Chapter 4

The Pilgrim's Path

"Warden-Commander, I give you Sara Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall," Isabela continued.

"Well met, Champion," he muttered, taking his measure of Hawke. She was a lean, fair-looking woman, with blonde hair that was ragged from the rain still falling around them, slightly pink-tinged cheeks, and piercing, azure-blue eyes.

With a brief nod to her, he began to examine her companions. Isabela needed no introduction – he still remembered the pirate captain from their encounter in Denerim, all those years ago – but the others were a curious bunch. At Hawke's side was the saluting warrior – his salute was explained by the little tainted pin-pricks in Tyran's blood, which marked the man as a fellow Warden, although his face was unknown. On closer inspection, there were a few subtle similarities between the Warden and Hawke – were they related? Behind him was a dwarf who was beardless, yet clearly male, a formidable, fiery-haired woman in the armour of a soldier – Kirkwall had no army, so she had to be a guard – and a willowy elf with Dalish tattoos. And then, right at the back, desperately trying not to meet his eyes...

"Anders," the Warden-Commander growled.

"Err... Tyran," the mage almost squeaked. "Long time no see, huh?"

The Warden-Commander paused for a moment, eyes sweeping over his former friend's face. Anders looked... well, pretty damn awful. They all looked the worse for wear, that was true, but his companions had a defiant bonhomie about them, and that same determined spark had all but abandoned the mage. His hair was greasy, unwashed for some time, dirty blond stubble was spreading over his jaw, and his eyes looked... harrowed, a mixture of defeat and shame.

"Nigh on seven years," Tyran murmured, finally, "since you ran off in the night."

His voice bore no trace of hurt or angst – it was icily cold, even by his standards, and its sole purpose was to inform Anders' companions of just what he had done, if they didn't know already.

"Have you told them?" he hissed, drawing closer.

"I told them I left," Anders muttered, flatly.

"And have you told them about the... passenger?" Tyran added, tensely.

"You mean the demon?" the young Warden called, from somewhere to the commander's left.

"Spirit," he corrected, as if by reflex. On seeing the incredulous and rather accusatory expression spreading over the young man's face, he persisted, "Anders here might be a pile of walking dragon dung, but Justice was a loyal ally, and a friend. I won't let him be tarred with the name of demon."

For a moment, Tyran thought he saw a flicker of angry blue in Anders' eyes, the briefest spark of a deeper soul's recognition. Was that Justice?

"I'm right here, you know," Anders scowled, in a decidedly mortal voice.

"I know you are," the Warden-Commander snapped back. Then, he turned his back rather deliberately on Anders, and called to the others, "I assume you all need some shelter?"

"Well, I need rum and a bath," Isabela smirked, "but I'd settle for shelter."

Tyran tried to drop his features into a relaxed smile, but there was something still nagging at his brain... He suppressed it for a moment, letting his business-like tone take over for a moment:

"Nathaniel, tell the men to make ready and double up some horses. And tell Sigrun she can take a break from riding, if she likes, I'm sure someone will take the reins for her."

"Very good, commander," Nathaniel nodded. He turned, but hesitated for a moment, and continued, "Are we headed for the Vigil, or... Amaranthine?"

It took Tyran a moment to decipher the question, but finally, he managed it – 'Amaranthine' meant the Chantry, and the templars... He wasn't stupid. He knew Anders was a mage, albeit one protected by the Rite of Conscription, but Sara Hawke had a staff on her back, as did the Dalish elf. That made three apostates, and only one of them was covered by his authority. By rights, they should be handing them in to the Chantry, not to mention the piratical Isabela...

"The Vigil," he decided, firmly – Nathaniel shot him an approving nod for his mercy, nodded, and departed.

"Shall we join your men, then?" Sara Hawke chimed in, her fair voice slightly hoarse and tired.

"In a moment..." Tyran growled, turning around.

Before anyone could react, let alone stop him, he shot out an armoured fist and smashed it into Anders' face, knocking the mage to the ground with a startled yelp. The blow had been rather harder than he'd intended, and Anders slumped unconscious on the rocky floor.

"Nathaniel!" he bellowed, up the road. "Change of plans, haul Anders on your saddle!"

The archer turned, his mask of confusion quickly dissolving into a half-suppressed smirk, and he trotted back down to them to grab the mage. Tyran advanced up towards the Wardens in his stead, and was thoroughly ignorant of the stunned scene behind him – the dwarf was handing the younger Warden five silvers, and grumbling about a wager...

A few hours later, the Wardens and their charges were cantering along the Pilgrim's Path, making good pace as the dawn sun shifted to a higher, more central vigil in the pallid sky.

Sara Hawke was perched on the back of a sleek roan courser, behind a lean elven Warden with a dagger on each hip and a sword on his back, and she took the time – dangling in midair, or so it felt – to take a look around at her friends. She felt a slight guilty pang at the sight of Anders, slung over the back of Nathaniel's horse and still unconscious, a purple lump rising over his brow where the Warden-Commander had struck him. The others, however, looked far happier. Carver was riding the horse of a dwarven Warden, a perky little woman who looked rather pleased not to be in the saddle any more – that distaste for riding seemed to be shared by all dwarves, because Varric looked just as uneasy on horseback as he did at sea, perched behind an armoured warrior... Merrill and Aveline, like Sara, were sat behind Wardens as they pushed along the road, and Isabela was side-saddle behind the Warden-Commander himself, just a few feet from Hawke and her riding companion. Cousland was riding with distracted ease, and was chattering away with the pirate like they were old friends – she heard a bevy of familiar names mentioned: Zevran, Alistair, Leliana...

After a while, however, the Warden-Commander swivelled around to face her, and caught her attention with a loud call over the clattering hooves:

"Lady Hawke!"

Maker, that felt weird... she hadn't been called 'Lady Hawke' since leaving Ferelden. Ever since, it had been 'Serah' or 'Messere', the clipped addresses of the Free Marches.

"Isabela tells me you hail from Lothering?" the commander continued, with a tone of curiosity.

"Lothering was the last, and the longest, but we lived many places," she replied. "My father was a..."

Shit. How the hell had she stumbled into such an easy trap? She had yet to find out whether it was safe to talk of magic and apostates to the Warden-Commander. His vehement spitting of the word 'demon' earlier didn't bode well in that regard...

"... an apothecary," she murmured, finally, but the moment's hesitation had been too long, and soon after she realised it was a futile effort anyway, for two reasons. One, the Grey Wardens were notorious for tolerating apostates, Anders being the operative example. Two, they knew who her father was – her efforts to suppress that horrific business in Vimmark had made her forget that other people knew. The Wardens knew damn well that Malcolm Hawke was an apostate, so surely the Warden-Commander of Ferelden would know? To make matters worse, he now knew that she had lied, that she was a liar... That wouldn't exactly help them obtain sanctuary...

"I see," he nodded, and the accepting glint in his eye told her she had been panicking too much. "I passed through Lothering myself, on the way from Ostagar."

"You fought at Ostagar?" Hawke murmured, then caught herself: "Of course you did, you're a Warden... You're the bloody Hero of Ferelden..."

"Maker, I hate that name," Cousland laughed, darkly. "But the bards do love to be dramatic... You can call me Tyran, and leave it at that, my lady."

"I'll try, so long as you start calling me by my name, not my lady," she smiled.

"A fair deal, my la- Sara..."

"Ah, that'll do. At least you're trying."

With a subtle pause, Hawke caught herself, and began to laugh inwardly. A moment before, she had been debating whether or not to divulge her secrets to him, whether he would betray them to the clutches of chance or not, and now she was chatting irreverently with him, the Commander of the Grey. There was just something about him, a roguish gleam in the otherwise serious eyes, and quite suddenly, she could understand the reverential tones in which those shared acquaintances had spoken of him – King Alistair, Leliana, and Zevran. He was a man who was quite easily awed.

Before either could continue their conversation, the group as a whole became aware of another set of hooves sounding out through the cool, midday air. The Warden-Commander raised a clenched fist, and as one the Wardens halted in their saddles, leaving only a single horse's clatter – a dappled grey steed was galloping along the road towards them, with a stocky dwarf in the saddle. The dwarf was a Warden, an outrider sent from the convoy by Cousland some hours earlier, to scout the road ahead. As he swung his mount around, coming to a halt in front of the Warden-Commander, his stony face was etched with the distasteful expression of one who had just swallowed a bee.

"What news, Deric?" Tyran murmured, his face turning grave to match the dwarf's.

"Smoke off the Pilgrim's Path," the dwarf replied, with a low growl, "on the turn east, up Aralt Ridge. From the size, prob'ly a caravan. "

"Aralt Ridge?" the Warden-Commander mused. "I'll wager they were headed east to avoid the Wending Wood."

The 'Wending Wood' was the tangle of gaunt, forbidding trees they had passed through about an hour prior. It spoke of a bloody past and ghoulish goings-on, and even the Wardens hadn't deigned to stay there long, speeding up to a gallop to pass through it.

"Aye," Deric agreed. "Always something about that wood. You surface folk are bloody superstitious..."

"Oh, and you dwarves aren't?" Tyran retorted. "After we recruited you, you spent three weeks thinking the sky was going to fall on your head..."

"Fair point, I s'pose," the dwarf grinned. "What d'you say we do about it, sir?"

"They were close to the coast..." Tyran considered. "It could be the Felicisima Armada venturing further south than usual."

Sara knew from her years in Kirkwall that the Felicisima Armada, or 'Raiders of the Waking Sea', scourged all of the Waking Sea's coastlands – Kirkwall, Amaranthine, Highever, all the way from the Amaranthine Ocean in the east to Orlais in the west...

"Or," he continued, "it could just be mountain bandits. Or the Dalish..."

The elf behind whom Sara was riding seemed to bristle at that suggestion, and she surmised he must be Dalish – a little way away, Merrill was glaring in the same fashion.

"I'm sorry," Tyran murmured, directing his apology at the Dalish Warden, "but it happens around here! You've heard me talk about Velanna, who helped defend the Vigil? We met her when she started raiding caravans in the Wending Wood..."

"Either way," Nathaniel urged, diplomatically, "we should find out, right?"

"Right," the Warden-Commander agreed, firmly. "Nathaniel, you're with me. Sigrun, take his saddle and Anders – ride the others back to the Vigil, quick as you like. Warden Carver" – he had taken the younger Hawke's name during the ride – "if you'd care to accompany us? Sara, you too?"

"Why?" was the question which tore out of her slightly bewildered lips.

"It's always good precaution to have a healer around-"

"And he forgot to bring one," Nathaniel smirked, drawing his commander's frown.

"Well, yes... If you'd care to join your brother, and follow us...?"

They went to work in a quick and slightly dazed fashion – Isabela hopped down from behind the commander, her place taken by bow-bearing Nathaniel, while Sara slipped off the elf's courser, stumbled slightly, and jumped up behind Carver, helped onto the horse's rear by the dwarven girl, Sigrun, was it? With those two readied, Sigrun took Nathaniel's horse, checking the unconscious Anders for good measure, while Isabela slipped into Sara's place behind the Dalish elf.

Sigrun gave a shrill but surprisingly loud cry, spurred her horse onwards, and the Wardens followed. They galloped off into the distance, leaving just two horses behind. Without another word, Cousland guided his off into the wilderness at the road's edge, and Carver moved to follow him. Sara, for her part, was bewildered. A few hours prior they had been clambering out of the sea, now she was going to investigate a bandit raid? It was like Kirkwall all over again...

It took an hour's hard ride over storm-battered gorse and heather before they reached Aralt Ridge. The basalt hills stuck messily out of the earth as if scattered by a forgetful Maker, and the plume of smoke the dwarf Deric had described was rising up along their crests from a low dip in the coast road. As they neared, the Warden-Commander let his own horse drop back, slowing slightly until he and Nathaniel were level with the two Hawkes. He was all too aware of the little cutter bobbing in the sea a little distance away, with Felicisima flags rippling in the breeze...

"Once we get closer, we'll dismount," he called, urgently. "Carver and I will move up along the road. Nathaniel, Sara, take the horses and skirt around onto the ridge above..."

They kept edging forward until the Warden-Commander judged it was no longer safe, and slid off their steeds in rough unison. Sara's legs gave slightly as she stumbled to the floor, and Tyran shot her a sympathetic smile.

In a moment, Nathaniel had gathered the two horses by their lead ropes, and was leading them off to the left, towards the low, forested ridge that overlooked the coast road. As Sara trotted off to follow him, Tyran and Carver were both marching down the road towards the smoke – over the lip of the hill, he could just make out a battered canvas cover, with a few bellicose cries and jeers drifting up into the open air.

"Blades ready," he muttered, to the young Warden at his heel. He slid his own longsword out with a sleek swish, but Carver's greatsword, impressive though it was, came free with a loud, grating noise of metal on metal. The Warden-Commander swore aloud, as the voices drifting up from the dip in the road became more tense and furtive – they had to have heard that...

Sure enough, they were accosted by a rough, rather stupid cry of:

"Who's that?"

"Maker they're dumb," Carver murmured, under his breath.

Tyran had to agree. As tactics went, yelling to your attackers and giving away your presence – not to mention your guilt – was a pretty poor one...

"Merchants!" he lied aloud. "We're just seeking safe passage..."

"Ah!" the gruff voice replied, growing in confidence. "Then we may 'ave a problem, matey..."

With a derisive chuckle, the unseen raider sprinted up, appearing over the crest of the road... and stopped dead, his face aghast.

"Surprise," Tyran snarled, lunging forward. His blade was neatly planted through the raider's heart before the man could do so much as draw a weapon.

That rather set things in motion. Shaking the man off his blade and sprinting forward, the Warden-Commander took stock of the situation. He had Carver at his heel, but he was rather cautious of the young man's greatsword. If he wasn't careful, he could just as easily cleave through friend as foe... Rather more reliable was Nathaniel, who he could see crossing onto the ridge – Sara Hawke had the horses in hand now, while his fellow Warden notched an arrow and took aim...

He had plenty of targets to choose from – as the road dipped down towards the coast, it bore the all-too familiar sight of a caravan, forced off the road and onto its side, wheels snapped and framework broken, the canvas cover tattered and torn away. Three swordsmen lay dead around it, joined by a fourth man, an unarmed fellow who he presumed had been the driver. Sickeningly, two horses were also sprawled lifeless on the ground, still in their harnesses – mountain bandits would have stolen them, but the Felicisima Armada had no need of mounts on their ships, so had simply cut them down. The raiders themselves numbered five, with the sixth dead at the top of the rise. Four were drawing swords, axes and cudgels, while one drew back the string of a rough-hewn shortbow.

Before the archer could so much as take aim, Nathaniel struck – a single, silver-headed arrow slid effortlessly down from the ridge, and punctured the man's throat. As he dropped down with a gurgle of blood, Tyran and Carver fell upon the rest, swords flashing in the light.

The Warden-Commander quickly found himself facing two raiders, with the caravan's wreckage at his back. One of his assailants was swinging a bearded axe, the other bore a small, round buckler and a hefty cudgel. Frankly, it was child's play, two petty bandits against a Grey Warden... Tyran darted forward, probing with the tip of his sword and causing the two men to leap back in nervous response. They shared a glance, nodded, and then lunged forward as one, swinging both weapons high overhead...

In a single fluid motion he stepped between them – his raised shield knocked away the cudgel to his left, while the axeman on the right found himself gutted by the commander's blade before he could even strike. Swinging around as the axeman toppled to the floor, he found the cudgel-wielder's back left invitingly open – it was the work of seconds to flip his sword around in his grip, and plunge it through the man's neck from behind.

To his side, Warden Carver had just knocked one of the raiders to the ground with a strike of his greatsword's hilt – he whirled around, span the great blade overhead, then drove it down through the man's gut, burying it in the earth. With the sword stuck in the ground, the last remaining raider thought he saw an opportunity, and darted forward, whirling his own blade. Quite to his surprise, the young Warden simply aimed a quick jab at his jaw, stunning him, before cracking him with a heftier right hook that sent him stumbling straight onto Tyran's sword.

With a snort of disgust, the Warden-Commander slid the man off his blade, and slipped it back into its scabbard. Carver was tugging his own weapon out of the earth, as Nathaniel and Sara descended the ridge to join them, with the horses in tow...

"That... didn't take long," Sara murmured with a surprised expression, as she reached them. Her staff was still on her back, utterly unused in the fight.

"We fight darkspawn for a living," her brother muttered, proudly. "Half a dozen raiders is nothing..."

"I hate to burst your bubble, Warden," Tyran smiled, sadly, "but you haven't fought the darkspawn. Not really, not a horde... and if I were you, I'd pray to the Maker you never have to..."

There was a slightly awkward silence at that. Carver looked abashed, Nathaniel was rolling his eyes, and Sara had an imperceptible expression on her face, as if studying his own. Finally, it was Nathaniel who broke the silence:

"We should get moving," he sighed. "I don't want to be caught in the open if more raiders come ashore..."

"Right," Tyran nodded. "Set the caravan ablaze – better they be claimed by fire than the worms. Then, we make haste for the Vigil..."

The journey back to the Vigil was a surprisingly long one, due to their tired state and the worsening weather – by the time they were anywhere near, the clouds were starting to roll back in with a second wave of the storm, and the sun, already dipping towards the horizon, was darkened by the grey shroud.

As it loomed out of the dark, Sara couldn't help thinking the Vigil was a very impressive sight, just like the Wardens it played host to... The great granite walls jutted squarely up for at least two storeys, and the whole Vigil was arrayed along the hillside so that the inner walls stuck up even higher, from a rocky ridge, and behind them, the keep itself towered over the surrounding plains, round turrets and parapets surveying the entire arling, as Warden flags billowed overhead. The dark, greying sky was a rather ominous frame, but then, blue skies and sunshine wouldn't have been fitting for a place as bloody and fabled as Vigil's Keep. Even in the Free Marches, they had heard the stories of her defence, during the Battle for Amaranthine. The tales of the Grey Wardens and the Silver Order, holding the walls against the darkspawn horde for days on end, had been very popular amongst the Ferelden underclass in Kirkwall.

Something was amiss, though, just as sod's law dictated it should be. There were a dozen banners fluttering along the outer wall, royal blue Warden banners – that was normal enough, but the flags within the courtyard, the ones with flaming swords? Sara's stomach dropped as she recognised the templar colours, just visible through the Vigil's gates...

The Warden-Commander had stiffened in his saddle, a furious expression working its way across his features. Nathaniel too was biting his lip in dismay, and Carver's right hand was straying from the reins, to his greatsword...

"Someone's coming out," Nathaniel hissed. Sure enough, a small figure darted out through the open gates – were it not for the keen-eyed archer's alert, Sara would never have even seen the figure as it approached.

Passing out of the shadows and into the half-light that surrounded the Vigil, the figure became clearer – a dwarf, with a dagger on each shoulder and a worried expression on her tattooed face.

"Sigrun," Tyran murmured, with an air of urgency. "What the hell's going on?"

"Templars," the dwarf replied, bug-eyed.

"I figured that out," the Warden-Commander snapped, still relegating his voice to a furtive whisper. "Who? Why?"

"It's Knight-Commander Caelyd," Sigrun sighed. "He's got a dozen templars with him, and he won't even tell us why he's here. Varel's trying to stall him, but he says he'll only speak to you..."

"Caelyd? I was hoping that bastard would have packed off to the Free Marches by now... hasn't he got more mages to murder?"

All in all, it wasn't the most encouraging conversation Sara could have been hearing. Her only previous experience of Knight-Commanders had been Meredith, and from the distasteful manner in which Cousland was discussing this one, he seemed to be of the same breed...

"Do you think he's here about Kirkwall?" Tyran mused.

"Could be..." Sigrun muttered, fearfully, biting her lip. "We hid our... guests in the servants' quarters, in case he asks to inspect the barracks."

"If he asks to 'inspect' anything of ours, I'll kick him out on his arse," the Warden-Commander growled. "He's got no authority here..."

There was a moment's indecision in his eyes, before he continued:

"Sigrun, Nathaniel, take these two to Amaranthine. With any luck, you'll make it before sundown. Nathaniel, do you think your sister would put them up for a night?"

"Possible," the archer nodded. "Del's always good with company, she'll take pity on them..."

Sara didn't particularly fancy being pitied, but she didn't protest – to his credit, neither did Carver. There was a tone of urgency in the commander's voice that said he wasn't to be questioned, not now, at least.

"Okay, saddle up, and leave quietly, lest they hear the horses. I'll go have a word with the blasted Knight-Commander..."