, but nodded. "Very well. She is yours to discipline. I must see to the perimeter." He drew away, and the scarred, monocular visage of Knight-Captain Conchobar took his place. "Well met, Warden," he leered, grinning nastily as the Knight-Commander left me to his mercies.

o_ooo000ooo_o

Cassandra jerked back, visibly shocked. To her sure and certain knowledge, Knight-Commander Conchobar of the Nevarran Circle had not been a member of the templar team that had abducted the Warden. Indeed, he had been a respected and highly decorated templar with a commendation from the Divine Beatrice herself.

Was the Warden stringing her along? Was this part of her story being embellished, or even fabricated?

Still, story so far had validated both the man's attitude and physical appearance.

What if he had been a member of the team? How had he escaped the punishment dispensed to the remainder.

Cassandra leaned forward, eager for more.

o_ooo000ooo_o

I swallowed the stubborn knot of fear in my throat and replied, "Nice to see you again, Cyclops."

Conchobar's superior leer fractured momentarily as his remaining eye twitched. But he was certain of his power enough that he let the insult slide. "I am going to enjoy breaking you. I must say that I'm a little upset that I wasn't here until now. But I suppose killing your bodyguard and dog was quite satisfying. Oh, and the apostate too, but he wasn't important."

Despite the sudden shiver I felt at those words, I had to believe that he was lying. "He? You think the mage with me was male?" I bluffed. "You sure I didn't ruin the vision in your other eye too?"

The smile on his face vanished.

I grinned at him. Bluff called. They were safe.

He sneered. "Bah! It doesn't matter. No one knows who took you. No one knows where we are taking you. With those shackles, you can't use magic to escape."

Pleased that he was wrong about at least one of those things, I raised an eyebrow at him. "Bullshit. You're deathly afraid that I'll escape or be rescued. If you weren't, your idiot friends over there wouldn't be so scared of using their names around me."

The sneer drooped a bit before slamming back up. "You think we're scared of you escaping?"

"Terrified," I confirmed.

He snorted. And, with a swagger in his voice, began pointing out each templar and reeling off their names and ranks.

Maker's balls, but this idiot was easy to manipulate.

Despite the sudden alarm around the camp and demands that he stop, Conchobar kept at it, pausing only to bark at the dissenters that he had been left in charge. He was so determined to prove that he wasn't afraid of a woman that he casually violated operational security. I mentally recited each name, filing the information away deep in my mind.

"Oh, and I'm sure you recognise Keenan," he said with a cruel grin. "Keenan! Come over here, man!"

Pitiful whimpering came from under a nearby bush. It shook and trembled before disgorging my Warden. Keenan half crawled, half slithered towards us, crying piteously all the while.

Conchobar appeared delighted to relate Keenan's sorry tale. My Warden had appeared at the Chantry doors one night, hysterical with grief. He had come across his wife in the arms of her lover and had murdered them both in a fit of rage.

After disposing of the bodies, he had gone to the Amaranthine Chantry to beg for forgiveness. He could have claimed sanctuary and remained untouchable so long as he stayed within the walls of the Chantry, but a visiting Knight-Captain had been there. One of Darrian's men.

It seems that having a Grey Warden indebted to them appealed to the templars.

It hadn't taken long for Keenan to become horribly addicted to lyrium. Not when he had been unfettered access to as much pain-relief as he wanted combined with no long-term healing. The templars knew exactly how to corrupt a man to work for them.

"Let me show you just how broken he is. Come over here, man," Conchobar demanded.

Keenan obeyed like a beaten dog desperately trying to please his master.

Conchobar gestured to a pair of templars. "Make her stand. Strip her."

After a brief flurry of action that ended with one templar with a bloody nose and me with an aching, puffy cheek, I was forced upright, my arms above my head and naked to the world.

Conchobar handed Keenan a switch. "Here. Whip her. Whip your Commander."

He looked at me uncertainly, and gave Conchobar a pleading look.

"Whip her, and I'll give you a full potion, Keenan."

The branch whistled through the air without further hesitation, and pain erupted across the ribs under my left arm. I clenched my teeth together, but couldn't keep a grunt from escaping.

Another whistle, and a new fiery pain ignited across my right side on the backstroke.

Keenan struck back and forth like a man possessed; with passion but no direction. He hit the skin on my hips as often as the tender flesh of my ribs. He did not target my breasts, despite the urging from Conchobar. He simply wanted his potion, and wanted it as quickly as possible. So he swung the branch back and forth, raining agonizing blows on either side of my body.

I mentally recited the names and ranks of the templars in an effort to distract myself from the pain.

Eventually, Keenan stopped, and my throat felt raw from screaming. I gasped and gulped air as the templars around me shook their heads.

"Pathetic," Conchobar sneered, cuffing Keenan and sending the emaciated man sprawling. He turned to me. "I think a different form of punishment is warranted. Spread her legs."

I struggled hard, but against three burly men there was little I could do. Conchobar raised his kilt and fumbled at his smalls. With an evil grin, he closed on me, positioned himself, and thrust.

Pain erupted in my groin, but it was hardly worth mentioning given what I'd just endured. What made it worse was the sensation of defilement. They had stripped me of my dignity as well as my clothes. This was about dehumanising me in the most vile and violent way.

I forced myself to become angry. It was hard. All I wanted to do was curl up and wish the world away. Rage covered the fear and helplessness, giving me a measure of control.

I opened my streaming eyes and glared at my rapist's face, his breath hot on my cheek. I gave him a tight smile.

"Enjoying that, whore?" he snarled.

In between his thrusts, I retorted, "I'm about to."

My blood was a weapon. And with his brutal actions, he'd released it.

At my mental command, the taint in my blood attacked him like acid.

Conchobar's expression changed slowly, from unholy joy to confusion. And then from confusion to pained terror.

He screamed and withdrew, clutching at his genitals. "It burns! It burns!" he bellowed, trying to rub my blood from his little templar.

It didn't work. My blood took just seconds to its way through the skin, muscle and bone of a demon. It made short work of an unprotected male member.

Templars rushed to his aid. A few stood around with bewildered helplessness as Conchobar writhed in a ball of personal agony in front of them.

"What did you do?" screamed a voice directly into my ear.

I turned and smirked at the bucket helm. "Piss off," I told him.

He struck me across the face. I found myself oddly thankful that he'd divested himself of his metal gauntlets to more easily restrain me for Conchobar.

"I asked you a question, mage," he yelled.

"And I told you to piss off," I retorted.

He raised his fist again, but another voice shouted over the din, "She won't answer you like this, Knight-Captain!"

I looked over at the speaker, bringing to mind his name from Conchobar's ill-considered exposition. "Too bloody right," I spat.

"She'll answer me," the pugnacious templar declared.

I snorted with dark amusement, but the templar shook his head. "She has been Smited, beaten, restrained, whipped and raped. I have encountered mages with similar discipline. Nothing you do to her will convince her to speak. Ser," he finished belatedly.

I looked at the chatty templar a bit more closely. He was one of the new non-titled among them. Though I was no expert, I figured from his accent that he was from Nevarra or the Free Marches.

"Give me a few hours with her and she'll talk all right," the helmeted templar said with a menacing growl.

I raised my chin at him, silently declaring my challenge.

"With all due respect, Ser Conchobar does not have a few hours."

The three of us remained in a tableau of silence broken only by the piggy whining and squeals emanating from the recently emasculated Ser Conchobar.

"Fine," the templar with the fists spat. "Do what you can to get her to talk." He tossed me towards the newcomer, spun on his heel and stalked away.

The templar actually removed his cloak and knelt in the dirt with me. He wrapped me in the rough cloth. "I know you won't tell me what you did, but is there anything you will tell me? Anything that will save Ser Conchobar?"

I studied his handsome features for a moment, trying to get a feel for his character. "Sure. Let me go and I'll tell you."

He gave me a sad smile. "You know I don't have the authority to order that."

I bit back my first response. "Then get me some food," I said, figuring that I had only a small window of opportunity to get fed.

He nodded. "That, I can do." He raised his head and called out to one of the templars hovering uselessly around Conchobar to go and get some food for me.

There were some grumblings, but the nominated waiter wandered off to his assigned duty.

"What can you tell me?" the templar pressed.

I just stayed silent, occasionally dropping my gaze on the fellow getting me dinner.

The templar sighed and accepted that I was staying silent until I got my food. If it wasn't for Conchobar's shrill screams dying off, I'm sure he would have pressed the issue.

A plate of jerky and trail rations was dropped on my lap, and a canteen sloshed as it landed at my side. Despite being naked under the cloak, I opened it to get at the food. With my hands shackled a couple of feet apart, I couldn't eat all that well. I snatched the dry food up with one hand and shoved it into my mouth, chewing noisily.

"Now, is there anything you can tell me?"

I shrugged without stopping my chewing. "Conchobar is going to have to get used to not holding onto anything while he pisses," I said around a mouthful of jerky. I swallowed, tugged the cork of the canteen out and gulped down a few mouthfuls of water to follow the salty dried meat.

The templar paled at the thought. "He is losing his… Maker's breath!"

I nodded with a malicious grin, and took another bite.

"What can we do?" he demanded.

I rolled my eyes. "Maker, if only you happened to have someone who could heal nearby. Someone like, oh, a mage?"

An eavesdropping templar almost exploded. "You can heal him? Do it!" he demanded.

I shoved the rest of the jerky in my mouth and raised my hands, showing off the magic-damping manacles. Despite the protests from the bruised and torn skin along my sides, I gave them a shake to draw attention to them just in case he didn't get it. He was a templar after all, they were notoriously thick.

"What is going on here?" the Knight-Commander bellowed from the other side of the clearing.

I picked up as much of the rations as I could and shoved them into my mouth. I had just seconds left to eat them if his expression was any indication. After all, he had just left Conchobar in charge of giving me some attitude adjustment, and when he got back Conchobar was lying in a ball, clutching the remains of his bits while I sat unmolested and eating. It probably wasn't what he had in mind when he left.

o_ooo000ooo_o

Cassandra found herself disturbingly satisfied at Conchobar's misfortune. "Your blood was able to emasculate him so thoroughly?" she asked, seeking clarification on the extent of the unconventional power.

Kathryn's grin could not have been more satisfied had it been on the face of a cat in a vat of cream. "Oh yes. Next time I saw him he had nothing but a scarred lump down there. He is constantly getting infections but no mage will go anywhere near what's left of his bits, so he can't pass water without screaming in agony."

The Seeker hesitated. Conchobar had Vanished years before, yet the Warden spoke of him in the present tense. Did she know something of his location after all this time? "What happened after you maimed him?"

The mage shrugged easily. "Conchobar was sent off for medical attention, given they weren't going to let me out of my shackles to save him. I took great joy in pointing out to the others that their emasculation was worth less than my continued captivity."

Cassandra winced. "I take it you were not treated better after that?"

Kathryn lost what little humour she had. "No. I was gagged, stripped and made to march behind them as we travelled south through the back lanes of Ferelden. Without my hair, I was just a naked elf to the few people we encountered. The templars were quite free with their switches, and offered them to just about everyone we came across."

Cassandra swallowed. "They switched you? That is all?"

Emerald eyes hardened. "All? All, Cassandra? There wasn't a square inch of my skin that wasn't marked by the end of the first day. Oh, they were very careful not to break my skin; given what my blood had done to Conchobar. But that just gave rise to some of the most inventive punishments you could imagine. Like staking me out on an anthill overnight and then digging into the nest to enrage the ants. That was a fun one."

Cassandra shuddered.

"Or sawing a rashvine back and forth between my legs and then tying my knees together. Or holding my face down in a bucket of their piss repeatedly until I drank it? Oh, what laughs we had."

"Warden, I..."

"They were too afraid to rape me, but not to hold my legs apart and repeatedly kick me in the groin. Or seizing my ears with metal tongs heated in the fire? Seeing if they could twist my nipples off with their metal gauntlets? What fun. Breaking my toes before marching? No, you bitch, switching me wasn't all they did!"

Silence enveloped the pair as they stared at each other. Eventually, Cassandra broke first and asked, "And you did not break? You continued to fight?"

"I did. To both questions."

The Seeker frowned. "You... broke?"

The elf nodded slowly. "The constant abuse; it was relentless. I got almost no sleep during that march, and only enough food to keep me ravenous rather than weak. They refused me clothes, so I was burned by the sun during the day and chilled to the bone at night. I was constantly humiliated, forced to kneel in the dirt and eat without using my hands while they watched. I retreated deep into my mind. I became like a wild animal, fighting and lashing out. I told the Knight-Commander in charge that I would never submit; that I would keep fighting. And I made good on that too. By the time we reached the Wilds there wasn't one of them who didn't have a broken nose or a lost tooth or two. That silverite bar was pretty good for that; shove it hard into someone's face and watch the fun. Of course, that invariably meant punishment."

Cassandra frowned, forcing back the sympathy she felt. It would do her no good here and would only insult the proud mage. "What of your man Keenan?"

"He was treated just as poorly. He just didn't need to be chained. His addiction to the lyrium pain potion kept him leashed to the templars. Given the choice, he would take a potion over food or sleep."

The Seeker rubbed her chin. "I take it they used him to locate darkspawn?"

Kathryn nodded. "It took us a couple of weeks to make it all the way south to the Wilds, but once there, the templars had several options to enter the Deep Roads. They tried just about every identified cave entrance, and it took half a dozen tries to find one that led deep enough that there was any sign of darkspawn."

"Why take you so far south?"

Kathryn shrugged. "That was where they'd explored. All the templars mustering there had little enough to do besides enjoy their holiday. But they didn't have the capability to track the taint; that's what they used Keenan for."

Cassandra shook her head at the immoral actions of holy men. "So they dragged you deep into the Deep Roads. I know it is difficult, but can you tell me what happened down there?"

o_ooo000ooo_o

Keenan whimpered and writhed, like a dog begging his master not to beat him. "Please?" he whispered pathetically.

"Which way, Keenan?" the Knight-Commander demanded.

With an anguished expression, Keenan crawled along the rocky floor. Tears ran down his face and into his beard, washing a thin strip of skin on his cheeks clean. He raised a trembling arm and pointed down the passage towards the most concentrated darkspawn sensation.

"There! That way! Now please?"

The templar sneered and tossed him a small vial. Keenan tried to grab it, but his shaking limbs caused him to fumble. The flask shattered on the floor.

With a squeal of abject horror, Keenan dropped and lapped the liquid as it spread on the muddy rock.

"Move out!" he ordered, beckoning at me. Two templars grabbed me and dragged me off in the direction Keenan had indicated.

The sudden unwelcome realisation hit me. "No!" I screamed. "You can't be serious!"

The Knight-Commander glared at me. "I would have preferred executing you on the road from the Circle, as would every man here. But our desires are irrelevent. Your fate has purchased stability in the Chantry. Take her, bind her legs and leave her for the darkspawn."

I screamed at him. "This is what you have planned for me? Do you know what will happen to me down there?"

He nodded once. "You will birth darkspawn. I know."

He did too. I saw it in his eyes. Sacrificing me on the altar of two vengeful women's hatred for temporary stability was worth every second of unending torment. That I would strengthen the enemies of Thedas was not relevant. That the Maker himself cursed the tainted creatures was not relevant. I had offended them, so I needed to be punished.

And they knew exactly how horrifying it would be for me.

I fought as hard as I could as they dragged me down that depressingly short passageway. The itchy, oily sensation of nearby darkspawn grew steadily more intense. They were coming closer, drawn by the taint in my blood.

I screamed, thrashed and bucked, but to no avail. Too weak from hunger and abuse, my executioners simply dragged me ever closer to an horrific fate.

When the first sounds of grunting echoed in the corridor, the pair dumped me and bolted. I scrabbled for the knots at my ankles, but with only one hand able to work on them at a time, I could not loosen them.

I gave up and tried crawling away, looking for anything helpful. A niche in the tunnel wall I could hole up in, a discarded dagger, anything.

There was nothing. And the darkspawn were almost upon me.

Suddenly, a screaming apparition appeared from the other direction. Keenan wailed and charged at me, sending a surge of hope through my heart.

"Keenan! Help me get these shackles off!"

He ignored me. "Where is it?" he demanded, grabbing me by my shoulders and lifting my frame off the ground. "Where?"

"What?" I asked dumbly.

"My potion!" he wailed, turning my nude body around and running his hands down my blistered and battered skin. "Where? Where is it? They said you had the last one!"

He shoved me away when it became apparent even to him that I did not have a pain potion on me. I could barely believe the gall of the templars. Keenan had delivered me to them; the least they owed him was a clean death. But no, they were discarding him to a horrible fate.

"Keenan, we have to-" I began, when the darkspawn arrived. The dark wave broke over us, drowning us in evil.

I kicked out as well as I could, given my ankles were bound. It accomplished little .

The next few seconds were awful. Despite his crimes, I wailed in anguish as poor Keenan was torn limb from limb, still crying out in vain for relief from his pain-filled existence. I whispered a prayer for his soul as I was carried away. I struggled of course, bashing at the heads and hands of the darkspawn with the silverite bar. But deep in my heart I knew it was futile.

They carried me for miles. The rock strata changed as we descended further and further. The small group of hurlocks who carried me was joined by other roving bands who hollered with success at the capture of a female.

I don't know how long they carried me. I was beaten savagely after biting two fingers off a hurlock, and drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. But I was awake for our arrival at what was to be my home for the rest of my life.

The cavern was huge, with stalagmites and stalactites dotting the floor and ceiling. A large bonfire burned at one end; oily black smoke rising in writing curls and vanishing up a natural chimney in the rock.

I was passed around in a bewildering game. Eventually, one ogre emissary sent a blast of eldritch energy into the air, signalling the start of a ritual.

I was unceremoniously dragged over and held down on a sheered stalagmite as wide as the entrance to Vigil's Keep. The ogre stomped over and roared a challenge to the cavern.

All the darkspawn fell silent.

Suddenly, Hespith's poem echoed in my mind.

I clenched my teeth together, but it was no use. Disgusting fingers pried my jaw apart, hard enough to almost hyperextend the joint, sending lances of pain shooting through my skull. The ogre emissary grinned at me, took a deep breath and leaned forward.

He vomited all over my face.

The foul liquid gushed into my mouth, making me gag. I jerked my head away from the hands holding me steady and coughed, trying to expel the liquid. A massive hand grasped my head, fingers over one ear and thumb over the other.

It forced me to face him again. His grin was malicious, beyond my previous comprehension of that word.

But I wasn't out of the fight yet. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, focusing on the pain. Coppery blood filled my mouth.

The ogre opened his mouth again, and I spat blood, calling forth the power of the taint.

The glob of bloody phlegm entered the ogre's mouth, and he jerked back as it burned the back of his throat. He let out a roar of agony, and thrashed around, clutching and clawing at his neck, tearing off strips of rotting flesh.

The rest of the darkspawn were surprised into immobility at the ogre mage's reaction. I writhed, my terror lending me strength even in my emaciated state. The vomitus on my arms helped me to slip out from the grip of one darkspawn. I slid towards the floor, but the other two shifted position and redoubled their grip.

The blasted manacles made it so easy for them to hold me. But my latest escape attempt left me almost prone on the ground as they held my arms aloft by the silverite bar.

The wounded ogre continued to gasp and choke, before blindly lashing out at me. Or at least, at where he last saw me. His fist smashed into the hurlocks holding me. Only my arms were in the path of the strike, and the sudden intense burning ecstasy in my arms left me reeling.

Instead of the agonizing shock of broken and shattered bone, it felt as though I'd dipped my arms into a vat of boiling euphoria.

I blinked the tears from my eyes to see the bent and twisted silverite bar. And more importantly, the bent and twisted runes.

It was my magic I felt!

I whispered the spell that I'd kept secret. The one spell no one knew I could cast.

My last hope.

The darkspawn closed as the magic took hold.

o_ooo000ooo_o

AN: Thanks to my reviewers, Pintsizedpsycho, Ie-maru, KatDancer2, Arsinoe de Blassenville, MB18932, Isabeau of Greenlea, MemoriesoftheForgottenGuardi an, SgtGinger, timunderwood9, Nate88, unanimously anonymous. mostly, Forget Logic. Pinch Stuff, A fan, Angurvddel, Frankie Lady of soup, Aeonir, Phygmalion (x6!), Laureola, NPC200, forget the rest, Robbie the Phoenix (x8!). I really appreciate your patience and your feedback.

I am sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I generally keep all my fanfiction work on a thumb drive so I can work on it on different computers, but back it up onto my main laptop. However, my daughter tripped over the power lead to that laptop a few weeks before Christmas and sent the computer flying. The laptop died, and the thumb drive was damaged. Not even a data recovery company could get anything off either.

All my unposted stuff for my current fics - 60,000 words – gone, plus 30K words of an unposted story I'd been kicking about.

I had half of the first draft of this chapter in an email I'd sent to myself, and that was it. It's surprising at just how your desire to write vanishes when you have to repeat it all again. It won't be so long for the next chapter.