The Dragon Queen: Beginnings
Chapter 10: Check
Steady… breathe deeply sight your target along the shaft, release and repeat. The small boy did as he was taught and put arrow after arrow into the gold center ring of the straw stuffed target. After every few shots he turned to glance up at the surly aged assassin who instructed the young ones in the uses of the short bow, long bow and crossbow.
The child was searching for any sign of approval from the instructor even though a part of him knew that it would never come… it wasn't the way of the Antivan Crows. So the child focused on his training sending more arrows into the target. As he always did he looked back up at his teacher who this time deemed to look town at him.
The old assassin opened his mouth to speak but before he could he burst into flames. The fires licked up his body but he did or said nothing as he was reduced to a pile of ash. The child screamed as the Citadel, the great Fortress of Gilbran, the only home had ever had was engulfed in a tornado of flame. He wailed in terror as people he knew ran screaming in the distance their bodies set alight.
"This is only the beginning," a voice hissed from behind him.
The child spun to see a figure in black armor standing behind him arms crossed over its chest. The child knew that he knew the knight from somewhere but couldn't place it. What he did know was that this figure was evil.
"All will burn beneath the shadow of my wings," it roared and its obsidian black helm split along the center revealing a double row of jagged fangs as a pair of shadowy bat-like wings extended from its back. The creature then leapt forward its talented hands poised for a deadly strike.
The man who for most of his life had gone by the name of Hector snapped his eyes open taking in large gulps of air as he did. The assassin, or perhaps former assassin would be more correct as the Crows as an organized force no longer existed, sat up straight in his bed. He took a moment to take in his surrounds before becoming aware of the ach in his leg.
He was in a fairly nice room which meant he doubted he was in prison or at least a proper prison. He wracked his memory trying to remember what had happened. He could recalling recusing Princess Anna of Antiva from the Queen of Fereldan's knights, getting bit by a hound and leading them on a merry chase. He remembered the ambush by the Kirkwallers which had saved their lives allowing them to cross the border from Antiva into city-state of Kirkwall. After that he must have passed out… but for how long.
"Ahh my friend you finally rise from the grave," an elderly man wearing the trappings of a nobleman said as he entered the room, "the healers told me you were stirring and I wanted to see you for myself."
Hector slowly assimilated the information his mind still foggy from sleep. Finally he said, "This is Kirkwall," he received a nod of conformation, "I need to see the Viscount it is very important."
The old man sighed and took a seat, "I am afraid that is something I cannot do… the Viscount you see has set out with the Homeguard to comfort Cecilia Theirin… I rule Kirkwall in his place. You can tell me what you wish to tell him and if deem it important I shall dispatch a rider."
Hector opened his mouth than closed it again remembering what he had been told about a traitor in Viscount Hawke's inner circle, "And what's your name milord?"
The man gave him a smile, "Halbren… Lord Marcus Halbren."
Had Hector been more alert he would have noticed the slight pause before the man introduced himself or the tenseness of his eyes, but he was still exhausted from recovery after a brush with death. So Hector started to tell the Lord "Halbren" everything that had happened… the mission to Denerim, his escape, Gilbran, Antiva City where he learned to the treachery of the Kirkwall Lord Threnhold and his rescue of the princesss who he inquired of and was relieved to learn was alright.
At the end of all of it he thought over the conversation he had had with the Grand Master of the Assassin back in Gilbran during the dragon attack, the things, the unbelievable things he had told him about Cecilia Theirin Queen of Ferelden bearing the soul of or being the Dragon God of War. It seemed as ludicrous now as it had then but something whispered that she should speak of it and so he did.
After what seemed like an age the old lord stood, "Thank you young man you are quite the survivor. Your tale sounds like something an epoch that great bards tell," his smile then slide from his face in a way that made Hector immediately wary, "a shame that life is very rarely like one of those great stories," he finished.
Hector glanced about the room, feeling the icy chill of understand seep into his soul. He was looking for any sign of a weapon that he could use in his defense, but anything of use had been carefully removed. "What do you mean?"
The old man didn't say anything as he stepped away towards the door. As he did a guardsmen entered with his sword drawn. The lord looked back at Hector before turn back to the guard, "I am sorry about this..., but tis far better than turning you over to Cecilia's tender mercies"
The former assassin and perhaps one of the last living Crows of Antivan did what no one in the room expected him to do… he laughed. He remembered his thoughts when he believed he was dying in the woods along the Kirkwall border; of how ironic it was that he was dying of a dog bite after everything he'd been through. Now he'd die an equally ignoble death at the hands of a snake of a man never evening known the true story of what had happened.
"You know she will not allow you to live Lord Threnhold," Hector said in one last futile attempt to make the man see reason.
With a mocking smile the Kirkwall lord said, "And why not? I am delivering the army of Kirkwall, the city itself and most importantly it's Viscount to her on a silver platter."
"It is simple you know too much."
Threnhold face flickered and for an instant showed the extent of the fear he truly feltbut just as quick it vanished and his face twisted into a sneer, "Kill him!"
The guardsmen drew his sword and Hector found his gaze drawn to the meter long piece of cold steel as the blade was driven into his gut. The assassin felt a white hot pain shoot through every inch of his being as the steel was removed and slammed into his stomach three more times.
Hector gurgled as he felt blood seep up from between his lips as he felt the darkness cloud his vision. He tried to say something but found that the blood in his lungs prevented that. The Antivian Crows had been a group well so used to death that it was often humorously told that they were close friends. Hector now found himself terrified by that supposed 'close friend.'
Ironically as his heart began to slow and his mind fogged from blood loss he found himself wishing for a priest to hear his confession. A fear wormed his way through his ruptured gut he wondered for the fate of immortal soul. And strangely about the fate of the young girl he nearly died protecting.
XXX
So it is here where the future of Kirkwall, Ferelden and maybe even the whole of the world would be decided the Viscount of Kirkwall mused as he stared back towards the barely visible outlines of his city behind him. To the front not five miles away was the Army of Ferelden and Cecilia Theirin the woman who ended the lives of his wife and son.
Forcing his anger down Hawke turned his attention back to the winding column of soldiers off in the distance as the made their camp. A glance at the sinking sun told him that the battle would not take place tonight , but tomorrow or in the coming days. With night rapidly approaching he doubted Cecilia would choose to begin now. The chance of confusion and accidents only increased in the dark of night and the possibility of fratricide rose rapidly. Still Hawke along with his captains at set a rotation that would have a third of his army on guard at a time just in case.
The Viscount of Kirkwall took one last defiant glance at the Ferelden army before turning back to his own encampments. He walked towards the small city of tents set just on the reverse slope of the hill seeing his soldiers preparing for the battle to come. When the battle began his men would hold the crest of the hill straddling the main highway forcing the Fereldens to take the gently sloping gradient if they meant to continue on to the city.
He considered like he had so many times before whether or not he stood have made his stand on the onyx walls of Kirkwall herself. Like before however he rejected that idea almost immediately. He didn't have the men or supplies necessary for a protracted siege and he doubted that once the hunger and plagues that inevitably accompany this type of warfare the city wouldn't rise against him.
No, he reasoned this was his choice. He had selected the field on which this war would be fought tailoring it to his strengths. The field was narrow enough to prevent Cecilia from using her cavalry to out get around his flank and roll it up. From his position he could rain death down upon the Queen's army as the marched up the hill to take him.
As he walked through the camp he stopped to share words with a few of his soldiers as they sat sharing their evening meal. They were startled to see him, their liege lord, talking to common soldiers. He took time to ask after them and their families and even took the time to lose some money in a game of dice.
When a sudden commotion erupted from the front of his camp Hawke stood his hand reached up to touch the handle of his greatsword which was slung across his back. Moving at a swift trot the Viscount made his way through the camp which was rapidly being put on war footing as the sergeants and junior officers rallied their men. Each step he took seemed to punctuate the sense of dread growing in his gut. What if he had been wrong and Cecilia decided to launch a night attack?
When Hawke reached the front lines he saw that his fears unfounded. A small group of mounted armored knights surrounded another older man in far more elegant armor. The small band of men was together waiting a distance from his lines.
The lead knights bore a blue standard on which was emblazoned the golden laurel of the Couslands of Highever. So that made the man in the center Teyrn Fergus Cousland, the Queen's maternal uncle the second most powerful man in Ferelden. Selecting about a dozen men Hawke stepped through the wall of armored men and closed the distance between him and the envoy.
"Teyrn Cousland I would be called a lair if I said it was pleasing to see you," Hawke said releasing his sword.
The man on horseback looked dismissively down upon him and said, "And who pray-tell are you?"
"I am the Viscount of Kirkwall my lord Teyrn. I assume I am the one you are looking for," Hawke sounded staring the older man square in the eyes.
The Teyrn of Highever did not disappoint. He merely raised an eyebrow but his eyes held the same dismissive glint as before. Hawke bristled at the look. On a level it reminded of the looks the noblemen in Lothering had given him when he had been a simple commoner the Bann's service and the looks of those who though themselves his better when he had been a penniless refuge fleeing the blight.
It was a look all those noble born seemed to innately possess. It was look that said that by the right of my breeding and the Will of the Maker, I am better than you. That you are nothing to me, less valuable than the horse I ride and barely more noticeable than the mud on his boots. It was a look he had grown to hate and one that after ascending to the throne of Kirkwall he swore he'd never wear.
Here he was looking at a man, Hawke realized, that could be the epitome of everything he hated about the nobility. The Teyrn of Highever could trace his lineage back to the days when Ferelden was petty collection of warring Teyrns and Arls. For millennia his family had been second to only royalty and some their members had even sat upon the throne. Now he was the most powerful man in Ferelden second to only his niece.
"Speak," Hawke ordered.
The Teyrn's brow furrowed, "Are we to discuss the affairs of kingdoms and the fate of great cities amongst the commoners like merchants discussing the price of grain in market. What I have to discuss to not for the ears of… such men as these," the Cousland gave a pitying look to the Viscount's men, "Shall we retire somewhere quiet to discuss the Queen's terms."
Hawke gritted his teeth at the man's presumptuous words and his men bristled at his implied insults that they were baseborn curs. "Teyrn Cousland you can speak here in front of my men before running back to the bitch you call a Queen."
The moment the words left his lips the Highever knights cried shame and shouted vile cursed back at Hawke for his defamation of their Queen who by the Maker's Divine Right sat upon the throne of a Andrastian Kingdom. Their blades were halfway out of their sheaths when the Teyrn's hand shot up and he hissed in a throaty voice, "Hold!"
The knight's glowered at him from beneath their helms but did as their master commanded and re-sheathed their blades as they became aware that not only had Hawke's impromptu honor guard drawn their weapons but the wall of soldiers beyond him were standing uneasy with blades held ready. Slowly the knights let go of their weapons to grasp the reigns of their horse with both hands. Though it was it was not yet over as the knight stared at him with murderous intent still clear in their eyes.
The Teyrn's look was more controlled but Hawke saw wrath burning in his grey clouded eyes. Returning his hand to the pommel of his saddle he growled, "Mind your tongue boy," the elder nobleman growled in a low tone causing Hawke to remember the stories surround what this Cousland had down to the late Howes of Amaranthine, "I bring terms to discuss between two men of rank," the Teyrn's tone chilled noticeably, "remember I am a Teyrn and due the respect and courtesy my rank demands. Do not demean your honor and the honor of your city by disgracing your title… Viscount."
Hawke's cheek's flushed red. It had been a long time since anyone had called him 'boy' and even longer than anyone dared scold him. But as much as he hated to admit it the bastard Teyrn was right. In himself was reflected the honor of his city and no matter how grief it brought him he was expected to act every bit the nobleman he was expected to be. And it was expected that one nobleman treat his peers with curtsey and respect.
Still he had his pride, "Speak your terms here and now or return to your mistress and be done with it."
"So be it," Fergus Cousland said his voice still icy. Taking a breath the pair locked gazes and the Teyrn of Highever began, "In return for peace between our lands my Queen demands you return with your army to your city, surrender your captive the Princess Anna of Antiva and pay a tribute of a thousand pounds of gold to the Ferelden Treasury per year."
A muscle in Hawke's cheek twitched violently before he asked incredulously, "Is that all?"
"No," the Cousland answered a smile twitching at the right corner of his lips, "Lastly my Queen demands you do her homage for yourself and Kirkwall so that your city will pass under the control of the Kingdom of Greater Ferelden. You will of course be allowed to remain in governance of your city provided you accept these terms and honor the duties of a vassal to their liege lord," the Teyrn's voice hardened once more, "refuse these terms and witness the destruction of yourself, your army and your city… these are the words of my Queen Cecilia Theirin."
It took Hawke a fraction of a second to decide is answer. Making a display of it he unstrapped the gauntlet fitted onto his right hand and then lifted it high above his head in a symbolic gesture. The turning back to Teyrn Cousland he threw the gauntlet so that it landed at the hooves of the high nobleman's mount.
"You have your answer Teyrn of Highever," Hawke said the calmness in his voice a sharp contrast to the rapid tattoo of his heart.
Under his breath the Teyrn issued and order and one of his knights slid off the back of his horse. Hawke's honor guard tensed but the knight made no move to draw his weapon. The man merely bent down to retrieve the gauntlet and handed to his lord. The high nobleman waited for his man to remount before wordlessly turning and riding back toward the Ferelden encampment.
Hawke glanced down at his bare hand, flexing it in the evening chill. He was aware of what he had done and now there were only two outcomes, victory or death. Clenching his hand into a fist he said quietly under his breath, "Alea iacta est."
The Die is Cast.
XXX
He didn't like waiting. He knew that it was necessary, even profitable, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Two nights ago the ship his company had sailed on had entered the harbor of Kirkwall passing through the towering monoliths that flanked the harbor's entrance and under the foreboding gazes of the defaced Old Gods of Ancient Tevinter. Now the final stages of the most important phase of his Queen's plans were spinning into motion.
It was a chance to right old failures and propel himself to a position of preeminence in his mistress's eyes perhaps even to the position he coveted so dearly. After all Tiberius was getting older and most certainly reaching the end of his years in the field. Once that happened Cecilia would need a new steel fist to carry out her will.
"They are here," one of his men said pointing in the direction of the shore where a small group of four hooded figures where approaching the gangplank.
Even from this distance Raymond's eyes could make out that one of the figures was a child. When they stepped onto the deck two of his men-at-arms slipped silently between them and the plank. The lead robed figure came to stand before Raymond and slid back his hood revealing and aged wrinkled face.
"Lord Threnhold I presume," Ser Raymond a knight of the Sovereign's Order said glancing from him to the child and then to the two men who were obviously bodyguards, no doubt from the Kirkwall Lord's retinue of private thugs.
"I am," Lord Threnhold said with a nodded, "And this is your young passenger, Anna Castlen Princess of Antiva."
"Ser knight," the princess said with a gentle curtsey and Raymond inclined his head in return. "You still have yet to say where they will be taking me milord?"
"I have told you all that matters you will be safe until the day you can assume your father's throne," Threnhold said.
As they had been speaking a dozen more men-at arms emerged from the cog's hold and onto the deck and unlike those on deck they wore their dragon surcoats proudly. When the Princess saw them she gasped and turned to Threnhold and screamed, "Traitor… you Maferath-"
Before she could say more Ser Robert, the man ironically who had killed her infant brother lunged for and clamped his hand over her mouth silencing her.
"Do not harm her," Raymond hissed before signaling two men-at-arms and the trading cog's captain, "Take her to your quarters and place her under guard. I want this ship gone as soon as the tide permits. If anything untoward happens to her," he warned unnecessarily, "You will face Cecilia's wrath."
Once the young royal had been drug off Lord Threnhold sighed, "I wish things had been different, but Hawke left me no choice in the matter," then visibly drawing himself up he focused on Raymond, "Tell your Queen that I will honor the terms of our arrangement. Now if you have no objects I must take my leave for I have much work to do."
As the Lord turned to leave Raymond reached out and grabbed his shoulder in a firm grip. Threnhold spun as his mouth opened but Raymond cut him off, "I am afraid my men and I cannot leave just yet. My Queen has concerns for the safety of her newest vassal."
"I will be quite fine," Threnhold started trying to slip from the knight's grasp but he held on tight.
"Have you ever been in a city under siege," Raymond started but gave the lord no chance to retort, "things can be quite dangerous and once Hawke's army is laid low you will be left with few men to police this great city. And so my Queen as ordered me to assist you in the transfer of power and protect your person… after all she would be remiss as a liege lord to allow her newest vassal to fall prey to the savages of a city in uproar."
By this point all blood had drained from Threnhold's face and Raymond was forced to suppress a chuckle. All the lord's schemes and treacheries had been for not. Though he would realize his dream of regaining his father's throne he would never be trusted with any real power… like with Ostwick. He would sit in the chair and throw grand feasts and celebrations but he would always have his shadows everywhere he went. Like in the Tevinter fable of the sword of Damocles he would live with a blade hanging over his head for the rest of his life; however short that may turn out to be.
"Very well," Threnhold eventually said weary and defeated, "Hawke stripped most of the guard for his so I have been making do with his my own hirelings. We should be able to enter the palace unnoticed as long as we move tonight under the cover of darkness."
"Very good milord," Ser Raymond said concealing the contempt he felt for the scheming lord, "we need to secure the keep as soon as we can. Once there, "I need you assemble Kirkwall's nobility on the marrow… there are things we must discuss."
XXX
Cecilia's command tent was a spacious affair. The Queen's lavish red-gold structure was a towering twelve meters at its height. From it central supports flew the Queen's black pennant emblazoned with her crimson dragon. From the lesser supports flew the banners of Couslands of Highever, the Chesters of West Hills, the banner of the Orlesian Imperial Guard, the de Gendarmerie de l'Impératrice of the Orlesian Empire and the colors the Banns who marched with the army.
Beneath the great tent and seated around a large rectangular wooden table were Cecilia Theirin and her assembled noblemen. In the center of said table sat the reflective steel gauntlet of the Viscount of Kirkwall the symbol his challenge of her and her Kingdom. It had been a vainglorious move from a prideful man convince of his own self-righteousness.
Cecilia was not at all surprised by the Viscount's actions… in fact she had done everything she could to provoke him to meeting her on the field where she could deal with him and his 'army.' Despite the fact that Hawke was no great threat to her the last thing she wanted was him scurrying around the North raising insurrection. So Hawke and his army would die.
And Kirkwall Cecilia mused over the fate of the ancient city. Certainty it would be another jewel to add to her crown and its fall would sent shockwaves through the rest of the Free Marches and Neverra. Even Tevinter would take notice of the loss of their ancient outpos.
"My Queen," Ser Markus Tiberius said pulling her from her thoughts, "What are your plans dealing with this arrogant bastard."
"We crush him," Cecilia said deadpan as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Her bluntness garnered brief chuckles from her present company and even the stoic Tiberius cracked a smile. She caught their eyes before proceeding, "We crush them and then take Kirkwall and this is how."
Reaching out swept the gauntlet to the side allowing it to fall to the grass that made up the floor of her tent with a seemingly subdued thump for all that it represented. Beneath the gauntlet was a map… a rough sketch of the battlefield-to-be on which sat ornamental pieces representing both the Ferelden army and their opponent.
Hawke's army held the high ground and with it held the tempo of the battle to come. The Viscount merely had to keep her from advancing on his city and he had both the resources of said city to drawn upon and the time to wait her out as her own supplies dwindled. His plan meant that Cecilia and her men had to do all the work… or so he thought.
The Viscount was operating under the assumption that she was here for the princess. She was, but more important things concerned her now. Other than being a pain in her ass, Hawke and Threnhold where the only two people left that knew anything about the truth of assignation attempt those many months ago. They were the only two loose ends left… the ones in Antiva and Ferelden had long since been dealt with.
Besides the princess situation should already be dealt with by her reckoning of Raymond of St Giles and his men. Her own scouts as sighted them three days ago sailing along the coast and by now they were sure to be already in the city. As she saw it all the pieces were in place and once more the Viscount of Kirkwall had danced masterfully to her tune.
So what if he has the high ground, the Queen of Ferelden mused, I can batter him off easily enough. She thought before she reconsidered the problem at hand. No, the shield wall his men would form would be difficult to breach head on and the terrain prevented her from launching any flanking attacks with her horsemen. So Hawke, Cecilia decided, would have to come off the hill, but what would make him do something so foolish?
It didn't take her long to decide upon a plan and to disseminate the information to her lords and vassals. Her plan was fairly simple, but then those were often the best kind. Her favorite strategy was an example of one. Called the hammer and the anvil it was simple but absolutely deadly tactic when preformed properly.
Unlike the Orlesians who used their cavalry as a great hammer to bludgeon their enemy into submission and their infantry mop up after them, Cecilia use her footmen to pin an enemy in position while breaking their wings with her horse before wheeling and taking them in the rear or rolling up their flanks. In essence her horsemen were the hammer and her footmen where the anvil on which she'd break her foe.
XXX
Last year he would never have thought Fereldans were capable of it. To take an army across the Waking Sea in a fashion reminiscent of prophet herself and conquer the Kingdom of Antiva and their infamous Crows who dealt death of ill-repute throughout all the lands of Thedas. It was the accomplishment of the age. Yet she was still not done. Before the week was done even mighty Kirkwall would fall.
And then how far might her star still have left to rise, Charles of Orlais, mused about the woman he would soon marry. The Prince smiled tightly; if he had her figured anywhere near right he knew she would never stop. Like the great Tacitus Tevin, the great conqueror who founded what had become the Tevinter Imperium, Cecilia a burning desire for conquest that Charles wasn't sure she even understood.
A small silver of his soul envied her. For like all sons of houses and dynasties he dreamed to burn his name into the pages of history. And like most second sons and even most firstborns he would fail. While he had won some small victories against Neverra on the northern border in endless border disputes, but nothing of great note. He would pass into obscurity forgotten in an age of heroes. But still, the greater part of him was proud of her deeds.
As Charles walked through the camp he was struck by something he had noticed before but not given much thought. The camps were laid out in an organized manner, almost everything was in the exactly the same place as it had been last night, the night before and so on. The fact that she also insisted on erecting palisade every night made him frown. It wasn't something that Fereldans did with any regularity; he knew Orlesians and Neverrans didn't do it. In fact the only ones he knew that put so much effort into making camps they'd only tear down the next day was the Imperium.
He wondered what it meant and made a mental note to ask Cecilia about it. Putting that aside as he reached the section of the encampment set aside for the men of the de Gendarmerie de l'Impératrice and found his second the Chevalier Ser Renly feastin on a roast pheasant. Once more the Prince of Orlais frowned missing the advice and comradeship of his former second the Baron Caron De Delacroix, he who had been his friend for many years.
The Baron had returned to Val Royeauex along with most of the Prince's company of the de Gendarmerie de l'Impératrice leaving behind only a small honor guard for his security until he and Cecilia Theirin were formally married. At that time they would, most likely, be dismissed to return back to Orlais and rejoin the Royal Guard. For to remain in Ferelden would require oaths of fealty to Cecilia; oaths that they could not grant because of previous ones given to his mother, the Empress of Orlais. For no man could hold two sovereign lords master and what sovereign would trust the sworn swords of another in their presence.
"My Prince," the Orlesian Chevalier said rising to his feet but Charles waved him to sit.
The Prince of Orlais took a seat next to the man as they warmed themselves by the fire. As the sun set a chill from the Waking Sea swept in chilling the coastline causing members of both armies to huddle near the small campfires they had built.
"To the victory on the morrow my prince," the Chevalier toasted raising his boot flask and downing a nip of its contents before holding it out in offering.
It was an offering Charles gratefully accepted as he took his own nip of the Ferelden whiskey. The liquid scorched a terrible streak down his throat before finally settling like a pool of fire in his stomach. As Charles handed the flask back he found his mind drifting.
What Cecilia had accomplished in this past year had been remarkable. Under her tenure of the throne Ferelden had more than doubled its size and Cecilia showed little hints of slowing down now. As he thought about it his thoughts turned back to his own homeland, the Empire of Orlais. Unlike Cecilia's Ferelden, Orlais, with a few exceptions, had been in slow steady decline since the death of the Emperor Drakon.
It had been nearly millennia since Kordillus Drakon transformed a weak and fragile collection of squabbling baronies into a powerful empire rivaling the ancient Tevinter Imperium. All the lands from the very gates of Minrathous to the wild untamed lands of Fereldan had answered to the Emperor, but it had not lasted. Ironically it had been the Fereldens, or at least their less civilized ancestors, that had brought Drakon's dream to an end.
While the Emperor had fought to conquer Tevinter his son had ventured with his army into the heart of what would later become the Kingdom of Ferelden. The Orlesian prince had probed deep into the still barbarous land intent on proving his valor by bringing that land into the empire. Instead he got himself and his army slaughtered near modern day Redcliffe. The news of his beloved son's death had broken the Kordillus Drakon causing him to give up his siege of the Tevinter capital Minrathous.
The founder of the Empire of Orlais had died soon after that leaving his throne to his bastard son by one of his mistresses. The empire itself had never recovered, steadily losing territory to both civil wars and external ones before finally stabilizing to its more or less current boundaries. There had been a few exceptions but those few gains had rarely lasted or countered what had been lost.
What made Charles the angriest was not the reversals themselves but the reason for the reversals. It was the game, the Great Game of Thrones as it was more formally known. The game pitted all the nobles in Orlais against each other from the lowest Baron to the Royal Dukes they warred against one another. This however was not a war of swords, but a war of conniving smiles, assassinations of both the physical body and their character.
The constant infighting and plays for power served to only weaken his country and provide opportunities to turn them against each other. In this he found himself envying the unity Cecilia's countrymen possessed. It was again ironic that the relatively young nation of Ferelden was a more unified one than an empire many centuries its senior.
Charles was also smart enough to realize that the decline of Orlais was another partial reason for his marriage to Cecilia. His mother hoped that by tying their house to Cecilia's rising star it would reverse the empire's falling fortunes. Leadership would also be needed to restore Orlais to a position of preeminence.
Empress Celene I of Orlais daughter of Philippe the Fair, Grand Duke of Kast, niece to the departed Emperor Florian , mother to the Princes Phillip and Charles had held the painted throne of Val Royeauex for nearly four decades. She was cunning in a way both her sons were not. She had the political skill and insight to not only come out ahead in the game, but to keep the fractured Orlesian nobility from tearing each other apart.
Under her suzerainty the empire had largely stabilized around her core provinces. While the border skirmishes remained and her uncle's loss of the Ferelden Province before her ascent to the throne still sat sorely on the empire's pride for the most part all was peaceful. Charles hissed, peace did not make great empires.
For all her brilliance in political matters the Empress had had no mind for military ones. His brother was similar, except that lack even a fifth of the political talents of their mother. When he assumed the Imperial throne, Charles shook his head. He feared what would happen when that day came to pass. He loved his elder brother, but…
That would keep to another day and he needed his rest. There was a battle to come and a city-state to destroy. In a way he was pleased it would be Kirkwall. At the end of the last Exalted March the city of Kirkwall had fallen under the rule of Orlais and then promptly revolted a decade and a half later. Orlais had tried and failed to retake the ancient city many times. He'd take of bit of pleasure in taking vengeance, delayed as it was, for the defeat of his kinsmen all those years ago.
XXX
"Who in the fade are you," the young guardsmen asked raising a torch before the richly robed figure of Lord Alexhander Threnhold appeared in the gloom.
Ser Raymond of Giles watched them snap to attention before the Kirkwall nobleman who was by all accounts the Viscount's right hand man. The Knight of the Sovereign's Order watched from the lord's side along with two dozen other knights and men-at-arms. The rest of the hundred odd men of his company were even now securing the guard barracks in a typically brutal fashion.
With the bulk of the Kirkwall Guard out on the field the handful left in the city were badly inexperienced youths or old men too aged to stand up to the rigors of sustained combat. Those who remained would not be challenge for Raymond's band of warriors. Slowly, his movement hidden by the body of Lord Threnhold, Raymond closed his hand around the hilt of his sword.
"Milord," the older guardsman said carefully eyeing Raymond and his men, "Is the Steward expecting you?"
As they spoke Raymond searched carefully with his eyes for any other guards. Besides the four men on gate sentry he saw no others. He saw none other than the for the four men standing guard at the Keep's iron gate. As Threnhold shot back that he didn't need to be expected to enter the Viscount's Keep Raymond took another few seconds to scan the battlements.
Finally deciding that these four were it Raymond drew his sword. At the signal the rest of his warriors drew their own weapons and fell on the guardsmen. Raymond himself had already had his weapon buried in the guts of the elder guardsman before Threnhold could react.
"What in the Maker's name are you doing," the lord screeched his eye wide in horror.
Raymond of Giles ignored the man's shout as he withdrew his blade letting the guardsmen fall with a sickly thump to the ground. Taking the edge of his surcoat he wiped the blade clean before turning to face the Kirkwall noble. The knight offered a slight smile even knowing it was hidden beneath his helm, "Again my lord I am just following my orders."
Threnhold just stared at him with hard eyes and a clenched jaw. Raymond considered himself an astute man and if he had to guess from the expression on the nobleman's face and eyes he'd say that the man was realizing just how much his deal with Cecilia was going to cost him. Eventually a resigned look of defeat entered Alexander Threnhold's eyes and he nodded slowly.
Without hesitation his warband streamed into the Viscount's Keep with weapons drawn and held ready to use. At this late at night the Keep was largely empty save the handful of domestic servants cleaning the interior in preparation for the next day. The sight of so many armed men sent a visible ripple of fear through the servants for unlike the guardsmen in the black of the night whose night vision had been greatly reduced from the torch light, these men and women could clearly see the sable dragon emblazoned on their surcoats.
Raymond didn't know if these peasants recognized what the heraldry meant except that the livery didn't match those of the men they normally saw around the keep. He turned to his second, "Robert take the men and secure the keep… kill anyone who resists."
At his command the black armored knights and men-at-arms surged forwards their swords drawn ignoring the terrified screams of the servants. One rather foolish man tried to get between a knight and his destination and was rewarded with three feet of steel through his gut.
Resting his hand on Threnhold shoulder Raymond turned to him, "Welcome home my lord."
XXX
It was said that a rising red sun marked the day as a bloody one. In elder days when his people were still barbaric clans they had been obsessed with omens and signs of fortune. In every movement of the Maker's Eye, a change of the wind, the flight of a bird they had seen the whispers of fortune and fate.
Tiberius and his countrymen had grown beyond such fancies, but whenever he looked up into that crimson sky he couldn't help but feel it was going to be an interesting day. Dressed in his black burnished armor, with his horned great helm tucked underneath his arm, he stood atop the palisade gatehouse of the Queen's camp watching with pride as the army drew up for battle.
The General had been fighting in one form or another since he was thirteen years old and had been training longer than that. To see this army of his countrymen lined up and prepared for battle knowing that the whole of the world was watching and trembling at their might filled him with a pride close to bursting.
He watched as the men-at-arms of the Sovereign's Order formed up into their companies, their mail and helms glittering in the early morning sun while the banners flying from the spears of their sergeants fluttered in the morning breeze. The Order formed center of their battle order with the men of Highever and West Hills on the flanks.
Behind them the Queen's Elven Auxiliaries gathered into their own troop. Tiberius grinned wolfishly; it was something that he would have never thought of. Finding quality bowman had proved a problem in the past. No respecting nobleman or freeholder would join as a bowmen; archery being a less honorable pursuit than mastery of the sword.
Ironically the best archers were the mercenary companies of the upper Free March cities like Starkhaven and Tantervale. However by recruiting among the Dalish, as natural archers as fish are swimmers, she solved that particular problem in a unique way. And after all the Dalish were well known for their sense of loyalty once they had pledged their allegiance.
The knights were still mustering on the field mounting their horse, selecting their lances and preparing for the battle to come. They were the great armored fist of this army and they knew that most battles since the invention of the stirrup had been decided by them. He remembered the feeling of that glorious charge. There was nothing in the world quite like it.
"Tiberius," a voice called him from his thought.
"My queen," the general answered nodding his head respectfully.
The Queen of Ferelden threw a look down at the assembling army before turning her ice blue eyes on him, "I have one more task for you general, before this battle begins."
"Name it majesty," he said earnestly.
She smiled a cold cruel smile that sent a shiver of dread down his spine. It was a smile that usually resulted in several dead bodies, "I want you to personally deliver my terms to Hawke… one last time."
Tiberius's eyes narrowed, "I do not understand," and that was the truth. He'd know Cecilia ever since she was a small child and she had never been one to forgive a slight, either large or small, "He has already refused you once. He had challenged you! How can you speak of peace?"
"When the dust has settled and Garret Hawke and his army lie dead I want all of Thedas to know that I offered Kirkwall a chance at peace," she responded throwing a glance at her assembling army, "I want no one to dispute my claim to his city or what is left of it when the sun sets this day."
The general nodded as understanding came to him, "When Hawke refuses he will be the one to seem unreasonable," he paused thinking it over in his mind before continuing, "he will not accept you terms?"
The Queen's smile returned, "Of course he will not… and after he refuses we are going to kill them all."
It was Tiberius's turn to smile though it was quickly covered as he slid his great helm over his head, "I will depart immediately."
And depart he did. After rounding up four knights from the Order's inner cadre he retrieved one of the Queen's dragon banners and rode briskly out of the encampment. As he rode his pride in his men grew as he saw them lined up for battle. They were ready and eager for a fight he could see it in their faces and stances.
His small band of knights took the better part of an hour to cross the five or so miles from the Queen's fortified camp. A look behind him showed that the army was on the march, no doubt moving into position for when his offer of peace was rejected.
Hawke's arrogance astounded him. Tiberius didn't know if the Viscount thought he could actually win or if this was supposed to be some grand gesture of defiance He didn't really care. As far as he was concerned this day had been inevitable since Hawke refused Cecilia's offer that day almost three years ago. Hawke could have brought Kirkwall peacefully into the Ferelden sphere of influence but he had allowed his pride to get the better of him. And now he and his city would pay the ultimate price for its ruler's hubris.
Glancing up he saw the Kirkwall army arrange at the top of the gentle hill their own weapons glittering in the morning light. Getting his first look at his foe he shook his head in disappointment. He saw too many young and frightened faces out their looking down on him. Unblooded children, he thought, no match for his veterans despite the favorable position they held. Even though they held the high ground he had no doubt that when the sun set his countrymen would stand victorious.
"Hold there," a man in fine armor called out to him.
"Viscount Hawke a pleasure to see you again," it was a lie that was plain to both men but as much a Tiberius hated it there was decorum to follow. As the Queen's designated representative it was especially important for him to follow the code of knightly chivalry. Clearing his throat Tiberius continued, "I come as an envoy of peace from my Queen, your rightful liege lord who asks your reconsider her most generous terms."
"I cannot do this general," Hawke called from the front rank of his warriors, "This has gone too far for things to be settled so simply!"
"So be it then," Tiberius said from atop his horse. The general hadn't expected the little bastard to change his mind, but again the offer had to be made. Taking a deep breath to fill his lungs Tiberius bellowed, "Then let your death and the death of men be upon your head Viscount Hawke."
With that Ser Markus Tiberius Knight of the Sovereign's Order and General of the Army of Ferelden pulled tight on the reigns of his charcoal colored steed and pointed it down the hill where the Queen's army was assembling into battle formations.
XXX
With a grim expression Hawke watched as Tiberius and his entourage rode back down the gentle rolling slope. He saw the five horsemen disappeared through the neatly ordered ranks of men-at-arms and felt the worm of worry gnaw its way into his stomach. This was his first look at the Ferelden army and it appeared that it was more formidable than he first thought. And this was not even a quarter of the full strength she had mustered for the war with Antiva.
But whatever feelings he had he pushed them down. His men needed him to be strong, to show no fear and be a source of courage for those whose own was waning. Hawke held his great sword loosely in his fingertips, the heft of the blade felt reassuring in these troubling times.
"Make ready lads," Hawke called as he walked up and down the shield line doling out reassurance to the younger men and remarks of confidence to the older.
Yes, Hawke thought, the battle would be bloody, but he had faith in the strength and valor of his men. They were fighting for their future, their homes and their country's very survival. Still he mused; he wished he had had more time to train. He glanced right and left taking in the gleaming steel of the shield wall that he had formed his men into.
A shield wall was a solid, if a somewhat immobile formation. It would take more than a determined foe to breach and even more so given the favorable position he held. Still given his lack of horse he'd of rather had a phalanx, but that took more training and discipline than his men possessed. He also lacked the personal experience necessary to train them in such and more importantly the hoplomachos or sergeants they'd be called in Orlesian, Ferelden or Neverran armies.
With little warning a small series of horn blasts sounded from the Ferelden army. Quickly Hawke turned to look down the slope half expecting to Ferelden knights charging up the hill. Instead he saw people, skirmishers, he thought moving out in front of the main body. He watched carefully as they maneuvered waiting for them to cross the set of painted stones he'd painstakingly marked out as the limit of his crossbowmen's range.
"Archers… positions," Hawke bellowed and the command was repeated up and down the lines.
From the relative safety behind the shield emerged two lines of crossbowmen equipped with large shields called a pavise on their back. The shield was designed to protect them from counter fire when they stopped to reload their crossbows.
Raising his sword high over his head, Hawke waited for the enemy bowmen to advance. Too his surprise they stopped just outside the killzone. The Viscount frowned as he took in the smallish figures standing at the base of the slope. He watched them withdrawn what he had to assumed were arrows from their quivers.
The elves, for that was what they had to be, drew taught their bows and fired high into the air. Hawke like the rest of the army watched fully convinced that they were far out of rage. After all the crossbows they themselves carried were unable to reach their foes at such distance. He was convinced up until the point the arrows began to fall amongst them.
"Cover," the Viscount shouted just as surprised as the man next to him as arrow pierced the neck of the guardsmen. Without wasting any time Hawke scooped up the fallen man's shield and crouched low so it would cover both of them. All around the screams of wounded and pained men cried out as arrows found their unlucky marks.
Hawke cursed himself as the arrows continued to fall most hitting the ground but a few impacted hard on his shield, the tips piercing the steel shell and burying itself into the wood reinforced back plate. In front of him he heard the distinctive 'twang' of crossbows as his men fired futility. From what he saw they all fell short.
Cursing venomously Hawke attempted to move his crossbowmen down into better firing positions but the two times he tried he was driven off by Ferelden light cavalry. After those two attempts and ten or so men dead Hawke abandoned any chance of venturing out again for the simple reason he doubted he could persuade them to have another go at it.
The Viscount of Kirkwall was still trying to decide what his next move was when another swarm of arrows fell. The bodkin tipped arrows killed one or two people per volley though it wounded far more and had a devastating effect on morale. He was still thinking about what his next move was when a horned blew a deep resonating tone across the field.
XXX
From his position on the right flank with the Teyrn of Highever'sknights which had been situated behind the main body of footmen Prince Charles watched Cecilia's elven auxiliaries rain death down upon the men of Kirkwall with their oversized longbows. The bows these elves used were almost comical. They were larger than the elves themselves and with a flat portion near the bottom for them to step on to anchor the massive long bow. It had indeed seemed comical until the Orelsian had seen them outrange the Kirkwall crossbows.
When the horn blew bellowing its next command to the Ferelden army Charles tensed in his seat as the command of 'march' was echoed up and down the line. In almost perfect unison the nearly five thousand men-at-arms stepped off; the chain of their armor clanking and the tips of their spears glistening in the early morn.
Under the cover of archery fire the men-at-arms advanced until they reached the base of the slope below the Kirkwall army. Once they did they broke trot rushing up the hill while still maintaining their formations. Only once they neared their foe did a savage war cry tear from their lips and they slammed into the Kirkwall Homeguard with a brutal ferocity.
It was a different strategy than he would have chosen if command of this army. But Cecilia had been right so far and her judgments had been sound. Still he didn't like using his infantry this way. To be honest he didn't trust them, the lowborn rankers who filled up the bottom of the Thedosian armies, to carry the day. In part this was a product of his Orlesian mindset, but it was also in part due to the knowledge that the mounted heavy horseman was the ultimate expression of power and military prowess on the battlefield.
"I do not believe they will take the hill," Charles said to the Teyrn of Highever his own eyes not moving from the scene of battle. From his experienced eye it looked like Kirkwallers were holding its own despite everything thrown at them. Then again the men-at-arms had not been expected to break the lines.
The Teyrn's face was hidden beneath helm, but the manner in which he tilted his head indicated he agreed, "Their sitting on one hell of a good defensive position. We need to get them off it to secure our victory."
Charles nodded as he flipped down the visor on his basinet helm moments before another series of horn blasts sounded. Under his breath the Prince of Orlais chuckled. He was becoming used to the Ferelden system of auditory orders. The armies of Orlais had chosen to use flags and banners to relay their commands in a system dating back to the armies of the Emperor Drakon when they tore their way across the continent.
This particular command as he understood it meant 'ordered withdrawal.' He watched as the men-at-arms broke contact with the Kirkwall Home Guard and began to retreat back down the slope dragging and carrying their wounded as they went. Again he felt his lip twitch rethinking his earlier thoughts about the 'lesser' men and their place on the battlefield. To accomplish such a maneuver required a discipline he doubted his own men back in Orlais possessed.
He watched the Kirkwall lines carefully waiting to see if they would take first bait thrown to them. To his surprise they didn't and in a way he was glad that he and the nobility, the gentry, would be the ones to finish the fight. He was also slightly concerned that the next step in the plan would put Cecilia directly in harm's way.
XXX
A great cheer rose from the ranks of his men as the Ferelden men-at-arms retreated down the slope carrying their wounded as they did. Hawke tried to rally his crossbowmen to harass the retreating warriors but when he did a flight of Dalish arrows drove them back with several casualties. Hawke himself even had an arrow deflect off his flank for his effort.
When he reached his own lines once more he took an inventory of his own men then looked down at the Ferelden army. He felt his stomach twisted in concern as he watched the men-at-arms reform and even more worrying he saw the Ferelden heavy cavalry move into position.
This was what he had feared most. The infantry he had held, the horse… the knights were a different matter entirely. Withstanding their charge would be an order of magnitude greater. For millennia they'd been the champions on the field of battle and for good reason. The weight behind their momentum could easily crush men to death.
Hawke sighed heavily, his sword arm already aching from earlier events. His line had held against Cecilia's soldiers, but that had taken a toll on his smaller army. He watched as orderlies drug the dead to be placed in neat rows for burial while the wounded were taken back the camp for the surgeons and healers to contend with.
When the Viscount heard the horn blast he didn't know what it meant per say as they series of signals had been developed long after he had come to Kirkwall and left the service of his Baan and the Crown of Calenhad. Still it didn't take a prophet to deduce what would happen next. Rushing forward to the front of the ranks he saw them coming. There was a line of men in obsidian black armor in the center and shinning silver on the flanks.
As they spurred their mounts to full gallop Hawke felt the ground beneath his feet rumble. Holding his sword tightly in his hand he yelled at the top of his lungs, "Hold!"
And hold they did even as the wall of horse, steel and men slammed into them. They held even as the front rank was crushed beneath the weight. They held even as their friends and comrades began to die under the lances and swords of the riders and the hooves and weight of the horses.
Hawke swore and threw his entire weight behind the man in front of him as they pushed back against the press of the horsemen. After what seemed like an eternity the pressure lessened. The charge had failed; his men had held. His guardsmen were even starting to strike back pulling several knights from their mounts and stabbing them to death.
This was it, he realized. The charge had floundered; the momentum on which it depended so heavily had bled away. Without it their advance was stalled and they became vulnerable. It was point emphasized as Hawke stabbed his broadsword up like a spear catching one of the Queen's Knights in the armpit and toppling him from his horse.
Then without warning the horsemen broke contact riding away from Kirkwaller line before wheeling back and charging again… and again this time with support from the footmen. For a total of three times the Fereldens smashed into his lines and it was only by the blood, sweat and tears of his warriors they'd been driven back. Even though they held Hawke knew that his men couldn't last forever.
Suddenly a figure caught the Viscount attention, a black figure in ornate armor slashing down taking the head clean off one of the guardsmen before reversing her stroke to cut another on the downward strike. It took him but a moment to discern who he was looking at, but only a moment. It had to be Cecilia, the Queen of Ferelden and the woman responsible for the death of his wife and son. Hawke glanced franticly about looking for something, anything to use.
Spotting a crossbowman he dashed over and snatched the weapon from the startled man and spun, pulling it into his shoulder at the same time. He cursed as another knight moved in front of the Queen. Hawke took a long to the side to clear his line of fire he aimed the bow. He whispered a prayer for the Maker to guide his hand and squeezed the firing lever.
The bolt left the crossbow propelled by the tension contained in the hemp and sinew string. The steel broad head missile sailed through the air like a black blur of death. Hawke watched as the world slowed. He watched the bolt shot closer and closer. He watched as the bolt collided with the Queen's helmeted head and he watched as she toppled from her mount.
