As I've mentioned in my main story, this is just a short story born from my own interest as to what Fergus Cousland is up to while his little brother runs around, trying to save Ferelden, not to mention an attempt to expand upon the rebellion in the Bannorn, which was, frankly, left woefully underdeveloped during the game. This is highly speculative, since all we have to go on about the rebellion, as far as I'm aware, is the gossip that Bodahn and other rumour-mongers give you, so what actually happens in the rebellion (who wins, who loses, who's telling the truth) is fairly open to interpretation. This is just my own humble take on these events, based on what little canon there is to go on. The basic gist of what's likely to happen in this story can be found in the section set amongst the rebels in Chapter 36.

This is set in the same universe as From the Ashes, and chronologically is set at the same time as Chapter 40 onwards. Most of this will be from Fergus Cousland's POV, though there are some other familiar faces (and some new ones) make appearances: for instance, in this first chapter, I've made my own attempt to deal with something that bugged me in game (namely why Loghain, after spending nearly the whole story claiming it's not a Blight, makes an abrupt U-turn come the Landsmeet and proclaims that it is a Blight after all, so I wanted to try and create the moment where he is forced to eat his words). Similar moments will appear in this.

This whole thing should be about four chapters overall, so providing my writer's block doesn't delay it overlong, this should be done by early January and we'll be back to From The Ashes, and the build-up to and the Landsmeet itself and the final battle (two of my favourite parts) as I intend for this to tie up into the current point where I am in From the Ashes.

I hope you enjoy this little offshoot from my current story.

With the exception of my own embellishments, all content belongs to Bioware: sadly, I don't own Dragon Age.

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'I choose the path of war because it is the only one left to me'-Anonymous

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A rebel camp on the North Road, twenty miles outside the city of Highever

"Are you alright, milord?"

"Alright?" Fergus Cousland muttered to himself than the soldier from South Reach addressing him. 'No, I'm not alright. And I'm not sure I ever will be'.

"You're not at the meeting. Arl Bryland's called a council of war; should be the last one before we reach the city. He's asked me to escort-"

"It's fine, soldier. I'll find my own way there" Fergus waved aside the knight's company, preferring to keep his own thoughts. Granted, he was not the only one to lose something in this war, but the sheer senselessness of it, that for the sake of one vain, greedy man's ambition, everything that he'd held dear had been cruelly snatched away.

Little more than five months ago, he'd been a husband, a father and heir to one of the most prominent titles in all of Ferelden. Now what was he? A widower, an orphan, a wanted traitor to his homeland and a near-cripple, a husk of the man he'd once been.

'That way lies madness'.

His mind turned him away from that line of thought; he had more than enough in need of his attention that stopped him from brooding too much on it. Not that he hadn't tried.

He still felt that part of him had died, forever lost with Oriana and Oren when he heard the news, not long after he had emerged from the Korcari Wilds, delirious and sick, along with the handful of men from Highever who'd survived the Wilds and the tattered remnants of the Storm Crows, still severely ill from the festering wounds the darkspawn had inflicted, only to discover that he had no home to return to, no family waiting eagerly for his return. The tales of the survivors he'd encountered and the rumours he'd heard all said the same: Rendon Howe and his thugs had shown no mercy, slaughtering men, women and children indiscriminately. His parents, his little brother, his beloved wife and son...all gone, their murders, along with those of all their household brushed aside as just punishment for a treason that Fergus knew to be a pathetic lie. His parents had grown up knowing the oppression and tyranny of Orlesian rule, had spent much of their youth fighting to free Ferelden. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland would never have conspired to return them to power.

And if that was a lie, what of the other justifications that Loghain and Howe used to explain away their ever-increasing brutality and tyranny? The Grey Wardens nothing more than Orlesian pawns paving the way for a new conquest of Fereldan? King Cailan dead from their machinations? The Blight just a hoax, concocted to allow Orlesian troops across the border? It was either madness or carefully calculated deception; either way, Fergus knew that travelling to Denerim to openly protest his family's innocence and demand justice would end with his neck beneath the executioner's blade.

Not that I'd get there if I tried, he thought bitterly as another surge of pain shot through his hip, more physical evidence of how the traitors who'd taken everything from him were not content to just murder everyone he held dear; no, his life was to be ended as well, his blood spilled in the name of their ambition.

Upon his arrival at Ostagar all those months ago, Loghain himself had given Fergus his orders; to scout a canyon to the south that the latest reports had begun to suggest the darkspawn were advancing into the area, looking for another approach to the fortress. The teyrn had assured him that they wouldn't likely encounter more than a few scouts. Instead, the darkspawn had been lying in wait for them, thousands of the beasts, far more than even the significant number of men-at-arms Fergus had brought with him from Highever were prepared for.

Dozens of his men had perished in that ambush, but they'd managed to battle a disciplined retreat back towards Ostagar until darkspawn arrows had killed Fergus's horse from under him, the dying animal crushing Fergus beneath its weight as it fell, breaking his hip and leaving him easy prey for just about every darkspawn not trying to butcher as many of his soldiers as possible, not to mention the sight of their lord being brought down serving to break the already-failing morale of his men, turning the retreat into a rout. There were times when it was hard to say which horrific scene he saw when he closed his eyes was more terrible: the sight of his wife and child being hacked down as he stood there helpless to intervene, or the memory of that monster clambering over his horse's body, its long narrow face split into that horrible rictus grin, those pale eyes staring at him hungrily, that horrible shrieking ringing in his ears as those long-clawed hands reached for his throat...

Some might say his survival was an act of divine providence, proof the Maker was watching over him. Fergus responded to such thoughts with a derisive snort; if the Maker was watching over him, He would have heeded Fergus's prayers to keep his wife and child safe until his return. The Maker hadn't saved him; a Chasind spear through that shrieking darkspawn's chest had saved him. Had Marek and his hunters not been drawn to the sound of battle, had the Chasind clansmen not been willing to lead the remnants of his battalion through the swamp to the safety of their camp, had the old witch not been willing to heal their injuries...things might have been very different.

Even with a barely healed hip that still caused him to walk with a pronounced limp and made riding a horse all but impossible for the moment, Fergus had almost gone anyway, just on the chance that he could gut Rendon Howe and Loghain like the vermin they were before being brought low himself, but in the end, the duty that had been drilled into him since childhood had superseded his fury for the moment. He was now the Teyrn of Highever, and losing his life for the sake of vengeance would neither disprove the lies that Howe had spread about his family nor free the people of Highever from the rule of the usurper.

Just how he was supposed to accomplish either of those ends, aided by just under a score of Chasind warriors and the haggard old woman who served as the clan's shaman, not to mention the meagre remnants of his own forces, was something that he had not easily envisioned. Fortunately, they had not been alone long; as the Storm Crows and other Chasind clans fled north, driven out of their homeland by the horde, emboldened by its victory at Ostagar, and pressed on into Ferelden, they fell in with other forces of the Bannorn, bands of ragged survivors from Ostagar or soldiers displaced by the darkspawn or Loghain's deranged and brutal efforts to bring the nobility to heel. Quite by chance, his rag-tag group had crossed paths with Leonas Bryland's forces as they fled South Reach in the wake of the darkspawn's onslaught, and Fergus had found himself forming an alliance with the Arl's greater army, if only so that he would not have the sole burden of supplying and provisioning the forces he found himself in command of.

A steady stream of men had fallen in with them as their forces advanced further into the lands of the Bannorn, many of whom were appalled by Loghain's heavy handed attempts at bringing the nobility under control and suppressing any questions about his version of the events at Ostagar, not to mention the extreme violence to which the regent was resorting as his demands were refused.

Fergus had been gratified to hear that few believed Howe's accusations of treason, and surprised when he found himself increasingly deferred to as the leader of the ragtag group of rebels, surpassed in authority only by Arl Bryland, and Fergus was more than willing to defer to the Arl's greater knowledge of warfare and military tactics-after all, only a handful of men had survived and managed to escape the disastrous Battle of White River, which spoke a great deal about his grasp of how to evade and outwit a determined enemy. Now, more than ever, Fergus found himself glad of the time he'd spent training with the guard and listening to his father and Howe talk about their experiences fighting in the rebellion against the Orlesians, how the hit-and-run tactics of small units of guerrilla fighters familiar with the terrain had yielded good results against the better equipped but highly regimented Orlesian army. Kill the officers at the start, Bryce Cousland had said, and you threw the rank-and-file into chaos.

Thirty years on, it seemed that Loghain had forgotten the tactics that had won that war. The units out of Denerim were highly disciplined, well-equipped and skilled in traditional military tactics, even though most appeared to be conscripts hastily given the basics of training and then rushed into the field, but the guerrilla tactics of the rebels- ambushes, night raids and sabotage by small groups that struck and withdrew back into the countryside- left them reeling. They would rush reinforcements into place, only to have the rebels attack the area they had taken the reinforcements from, making off with supplies-food, weapons and medical resources- that could not be easily replaced. Initially, the rebels had at all costs tried to avoid open battle. What Bryland planned was their first attempt at conventional warfare, which was why he was making every effort to ensure they achieved their goal.

For weeks beforehand, the rebels had sent small raiding parties in all directions, attacking the larger towns and villages and forcing the nearest city –Highever- to respond by sending out ever greater numbers of its garrison to protect the outlying settlements, with the result that the city was now heavily undermanned. Fergus used these depredations as much as possible to provision his forces; with the Blight spreading across the south of Ferelden, not to mention the onset of winter, the flood of refugees and countless fields destroyed before they could be harvested meant that food was already scarce, and it was likely to get worse, hence why he was trying to assail only the larger settlements; he had no wish to hurt his own people by taking food from those unable to feed themselves. Even though the worst of the winter was over, and spring approaching, it was doubtful that there'd be a harvest in the coming summer, not when the fertile farmlands from which the bulk of Ferelden's food was grown were abandoned, untilled, unsown and being slowly despoiled by an enemy devoutly committed to destruction.

Reports from the ever-dwindling numbers of survivors fleeing from the embattled southern regions of Ferelden reported that the darkspawn, who had for a few months been relatively inactive, so indolent that Fergus had heard many at court were celebrating the Blight's end, were now back with a vengeance. No one could explain what had incited this new surge of aggression amongst the horde, but whatever it was, it had also exerted a change in their behaviour. There was no looting or pillaging in the raids now, just wholesale destruction; farmsteads and villages razed to the ground, crops burned or despoiled, livestock butchered and anyone unable to get out of the horde's path put to the sword. More than once, the rebels had had encounters with darkspawn as well; mostly more of the gangly, shrieking creatures that haunted Fergus's nightmares, though they seemed shy of engaging, fighting only when cornered. 'Scouts, checking out the land and what forces stand in the horde's way' he suspected.

Time had been fast pressing him into a hard decision: continue to resist the rule of one that he believed complicit in the murder of his family and the death of his King, or concede a truce to present a united front against the darkspawn, since Loghain seemed determined to force the Bannorn to their knees before he even attempted to deal with what he still claimed was not a Blight. And then, one of the scouts who'd been checking out a nearby village in the path of the rebel advance came back bearing a sheaf of parchment that had been nailed to the door of a tavern, that had made Fergus feel a speak of hope he'd thought lost forever.

He was not alone.

From Bryland's men and other Bannorn troops, Fergus had heard rumours of the two Grey Wardens who'd survived the massacre of their Order at Ostagar. He'd known of their existence, of course; from the bounties on their heads, it seemed that Loghain considered them to be a greater threat than the darkspawn, but the descriptions had mentioned only two young men travelling in the company of an Orlesian spy, a trio of Maleficarum (initially, it had been apostates, but the words had changed when the bounty had increased), a Qunari heathen and an Antivan assassin. Based on the frankly obscene amount of money being offered as a reward for them dead or alive, one would think they were roaming the countryside drinking the blood of virgins and sacrificing newborn babies to worship demons; he'd known that was ridiculous, but when he began speaking to those who had actually met them...

The description of a young man with long, reddish-brown hair, ice-blue eyes and a distinctive facial tattoo matched his memory, and even if the fearsome warrior they spoke of bore little resemblance to the joking little brother with an eye for the ladies and a penchant for getting into trouble, he was using his own name. And the presence of the mabari sealed it; Edward would be with no one else. Fergus had heard of Duncan's interest in his brother, as well as Father's refusal, but evidently, matters had changed when Howe's men had overwhelmed the near-defenceless castle.

Joy, relief and worry filled him in near equal measures, along with an empathy that made his heart ache. Arthur had to think all of his family dead, and Fergus knew well enough how deeply that sorrow cut. The urge to set out and find his brother was all but overwhelming, but whatever he and his companions were doing, they stayed on the move, and Fergus had absolutely no way to predict their movements. He had reports of them in Lothering, Honnleath, Redcliffe (where, if the stories were to be believed, they'd brought Arl Eamon back from the brink of death with nothing less than the Ashes of Andraste herself); here and there in the Bannorn, fighting darkspawn and bandits, Denerim, where he had apparently made Rendon Howe and the City Guard look like bumbling fools, given the ease with which the Wardens and their allies had evaded capture, destroying an army of demons let loose by a mad blood mage in Loghain's service at Kinloch Hold, saving a Dalish clan from rampaging werewolves in the Brecilian forest...

He had no idea where his brother would be next, the last reports they'd received putting Arthur and his companions en route to Gherlen Pass and Orzammar weeks ago. He had no chance of arranging matters so that their paths intersected, but Arthur had to be acting on Grey Warden business and despite Loghain's accusations, Fergus very much doubted it was anything to do with Orlais. Rumours had the Fereldan Circle of Magi and the Chantry revoking their support for Loghain and allying with the Grey Wardens, and there had been word that the Dalish were gathering in the south; word from the east stated that the Dalish clans had completely blockaded the land routes through the Brecilian Forest to Gwaren, leading to widespread riots and panic in Loghain's own terynir, which by all reports the regent was doing nothing about. Somehow, Arthur and his companions were gathering allies against the Blight, as Grey Wardens had always done, striking at both the darkspawn and traitors...

He'd shifted his tactics. Despite wanting desperately for Arthur to know that he was still alive, Fergus realized that it was more important than ever to keep his survival hidden from Loghain. If the regent knew that a Cousland was part of the rebellion in the Bannorn, the brothers would become an even more important target, as a hostage to the other's surrender. Fergus was a firm believer in what history said: the Grey Wardens were the only ones who could slay an Archdemon and end a Blight. He had to buy his brother the time to do what he needed to, and at the same time, fight the lies that Loghain was spreading. So they'd increased their raids, doubled their efforts to wreak havoc on Loghain's machinations, since if the usurper would be less inclined to persecute Grey Wardens when a more immediate threat to the stability he was trying to enforce was running amok. While they still harried Loghain's forces up until the winter had truly set in, depriving them of needed food and supplies, they had also begun to lead sorties against the encroaching darkspawn, killing the scouts and raiding parties they encountered, coming to the aid of those trying desperately to escape the Blight, and when the rebels went into battle, it was with the warcry of "For Ferelden! For the Grey Wardens!" on their lips.

It was barely enough, and nowhere near what his brotherly instinct was demanding of him, but the sons of Bryce Cousland had both been schooled in duty, and right now, that duty was taking them in different directions.

He glanced up at the sky as he approached the tent; the clouds overhead were low, flat and grey. Mornings found the world coated in a shimmering layer of frost; the worst of the winter snows were behind them, nowhere near as bad as they still were in the more mountainous western and southern territories of Ferelden, but the winter chill still hung heavily in the air, the cold cutting to the bone at times. Initially, they and their enemy had dug in to ride out the worst of the winter, but as spring began to draw near, the rebels had exploded back to life, attacking every settlement within reach of their hidden base to resupply their resources, but the meagre provisions they'd been able to secure were not enough. 'I wonder how much longer we can last' Fergus thought grimly. If what they planned failed, then the dwindling resources available in the Bannorn thanks to Loghain's insanity and the darkspawn's depredations would no longer be able to sustain the rebels much longer, and Fergus had no wish to contemplate the possibility of being forced into a surrender.

"Ah, Fergus" Leonas Bryland looked up from the array of maps, quartermaster's accounts, scout reports, military documents and the myriad other papers that cluttered the table set in the middle of the tent as one of his men-at-arms pulled aside the entrance flap to allow Fergus entry. A cluster of other men and women-various Arls and Banns who'd thrown in their lot with the rebels, sick of Loghain's demands they kow-tow to his authority and his brutal reprisals when they refused, as well as captains and lieutenants of the rebellion, all of whom nodded respectfully to him as he entered. "As I'm sure you are aware, we are close to your home now, close to taking back what is rightfully yours, and striking a major blow against the tyrant who sits on the throne in Denerim!"

"And just how do we intend to do that?" one of the Arl's captains, a burly, moustached man in heavy chainmail, a greatsword strapped to his back, its hilt visible above his shoulder. "With respect, my lord, we do not have the weapons or numbers that would enable us to mount a siege-"

"Based on what I know of the city's defences and which Fergus and my scouts confirm, Ser Lawrence, we will not need to lay siege to Highever. Make your report" the Arl remarked to the individual stood at the centre of the room: a young elven man dressed in the simple clothes one would expect. It was an old military tactic from the days of the rebellion, using elves as scouts. Since elves were a ubiquitous part of any city's population, and most humans paid as much attention to elves running about as they did to the pigeons on the rafters, it made it easy for them to move into unobtrusive places where they could eavesdrop, accruing important information without drawing undue attention. It had served Fereldan fighters well against the Orlesians, and it still did now.

"Highever is in a state of chaos. There's heavy rioting, widespread starvation and a great sense of anger towards the Howe family; many are calling for Teyrn Howe to be tried and executed for murder and treason, and one of Teyrn Cousland's line restored to rule, not to mention the ruling lord has done little but oppress the people; he forces them to pay exorbitant amounts for bread and other basics, and increases taxation when they refuse, on common folk and nobles alike; the amount of hate and , it's only a matter of time before the city rises up from beneath him. The city streets are all but deserted; most of the garrison have retreated to the castle until the troubles have died down-"

'Perhaps we could use that' Fergus thought 'stoke the fires of revolt in the city. If the garrison are already preoccupied trying to put down rioters, they'll find it much harder to deal with a full-scale attack at the same time...'

"Who commands the city?" Bann Cedric, son and heir to the late Bann Bronach, slain by Loghain at the battle of Winter's Breath, an act for which the youth intended to repay the usurper in blood.

"Thomas Howe rules Highever in his father's name" the elven scout replied and Bryland let out a snort.

"If that's true, then our battle is all but won. Thomas Howe is a libertine and a wastrel who spends nearly every waking moment drunk and knows next to nothing of warfare or rule. The boy has all the worst qualities of his father without Rendon's intelligence or patience. He will flounder, fritter away the garrison trying to engage our skirmishers as they lead his forces on a merry dance, while our army takes the city with ease"

"How are we to do this?" Ser Lawrence pressed.

"I will explain more when we are closer to the city and our enemies will have less time to react to our strategy, for fear of spies" Arl Bryland replied. Fergus had to agree; considering the strategy he and Leonas had devised between them, the element of surprise was going to be critical. It was better as few people as possible knew, lest a loose tongue prove fatal.

"Now, is there any other business before we adjourn?"

"Aye, my lord" one of the sergeants, a slim, dark-haired woman in her thirties clad in splintmail armour, by the name of Maverlies interjected. Fergus didn't know what to make of her; granted, she was from Amaranthine, a fact that had earned her his distrust immediately, but she'd made plain her disgust for Rendon Howe's brutal methods and his condoning of the cruel and indiscriminately sadistic acts in his tenure as Arl that had earned Howe the nickname 'The Butcher of Denerim'-a feeling she claimed many officers and soldiers in that arling shared- and thus Arl Bryland had been willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, based on her skill at arms, calm in the face of danger and stern leadership, though Fergus made sure to keep a close watch on her, lest she prove untrustworthy.

"There was a rider in the night, bearing word from Iachus Valley". The statement drew the attention of all present in the tent; the rebels had abandoned their camp at the valley weeks ago, but Loghain had not deviated from his path, continuing to lead his army in that direction, thanks to misleading intelligence fed to his spies that the rebels were still encamped there.

"According to the scout's report, Loghain sent his cavalry into the valley under cover of darkness, thinking we were still encamped there and hoping to attack us . But by all accounts, they were lying in wait for him..."

"Who?" Bann Cedric questioned, considering that they'd heard no news of another rebel force of sufficient size to meet Loghain on the battlefield...

"Darkspawn" Maverlies replied. "Loghain's men were outnumbered three-to-one by the most trustworthy accounts. Hurlocks armed with pikes hit the cavalry as they charged, and then the 'spawn set alight the entrance to the valley with oil and pitch they'd laid out before to entrap them; not a single person who went into that valley came out. When he realised what was happening, Loghain ordered a full retreat back towards Denerim. By all accounts, he intends to withdraw to the city, to replace the men he lost and try to ascertain our present location" the sergeant concluded, before adding as an afterthought "I thought I should mention it, since according to the scout, Loghain's made certain to have heralds proclaim in every village he passes by on his way back to the capital how he claimed a narrow victory against the' treasonous rebels seeking to undermine Ferelden', no doubt hoping it will dissuade more from taking up arms against him". A ripple of angry and worried muttering went through the tent as Maverlies finished.

"If he returns before we are ready, then the city will be much harder to take by storm. The only forces protecting Denerim are the City Watch and the household guard Howe brought with him from Amaranthine" Bann Voldric intoned ominously. "Even if we succeed in taking Highever, if Loghain's forces, even diminished as they are, return to reinforce the capital's defences, then I am not sure it will be within our ability to take Denerim..."

"I agree, which is why I will be sending you, Voldric, along with Ser Artemis and Ser Lucian off with a thousand riders each. You will set the lands of Ceorlic, Grainne and any other Loghain sympathiser you cross afire until the smoke can be seen from Denerim". Fergus had to agree with the decision and many others nodded approvingly; Ceorlic was the most prominent of the nobles falling over themselves to lick Loghain's shoes, and Irwin had been the only one of the late Bann Grainne's relations spineless enough to be the regent's puppet after Loghain's men had murdered the man's aunt in her own home and he had unceremoniously seized her lands; few would care if their fortunes suffered for their allegiances.

"Loghain's actions have eroded his support to almost nothing. If he does nothing while the lands of the few remaining allies he has burn, they will abandon him and his forces will continue to diminish" Bryland replied. "He will have to decide which he values more highly: Denerim's safety, or ensuring the few allies he has do not grow enough of a spine to resist him. Considering if the reports are true and the darkspawn inflicted heavy casualties on his forces, Loghain will no doubt wish to ensure his allies, and their forces, remain loyal to him until he can replenish his ranks. Very well, council adjourned. We will reconvene once we arrive and the city is surrounded"

As the nobles and soldiers saluted respectfully and filed out, Leonas Bryland turned to Fergus in an offhand manner "I only wonder why Loghain would be so determined to hide his defeat..."

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Iachus Valley, southern Ferelden, several days earlier

"The scouts report movement within the valley still. People moving, torches, campfires; all the signs of a significant number of men encamped. Perhaps fewer than expected; the scouts couldn't be sure, visibility in the valley was very poor but they're certain the enemy is there" the captain of scouts reported to the imposing figure sat before him.

"Good, order the cavalry to prepare for the initial attack, and sound assembly for the infantry; once the mounted attack sows chaos and confusion amongst these traitors, I want to capitalise on it. One way or another, these dissidents will be broken and bought to heel; this outrageous rebellion ends tonight!"

"It will be done, my lord" the captain replied, saluting his commander and striding out of the tent to relay the command. Cauthrien tensed up as Loghain got to his feet, keeping one hand close to the hilt of her sword and following close behind him. Even though Loghain had seen the gulf between his most loyal lieutenant and himself growing since it first formed at Ostagar, furthered by the acts he'd been forced to commit to try and preserve Ferelden, acts that she and a small part of him knew were aberrations against all he stood for, he still pushed it aside. One day, all would see that what he had done here was necessary, that sometimes hard decisions had to be made for the benefit of all, and he had saved others the hardship of having to make them.

Cauthrien was still loyal to him, of that Loghain was certain. 'After all' he thought 'without me, what does she have?'. She had not flinched from what he had commanded of her so far; nor did he believe she would.

The army he'd brought with him numbered thirteen thousand-Loghain had won harder battles with smaller numbers-, and while the men were not as well trained as Loghain would have liked, they were equipped with the best weapons and armour money could afford, and Loghain hoped that would be sufficient to compensate. The rebels might comprise of more veterans of war, but they were fewer in number and more poorly equipped than his own soldiers.

'Well of course, their forces are not funded with Tevinter gold obtained by betraying those who stood by you to free Fereldan the last time' that voice at the back of his mind sneered, the one that caused him to have second thoughts regarding every decision he'd made. He brushed the voice of his own indecision: he was merely doing his duty, however bitter and unpleasant, and would not shirk from the small sacrifices needed for the greater good.

'No doubt Meghren thought something of the same' was the mental retort.

"Is this necessary, my lord?" Cauthrien put forward, causing Loghain to shake off his reverie. "Our forces dwindle with every passing day; perhaps a parley to try and bind our forces together against our common enemy-"

"I gave these fools a chance to surrender with honour and accept my terms, and yet they refuse and call me a tyrant. I who have given up my life to ensure Ferelden will never again suffer what I have seen it suffer! No, if they will not accept the olive branch, they will kneel before the sword". Cauthrien looked unnerved by the venom in her lord's voice, but wisely held her tongue and for that, Loghain was grateful; he needed Cauthrien for her loyalty and her skill at arms, not her conscience pleading with him to be the better man. He could not afford to be magnanimous or patient anymore; Ferelden didn't have the time for it.

"As I have said before, I will not risk facing the darkspawn with men who will turn on me the second my back is turned. Once I have their loyalty, we will turn our attention to the darkspawn, not before. Marauders are a minor threat compared to naked treason". He needed the loyalty of every noble in Ferelden if he was to ensure her safety, and the loyalty of better men than Rendon Howe, Ceorlic and the nest of other ambitious vipers and spineless toadies he had on his side. Ferelden had fallen to the Orlesians because traitorous nobles had looked to their own profits and sold out their homeland instead of uniting together against a common enemy, and Loghain would not let that happen again. Nor would he allow those rebelling against his authority to make him into a common enemy, as they seemed determined to do.

"My lord, the attack is beginning" another runner said, dropping to his knees as he relayed his message and Loghain and Cauthrien retreated into the regent's tent. Considering the number of cavalry he was committing to the attack, Loghain fully expected that the rebels, cowardly lack-witted ingrates that they were, would break and run in full force when they realised what was happening and there would be no need to commit the infantry, but Loghain wished to ensure all was going smoothly with the first strike before he committed more men to the attack.

To that end, accompanying the attackers would be one of the few remaining Circle acolytes he still had in his service- a scrawny, quibbling fellow by the name of Petyr- to relay periodic reports of what was happening, to allow Loghain to determine how well or poorly the attack was proceeding before committing more men to the fight. The sound of horse's hooves and shouted war cries from outside indicated that the cavalry were commencing their attack. Even the minimal number of troops Loghain was committing to this pre-emptive strike, he felt certain, would be sufficient to break the rebel's morale and send them running.

The first sign that something was wrong came when Petyr reported that the sentries were not sounding the alarm, and when a cavalryman had tried to cut down one man, the figure had simply collapsed into nothing, leaving only a thin layer of mist as evidence he'd ever been. Loghain had felt a slight trepidation at this evidence of unnatural magic, but then quashed it and ordered them to continue the attack; they'd heard rumours of apostates working with these rebels, so such cheap conjurations were likely their work.

Then all hell broke loose.

'Maker's breath, they're everywhere-they were waiting for us! Pike phalanxes, we charged straight into pike phalanxes! Men and horses cut down in droves, it's carnage!' Loghain heard his mage scream telepathically. Audible through the magical connection were the screams of men and horses, the clash of swords and a strange animalistic chattering he'd heard once before...

'What are you talking about, fool?' Loghain roared back. 'There is no way you could be so caught-offguard! The rebels are supposed to be in their tents, sleeping! You should have had the element of surprise!'

"Not rebels, dark-!"

There came a strangled cry, accompanied by a trio of thuds sounding familiarly like arrows thudding into flesh, and Loghain realised the mage Petyr was dead.

And then he heard it; the beating of leathery wings overhead, followed by a sonorous roar that carried for miles in all directions, inspiring terror and awe in equal measure. Loghain recognised it in an instant.

The hunting cry of a dragon.

He'd heard it once before, just before the Battle of the River Dane. Then, it had been a sound of hope, of inspiration, encouraging the belief that if one of the most majestic of creatures could arise from extinction, then surely a nation could rise up from the shackles of its oppressors.

Now, it bred nothing but fear; the knowledge that in this place, he was facing an ancient and terrible power beyond his comprehension, leading an enemy that he had made the gross mistake of underestimating. Loghain stormed out of his tent just in time to see a dark shadow pass overhead, making straight for the valley.

'There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds...this is no true Blight, Anora; only Cailan's vanity demanded it be such...' His own words rang mockingly in his ears, but Loghain barely heard them, his mind consumed by one thought alone...

'Maker's breath, you were right, Maric. You tried to warn me, you told me about what that witch said, that a Blight would fall upon Ferelden one day. I thought it a lie, thought it impossible...but you were right'

"Sound the retreat" he commanded as he had done once before, trying to suppress the fear in his voice.

"My lord?" Cauthrien replied, even as the screams of the men being massacred in the valley grew louder. "We can't abandon them again-!"

"I said retreat, damn you! We can't fight that!" he roared as the sinuous reptilian form passed over the mouth of the valley, a plume of fire erupting from its fanged maw, trapping his cavalry between the flames and the darkspawn. It was true; they'd been prepared for a ragtag bunch of guerrilla fighters caught in a trap, not for the monster circling over their heads, and judging from the screams he could hear throughout the camp, panic and disarray had already begun to set in at the sight of the leviathan above. The screams of men and horses rang out into the night, just audible over the crackle of flames, the horrific chittering screeches the darkspawn made when they sensed victory and the deafening bellows the dragon continued to make as it and its monstrous minions slaughtered all in their grasp.

"No word of this gets out, do you hear me? I want it said that we inflicted a crushing victory against the rebels! Nobody is to know the truth, do you understand?" Loghain bellowed at his subordinates as he pulled himself into the saddle, turning his horse about and shouting commands for the infantry to withdraw.

'No one can ever know about this' Loghain knew. 'If word of this gets out, that the 'lies' the Grey Wardens told to justify letting Orlesian troops across the border, that after all my proofs, all my assurances, that this is a Blight after all, then everything will be undone, no one will ever heed my authority again' Loghain desperately tried to suppress the panic. 'Perhaps, perhaps if I make an official announcement, insist that it was my decision to keep word of a Blight quiet to prevent panic, that might be suitable. Perhaps if I force Howe to make the announcements-that wretch has a talent of convincing people to believe whatever he wants them to- it would sound more plausible. Yes, perhaps that would work...?'

But no answers came, just the screams of the soldiers who'd followed him as he abandoned them to the mercy of the darkspawn for a second time.

#############

"Not quite the homecoming you imagined, eh?" the young Chasind woman asked of him, her Fereldan speech heavily accented.

"No, not at all" Fergus managed to reply, avoiding the piercing gaze of the striking green eyes staring at him. Verona continued to remain close, and Fergus had to admit; the Chasind had been driven out of their home much as he had been, and while he was close to reclaiming his home, who knew if the Chasind would be able to return to theirs, for even if the Blight were ended and the darkspawn pushed back to the Deep Roads, who knew if their corruption and defiling of the Wilds would ever be healed?

He shook off his reverie and remarked "I'm surprised to see you still here", considering that most of the Storm Crows and other Chasind were among the raiding parties scouting the way to their destination. It had been a conscious choice by Bryland to use the Chasind in the vanguard; since the time of the Imperium's rule of Ferelden centuries ago, the Chasind had been masterful raiders, striking at the border. Although those times were long-since ended, the Chasind still periodically made raids for food and supplies in southern Ferelden, mostly little more than cattle-rustling, but Bryland had widely chosen to utilise their skill at approaching enemy settlements undetected and their ambush tactics to good use. His time amongst the Wilders had caused Fergus to conclude that many Fereldan preconceptions about the Chasind as primitive barbarians were quite wrong.

Normally, a Chasind clan was led by its shaman as tradition dictated, but Marika was not much of a leader, spending most of her time and energy devoted to duties as a healer. Her son Pavel had taken the position of clan chieftain temporarily to provide direction and leadership, up until he had lost his life to a hurlock's sword some weeks before, and as such, his son Marek, the most skilled of the surviving warriors had assumed the mantle of leadership for the Storm Crows. The Chasind youth had expected and received unquestioning obedience when they were still in the Wilds, but Fergus' position in the clan had changed, since Marek deferred to his experience in the lands of the north while still commanding his clan in battle. There was also a sense of honour and decency amongst the Wilders, proven by their willingness to take him and his men in, granting them food, safety and treatment; the Chasind's actions had been more commendable and worthy than those of the so-called 'civilised men' of Ferelden he found himself fighting against.

"My grandmother instructed me to keep an eye on you, and I intend to" Verona replied simply. It was true; the girl had been a constant shadow since he'd woken from his fevered coma in Marika's tent, keeping watch over him as his hip and other injuries healed and ensure he didn't reopen his wounds by over-exerting himself. She'd been as good as her word, though a part of Fergus suspected the girl wanted more than to just keep watch on him, considering that she'd spent a great deal nursing Fergus back to health during his fever. Sadly for her, it wouldn't likely ever be; Fergus had no designs in that regard- while Verona and the number of other young, healthy women amongst the remains of their clan were certainly striking, the Chasind had old traditions; while dalliances between the young of both genders were fairly common, after a time, men were expected to pay proper courtship to women within the clan (according to Marika, the inevitability of pregnancy from such dalliances had helped nurture that tradition), conducted only after gaining the approval of a woman's closest male relative, not to mention the payment of a substantial dowry. Traditionally, even staring overlong at a Chasind woman to whom you were not married could be construed as insulting, but Marek had relaxed that stance somewhat, as long as no propositions or overt lechery became apparent.

For his part, Fergus and his superiors had made certain that the Fereldans toed the line and respected the customs of their allies. Two men, a seedy-looking man who had been vague about his past and another whom many suspected to be a spy for Loghain, had already been executed for attempted rape, and the alacrity with which the sentence had been made and carried out had been sufficient to discourage any others from repeating that mistake.

In addition, custom, not to mention all sense forbade him from taking another wife until he had avenged Oriana's death; normally, a marriage to Marek's sister would have been used to cement a Fereldan-Chasind alliance, but even the thought was like rubbing salt in a wound that had barely begun to heal, and one Fergus wasn't sure ever would. Fergus was not sure, even if that wound became less painful as the years went by, provided of course he lived that long, he couldn't honestly say if he would ever take another wife, for fear part of him would forever feel it an insult to Oriana's memory. Such a thing would be unfair to both a potential bride and him.

Fortunately, the sound of horse's hooves interrupted the conversation and Verona slipped away, rejoining her brother and the other Chasind auxiliaries that were still with the main army as a armoured man on horseback rode up to Fergus.

"What news?" he asked.

Captain Alaric, one of the few Highever men to survive the darkspawn ambush, dismounted from his horse and saluted. "Nearly every village and farmstead from here to the city has been abandoned, not to mention picked clean; the people left nothing behind them"

"Makes sense; they'll be fleeing towards the city and the protection it offers, however meagre that is" Fergus replied bitterly, saddened that he was forced to bring war to the city he should be ruling, defending from the horrors of the encroaching conflict.

"Never thought I'd see the day when I'd lift my sword against my own city" Alaric muttered sadly.

"Nor I" Fergus agreed. "But we have no choice. Howe took this city from me, slaughtered my family and made my people his slaves. If the only way to take it back is with the sword, then so be it". Alaric nodded reluctantly before his expression became neutral once more, a soldier addressing his commander.

"Any commands the Arl has for us in the coming battle?"

"No, we'll make camp once we've surrounded the city and the final preparations and strategy for the assault will be decided there. But" and at this point, Fergus's voice dropped to a low whisper and he cast a quick glance around to ensure I'm giving one of my own now, one I want every Highever man-at-arms to obey, one that is not to be disobeyed . When we assault the castle, no quarter is to be asked or given. You will take no prisoners and show no mercy"

"My lord?" Alaric sounded shocked at such a brutal command but Fergus's response was iron, brooking no disobedience.

"No mercy. The scum who hold my castle, who broke into my home, who murdered my family deserve the same measure of mercy they showed their victims...none. Make sure that every man from Highever knows and understands I expect this obeyed. Tell them to think of their friends, their families, and all the others who have no doubt suffered at the hands of these vermin, which is precisely what they are to think of Howe's men as; vermin, to be exterminated...and that is what I expect to happen"

There was an awkward pause for a moment, but then Captain Alaric gave a deep sigh and nodded. "Yes, my lord. I swore to obey House Cousland and I shall not forswear that oath now. You have my word, it will be done".

"Good" Fergus replied as Captain Alaric moved away to relay his command, fingering the hilt of his sword.

"I will pay you back in the same coin you paid my father, Howe. The debt of blood you owe me will be paid in full'