"Templars, rows of three at the chokeholds. Shield walls on the east and west trails, Smite and Cleanse on my count! Archers, cover from the stockade, fire at will! Keep those Mages back until the trebuchet is ready to fire!"
"By your orders!" Runners scatter and within moments the Templars march up the narrow choke points of the paths leading up to the gate. The enemy Mages' bones crunch under our boots as my men carve out the bloody formation to execute my order.
"I wanted that trebuchet ready to fire five minutes past! Aim for the west mountainside snowbank!"
"Yes Commander!"
The air thrums with the power of Mages, an electric charge whispering against my skin, a palpable weight pressing in… until my ears pop from the suffocating pressure.
"Smite!" I shout just as the Mages cast and thunders skid to a halt, ice bolts crack, and fireballs vaporize in a wisp of steam.
The shield-wielding Templars keeps steady while the second and third row rotates in preparation for the next Smite.
"Fire!" I hear the crack of Rylen's voice and a volley of arrows whistle overhead to fall the Mages clad in winter robes, finding flesh parting with ease.
"Ready!" The Rebel Mages maniacally pelt down the path in twos and threes, and I hold up my shield arm in a fist. The errant Mage nearest tumbles down with an arrow protruding from his unarmored chest.
"Steady!" I keep my fist closed and thrust up in the air. Mages swarm together to form a massive twitching flesh, crowding up the narrow paths.
"Steady…!" They draw nearer, the closest one's staff ready to thrust into the shield wall; the Veil ripples as Mages draw from the Fade and the air creaks again.
"Smite!" Opening my fist flat I thrust it forward and ring of Smites crash into the rank of Mages. They scream and fall and the Templars forming the shield wall makes short work of them with brutal efficiency.
"Ready!" My Templars rotate again.
"Commander, the trebuchet is ready!"
"Aim and fire!"
The rope snaps and a whistle of wind and a distant firelight tells of the trebuchet being fired. Within seconds the ice splits with a shuddering scream, then it is rolling, tumbling down the mountainside with the ferocity unmatched by any fire or barrier spells the Mages can cast. Even in the darkness of the night the mountains seem to radiate, the cloud of white falling atop the Mages gleams, and the thundering cheers of my men arise. But before the cry of joy can fade, a dim shadow sweeps over the ground. Whatever it is, it must be flying overhead. Something that large... where is it? Against the night sky, it's almost impossible to see…
It's… it's an Archdemon.
An Archdemon.
Maker, I've seen that thing only once before a decade ago. This is a bloody nightmare, a damned good one.
"Get down! Everybody get down, now!" I shout, and men duck just in time to keep their heads from a sweeping Maker-damned Archdemon.
"Retreat! Retreat! Fall back to the Chantry! Men, retreat! It's the only building that might hold against that-"
Archdemons can only be slain by Grey Wardens… such as her.
"…that beast!"
At once the men dotting the field surge for the gate, and I hold it open to usher in those who make it.
Too many don't.
The damned… thing sweeps through the sky to turn around for another attack, and… Maker, Andraste forgive me, I must… I must close the gate. I can hear them… I can hear the screams of the wounded, of those unable to put out the tainted flames from the dragon devouring through the flimsy armor of the Inquisition.
I lock eyes with one of the few recruits crawling towards the gate, legs broken, but the screams are coming from inside as well – there must be enemy foot soldiers crawling over the fence – and if we are to have any hope of making a stand… if we are to even dare think of protecting the villagers… I must bar the gate against the enemies.
I pull at the gate and Pamen… she stretches her hand towards me, lips forming for a croak of a 'no'…
The gate slams closed and I bolt it shut.
The shadow of the Archdemon swoop over me and a blast of vicious heat sends me tumbling further into the village. The column of tainted fire cascades down past the bolted gate and piercing screams shatter any remaining shards of imagined sanctity for the abandoned.
The screams, the never-ending screams of those whose flesh is devoured by the flames! Maker, had I not heard it enough in my youth? The ringing howls of cooked flesh clings to me like foul mist, and my feet spurs me unwillingly through the throngs of skirmishes breaking out all over Haven. The black smoke shrouds the stars dotting the sky and darkness creeps between the cracks of scorching flames.
Innocents are trapped under rubble, crying for help and my men are screaming as they brace collapsed walls and roofs engulfed in flames against their backs to dig them out. Enemy Mages rain down fire and lightning on my men fighting on foot and those dragging wounded out from collapsed buildings alike.
I Smite a ring of Mages and my sword slithers across a couple of pale throats. Staffs clang against packed dirt but the screams, the screams! Maker, the screams just won't stop! It is everywhere! The screams of the battle, of the dead and the wounded! It's as if I'm back in Kirkwall, or the Blight!
What must I do to stop this? What can I do, to stop this… this madness?
"Templars, archers, cover the retreat! Shield bearers, shield wall! Protect the villagers and recruits buried in the rubble! To the Chantry! Retreat to the Chantry!" I scream, my sword splattering blood with each swing. I bash through the doors on fire with my shield and crumbling wooden beams crash down on me. Hacking at them with my sword, I escape with minor burns, a blunted sword edge, and a few coughing villagers. Many don't move – their bile is black with soot.
The beating of wings drums overhead and I tackle a recruit through the door of the Chantry. I think the heels of my feet are singed from the dragon's breath, but we both still draw breath.
Unlike so many.
Andraste preserve me, the constant wailing of the wounded, the pained expulsion of the last remaining breaths of the dying! Would anything ever stop the screams, screams, screams ringing in my head?!
"Yes. Chancellor Roderick can. He wants to help." A calm voice cuts through and I gasp.
"Cole! Maker's breath, where'd you- the Chancellor can help?"
"Yes. A way out, for us. He needs to help, before the end."
"How can a-"
"There's a path. The people can escape." The Chancellor rasps.
…There's a path!
Andraste guide us, if there's a path perhaps we could escape from this death trap. Will it work? A hidden path would be difficult to navigate even without the villagers and injured men. It will be suicide without a sufficient diversion… but surely the diversion would perish also. If the 'Herald' would go draw the attention of this 'Elder One' we will waste as little lives as possible, but…
"Cullen! What are you standing dimwitted for? If there's a path, let us run!"
Trevelyan grabs at me, but I jerk my hand away.
"Without turning their attention elsewhere, there is no hope."
"Then order the men to attack! Command them to lay down their lives, for their glorious Herald! Send them all out! Every last one of them!"
"They are not–"
"Commander!" Leliana's voice snaps and I bite off.
"Now is not the time," she says, though her tone questions the worth of Trevelyan rather than my untimely anger.
"Fine," I growl, turning away. The 'Herald' is not an option. She won't delay that Arch… that thing for longer than two of her measly breaths.
"Lysette!" I call, and she salutes amidst the throng of bloody flesh in the Chantry.
"Yes, Commander."
"You will lead a squad to cause one last landslide to bury Haven," I spit, clenching my fist.
She pauses for a moment, and something flickers across her eyes. I hold her gaze, demanding her death, and she merely bows to me deeply.
"As you wish, Commander," she says simply.
I clench my jaw till my teeth ache while Lysette chooses her comrades, taking from the ample volunteers. She names only those she knows I can afford to lose. The inside of my mouth tastes metallic, until I force myself to stop biting and turn my attention to the evacuation.
"Inquisition! Follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry! Move!" I shout. Cole and… Dorian, I think, helps the Chancellor to limp away, and a bustle of movements follow.
"Ready to move out, ser." Lysette reports, gathering by the Chantry door with a fully equipped squad. I stride over.
Thumping my heart with my tight fist, I bow to them low. Surprised gasps sound, and I hear Trevelyan's "Cullen! You shouldn't!" but I. Don't. Care.
"May the Maker guard your path," I say.
"And may He guide yours. It has been an honor, Commander," says she.
Then like the smoke scattering by the winter gale, they are gone.
