Art of War: Deception
One of the key rules when deploying Aviatorii, was that you didn't have them fly during the day. The same, as a rule of thumb, went for airships.
Mages, in particular those of the Dominion, seemed able to pierce even the darkest of nights, be it through spells or enchantments. But their archers, and those who crewed their bolt-throwers, could not. That allowed for some leeway during the nights, but at day it rendered them far more exposed than what could be deemed worth the risk.
The Aviatorii commander nodded his head to the rest of his team, all present and accounted for. There had been neither casualties nor injuries during the attack on Jader, a textbook raid if ever there was one. But they'd encountered Orlesian mages, and knew they at least to some degree possessed the abilities to shoot at them in the skies. Now, they were about to add whatever artillery the Orlesians had to the equation, and it gave him an outcome he did not appreciate.
Concealed in the woods on the Orlesian side of the border, his men made the final checks. The charges in every enchantment were examined, and the staffs and grenades were confirmed to be properly strapped in. Satisfied with what he found, he slid the faceless visor over the opening in his helmet, his team mirroring the motion.
He made the hand signal for them to take off, the order immediately obeyed as his men released their footing, and floated a foot above ground. The grass and mosses beneath them flattened as they darted upwards, leaving the forest floor behind. They stopped, barely above the tree tops, then pressed out north-east, low enough that only those directly below could have seen them. Skirting the trees were not an unusual tactic, though he doubted the Orlesians would know.
They all knew their targets today, and what not to target. Avoiding the Orlesian Emperor was a priority, for reasons he at first had not fully understood. In hindsight, it was still for dubious, if understandable reasons. They needed him alive to negotiate a truce, and his death would likely only serve to send the entirety of Orlais and the Chantry into a rage that could not so easily be stopped.
Mages and artillery, however, were priority targets. The former were largely an unknown factor, given how little factual information they had on the battlemages of Thedas. The Fereldan Circle had, surprisingly, shared information with them on a type of mage called a 'Knight-Enchanter'. Less so dangerous to them as they would be to the soldiers on the ground, and so far more preferable to take out from the air.
The artillery, and whatever spellfire could hit them as full flight, had top priority. As long as those remained in action, their own movement was restricted at best, and downright hazardous at worst. It was not unheard of, during the war, for Dominion bolt-throwers, or 'talons' as they were called, to pluck an Aviatorii from the skies with a four-foot spear through his body. The wards shielding them were not intended for that kind of kinetic force.
They flew in perfect, nearly static formation, keeping their distances between one another. He was taking the lead, the enchantments in his helmet allowing him the eyesight of a hawk. The drake-staff strapped to his chest was an old, but thoroughly proven design, older even than the Mede Dynasty, but the grenades were a far more recent innovation, brought forth by some unholy merge of Redguard black powder and Argonian sludge-bombs. He was not keen on what they did to the human body.
"Orlesian army column, five miles up." The message was relayed without a voice, a mere thought that spread between them; "Spread and lock staffs for artillery spells..." he paused as they approached, something about the army ahead of them rubbing him the wrong way; "...confirm approximate hostile numbers?"
"Estimate between ten and twenty thousand." Brief confusion was betrayed in Eleven's thoughts; "Was the army not at near thirty thousand?"
It had been, and they had been able to tell Jader had held at least that many. Why then, could they only find half such numbers present? There was no way he could be so optimistic as to think they'd wiped out a third of the Orlesian forces. Was the rest delayed?
"One, immediate report for General Cauthrien: Only half estimated enemy forces present at intercept point. Cause unknown. Will proceed with bombardment before making return." He measured each command, making sure to keep his focus so that nothing else slipped in. One nodded, five hundred meters to his left, and halted his advance before turning around altogether, then took off for the border; "Maintain current velocity and ready staffs for fire. I want two strafes over their positions. Priority remains artillery and powerful magical signatures."
Confirmations clicked in, all but One's who had by now left the effective range of their connection. Twelve looked ahead, maintaining his speed as they started clearing the tree tops. Horns sounded ahead, meaning the Orlesians had noticed them. He kicked more power into flight, shouldering his Drake-staff as energies ran their course through its ornate carvings and the enchanted metals within.
"Current range is twenty four hundred." Six reported, redundant as he himself could observe the same, but a useful reminder all the same. That meant another kilometer before effective range, and they were eating hundreds of meters by the second. Even with the thick clothes and enchantments therein, the cold winds still seeped through at these speeds; "Locate targets and prepare to fire."
He could see their artillery now. Ballistae with both vertical and horizontal arms, lining up side by side to face them. He wasn't keen on facing bolt-throwers, no matter their speed. A spear launched from something that size would always outpace them, and could pluck them from the skies like a bird. Some had thought, once, that dressing them in ironflesh would prevent such threats, but all that was achieved was their speeds being cut in half, and turns in the air being all the harder to pull.
And they were still punctured by a well-aimed bolt, caring little than the first half inch of skin had become iron. For contrary to popular belief, the spell did not render one as if a golem or Centurion, but simply affected the skin. Doing anything to the muscles without seriously impeding their movement was a spell not yet developed.
The wind whistled as a javelin speared the air to his left, gone again so quickly he'd barely the time to process it. The roll he pulled to avoid was entirely born from instincts, far too late to have prevented anything had the spear struck. More followed, missing his people by what looked like the scantest of inches; "Maintain velocity. Take evasive action as required, but remain on course."
It was a dangerous order, he knew it was. Threats like these were exactly why they were not meant to fly during the day. The crew of a ballistae required nowhere near as much training to effectively shoot down a mage, as a mage did when learning to fly.
What borderline amazed him was that the Orlesian artillery crews were so precise. They were still more than a kilometer out, and moving at speeds that would drop an eagle from the skies out of sheer jealousy. Somehow their foes could track them, and fire with unnerving accuracy. And distance, for he'd rarely seen ballistae of such compact sizes boast such an incredible effective range.
His own staff was leveled directly at the closest ballistae, even as he realized the same was true in turn. Its crew had turned the monstrous machine about, and he could as well have stared directly down its slideway. There was a certain amusement to be found in the way the rest of the strangely undersized army did its best to clear away, leaving the ballistae and their crews on their lonesome.
"Ready to fire." He could see its crew furiously turning cranks and levers, even as the spear was dropped into place. His heart and soul ordered him to dodge or find himself skewered. His mind prevailed, however, and bade him take careful aim. It was a matter of sheer principle that he could place the first shot perfectly; "Fire barrage."
For a moment, the mouth of his staff glowed brighter and hotter than the Sun itself. The very weapon vibrated in his hands, numbing his shoulders as it charged. Below, the he could see the ballistae targeting him had drawn back fully, and an engineer was about to turn its potential energy into kinetic energy.
Then, with no recoil whatsoever, the streak of fire left his staff, as it did those of his men. He rolled the moment he'd fired the shot, aware that the ballistae would release before his shot reached it. Jader had been a hunting ground of near-defenseless prey, but here the risk was very real indeed. Now, as if time has slowed, he could watch the burst of fire racing for the ground, a line more than a ball of fire. His shot was perfect, indeed, and he could see the spear carrying his name as it penetrated the artillery-spell. It emerged unscathed, for the spell itself would not actually have physical impact until it struck the ground, a safe distance from its caster as intended.
Then time snapped back, and he felt the sting of adrenaline as the spear passed him by, close enough that he could have reached out to touch it. Down below, the spells struck the ground, fire spreading outwards in massive balls of flame and debris as the immediate vicinities were incinerated. He continued his flight, knowing they were not equally numbered for artillery, and that they remained targets in the skies as long as Orlais retained its ballistae; "Good impacts on first strafe."
"Magical signatures, four groups spread abo-" Eight's report was cut short as the mage himself caught one of the spears to the gut. The projectile barely paused when passing through the mage, continuing out the back of his body as momentum carried him forward and downwards. He'd been too preoccupied with the signatures, he'd missed a roll when the people below targeted him; "Ballistae are still in effect, damn it, do not lose sight of primary threat! Fire when ready."
Streaks of fire rained from the skies, tails in thin air as their casters speedily moved on. Artillery and men exploded when the ground below them erupted with fire, the spell sometimes passing half a meter into the trampled dirt before detonating, ripping apart their immediate vicinities.
He was directly above the main camp, and could see below where horses and wagons stood around. He released the strap on his grenade belt, allowing six spheres of glass to drop to the ground below. His speed gave them forward momentum, carrying them across half the camp before they struck soil. Flaming sludge exploded outwards wherever they hit, incinerating everything that was nearby. Horses, blind with terror, tore themselves loose from their posts and spread to the winds, trampling men and tents alike.
"Artillery destroyed. Come about for third strafe." Despite the temptations he was aware they all felt to remain, they would be retreating after the last strafing run. There was too much risk in remaining above the area when too many mages of unknown abilities were still around as well, and might launch reprisals any moment now. They'd already established that Orlesian mages were capable of shooting at them in the air, and he was uninterested in giving them a chance. That aside, the charges in his staff were already past the halfway point; "Fire when ready."
Less uniformly this time, the Aviatorii screamed above their foes as fire rained in their wakes.
Cauthrien watched the old woman, Alma, wandering off towards the north, taking the road that would lead her to Dragonmount, and possibly Nankirk or even Kincaster, the latter's beacon yet unlit.
Wearing armor that the Legate, Khaok, had suggested they give her rather than Fereldan plate, she was an odd sight. She walked with a glaive swung over her shoulders, itself enough that Cauthrien had stopped to ponder, and nearly ask. She'd come across but two Bretons since the start of the Blight, and both had strangely enough seemed to favor such weapons, and had shared the same, green eyes. Age had dulled Alma's that much was obvious, but they had still been so alike she'd found it remarkable.
Was there familial relation, she wondered?
"It's probably too late to ask, but...do you think I made a mistake?" she muttered to the Orc; "In gifting some complete stranger a suit of armor, on the mere word that she fought with Loghain?"
"Can't say I know much about your mentor, but sounds like he did better than most." Khaok said; "And you said yourself he spoke of someone like her at times...What messes with my mind is how she got here."
"What do you mean?" Cauthrien turned to him, seeing the Orc's eyes on the departing Breton's back.
"Far's I know, Aulus got here because some artifact they found in Skyrim messed with a spell. The Cynod detected its activation." She had no idea what the Cynod was; "If she's been here since your Rebellion, we would have known of an artifact like that going off...at least I'm pretty sure we would."
She didn't know what to say to that. She might have just made a mistake, but at the same time she might not. Trying to rectify her actions would probably be one, either way. She sighed, hating such dillemas, and silence reigned as men around them worked. Logs were stabled and reinforced, ditches dug deeper and stakes added to the defenses.
"...the horizon is on fire." Legate Khaok noted, like her wearing full plate. Orcs seemed to wear much heavier armor than their human counterparts in the Legion, though the design remained unchanged. She nodded, having seen it as well; "The Aviatorii are doing good work."
"Let us hope so." She muttered, glancing about. The final line of defenses against Orlais, the palisade ramparts, had been raised from the ground itself by the Legion's mages. They'd stacked logs upon logs, and reinforced the earthen ramparts with stone to the point that it now seemed a permanent wall, rather than a last-ditch measure; "...do you think we can hold them?"
The Orc hesitated, curling his lips into a grimace.
"...the Legion has endured odds worse than these, General." He allowed, at last; "Provided Gaspard finds no path unknown to us that he can use to bypass our defenses here, we can hold him..."
"What?" She paused and looked ahead as well, realizing the Legate's eyes were on the skies above the horizon, and not the road itself. A single dot had appeared, growing larger by the second until clearly recognizable as human. Just one, and for a moment she feared Gaspard had somehow killed all but one of the Aviatorii. Khaok's sigh at her side made her throw such thoughts to the wind, however; "What's this?"
"Standard procedure with the Aviatorii. They send a mage back to relay reports on unexpected changes, prior to full engagement." The Orc explained, the mage now close enough that they could see him flying a steady pace, rather than some frantic retreat; "Problem is they can't communicate over too big distances, so one couldn't just remain here to relay..."
"I see." She nodded, though still uncertain; "The rest will follow behind when the mission is accomplished, then?"
"Mmm." The Legate confirmed, his lack of words making it almost like a growl. The mage slowed down as he approached their lines, finally skipping across the wooden battlements with barely an inch between his feet and the horizontal logs; "Report."
"Only half estimated enemy forces present at intercept point. Cause unknown. Will proceed with bombardment before making return." The mage's voice was slightly distorted, almost muffled by his mask; "We counted between fifteen and twenty thousand, but Jader had at least thirty. We are at present unaware of the rest's whereabouts."
Cauthrien felt something tightening in her guts. What was Gaspard doing, when only half his forces seemed present on the Highway? She glanced quickly at the horizon to the north, but there was no fiery beacon to be seen on the hilltops.
The border crossing at Kincaster was still untouched, then. So, what was that devil to Gaspard up to?
The border crossing at Kincaster, once a simple earthen road, had become a massive, salty marsh from the earthworks of the Constructii. A canal spanning ten kilometers had been torn from the ground, allowing the ocean to spill in and submerge an area half the size of Oswin Bannorn.
It was a moat, in the same way that a dragon was a lizard, or a fireball could light a candle.
Five square miles of chest-height seawater, and an underground so saturated with it that any who would attempt to wade across would sink through the muck. The road, or what was left of it, was barely more than quicksand at this point, as perilous to tread as the sludge around it.
Where solid ground started submerging into the waters, a campsite had been erected on the Fereldan side of the marsh. Ash warriors, the famed Mabari-handlers who fought with the battle-rage of ancient dwarves, had made this their encampment from which to watch for Orlesians attempting to cross the manmade swamp. There was a beacon atop a hill close by, logs and thatch prepared to be lit and signal an attack. A man was slumped on the ground as if asleep, halfway between the camp and the beacon.
"We're done here." Alaween, an elf in loose-fitting brown shirt and trousers, his form almost that of a child's, muttered as he started dragging away the Ash Warrior who'd almost made it to the beacon before the blood thickened in his veins; "Toriel, swim back and report to the Captain. We'll hide the bodies and follow."
There was not a speck of blood on him, nor on any of his companions as they cleared away the dead. The Ash Warriors, men and women legendary for their ferocity in battle as well as the bonds they shared with their hounds, lay as if asleep on the ground.
"I never imagined this sort of work when we mustered..." Nesir, one of his comrades cursed, dragging a dead Mabari away by its hind legs; "Thought it'd be scouting or...maybe skirmishing, but...poisoning food and slitting throats, it seems cowardly, no?"
"You'd rather have fought that thing?" Alaween scoffed, glancing at the hound. It could probably have torn his arms off, the way its jaws looked; "Either way, it beats the Alienage."
Amaranthine was not the first place he'd had in mind, when trying to flee the Circle.
It was, however, the positively dumbest place he could go as mage on the run, and therefore Anders could say, with some decent degree of certainty, that it was also the last place they'd look for him. If he could pride himself on one thing, besides being a great people-person, it was always being one step ahead of the Circle, even if they eventually always seemed to catch him.
In his defense, Phylacteries were kinda cheating.
There was just something genuinely unfair about the Circle being able to track him, based on something as innocent as a bit of blood. Granted, he'd heard about how one of the apprentices, Jowan, had used it to flee the Circle. So, maybe not entirely innocent, but still, his own blood wasn't supposed to betray him, and yet it always did.
At least Ser Ava always seemed to have some new, close-to witty remark when she'd eventually catch up to him. It was also the only time she would ever crack a joke, a feat that on its own was almost worth fleeing the Circle for, just to hear a new one.
Was she planning on it, he wondered?
Was this all some scheme of hers, that he would run away just to give her the chance to crack poor jokes and puns when Greagoir couldn't hear her? The Knight-Commander was a stiffy, if ever he'd met one, and probably wouldn't recognize a joke if it'd run up and bite him in his shiny behind.
No one had laughed when there'd suddenly been a six-foot demon cat on the loose in the Tower. Not that it was his fault, oh no. But at the same time, how could one not find it just a little funny when the very same Templars always going on about how mages were the danger, found themselves torn to shreds by a cute, fluffy little kitten?
He kept his thoughts to himself, wisely, as he wandered the streets of the great city, every corner and alleyway stuffed with refugees and the displaced from Denerim, many no longer having homes they could go back to. It was second only to the capital in size, and took most of the trade from both the Free Marches, Antiva and Rivain. The Howes were the ones in charge, far as he recalled, and apparently also the ones responsible for all the trade. There was a bit of amusing irony there too, in that the same people bringing so much wealth to Ferelden had also tried selling it out to...honestly he wasn't really sure.
To Orlais? They definitely seemed pissy these days, and reason enough for him to get out of dodge. It really wasn't a question of whether they were going to take over, but more of when. Ferelden was in ruin, a proper shithole really, and whether it remained Fereldan or became Orlesian, he knew he'd still be tossed back into the Circle, or even finally be made Tranquil.
He wasn't ashamed to admit the last bit terrified him. A mage who didn't fear to become Tranquil was...well, probably already Tranquil, or just insane. If there was one good thing he could say about Irving - honestly there was actually quite a bit - it would be how he'd almost never made anyone Tranquil, and only those who themselves asked for it.
Those would be the insane ones, actually.
A Templar walked by him, Anders keeping his eyes straight and his walk unchanged. He'd tossed the staff away long ago, of course. What kind of idiot would he, a runaway mage have been, to keep his staff with him in times like these? The damn thing would have given him away on the spot, just like his Circle robes would have done, hence his current outfit being...well, fit, only for beggars.
It wasn't like he could just steal people's clothes, right? Or, well, he could, but it wouldn't really sit well with him. Laughing at events beyond his control was one thing, but actively abusing peoples' trust in clotheslines was something even he could not ever steep so low as to do.
Still, at least his robes hadn't just been tossed in a ditch. He'd sold them to individuals of a rather unsavory character, because quite frankly everyone else would have thrown him at the city guard and called the Templars, people he'd really rather not run into, right about now.
The coin he'd made was going to get him out of this place, out of Ferelden entirely if he could get away with it. There was a ship belonging to those easterners in port, maybe he could make some sort of deal, and get away from Thedas altogether?
"Damn, that'd be swell..."
The town of Portsmouth was one of the main trade hubs between Ferelden and the Free Marches.
It was comparatively small, when viewed alongside trade ports like Denerim or Amaranthine, and could not boast neither the wealth nor fortifications of Highever or Castle Donnelly either. But it was an industrial harbor, and one of the few dedicated wholly to trade. Its populace of eighteen thousand worked the woodlands and fields around the town, bringing furs and crops to be sold to Marcher traders coming into dock.
Currently, however, it was on fire.
Five hundred meters out from the harbor, two dozen ships had anchored themselves in the shallow waters of the Waking Sea. Sunburst banners flew atop the masts of hulking cogs and frigates, even as trebuchets and ballistae aboard the latter hurled pots of flaming pitch across the distance. They would crack open like rotten eggs in the streets of Portsmouth, spreading fire and death on a scale that went beyond belief.
But the worst were the arrows of howling fire.
They would shoot out from the Orlesian ships, soaring through the air like birds. The terror they brought came when they were close enough that the people of Portsmouth could hear them, the shrieking screams of the unnatural from every single arrow. They were like spears more so, longer than a man's arm, and with a point made of hollow metal that spewed fire from dozens of openings, or simply exploded when they struck and set alight everything and everyone nearby.
Those that struck a person would impale them without pause, burning all the while. Those that did so, and exploded, spread apart the victim with such violence that little remained in place.
Within the very day the bombardment had begun, it came to an end. There was no sigh of relief when the skies no longer rained death upon the people of Portsmouth. Few enough were left alive within its wall to even comprehend that the world was not about to end, and those who had fled did not look back.
The ships sailed on, eastwards through the Wakestrait, leaving only the burning town to lighten up the evening skies.
I could also have titled the chapter "In which both sides get fucked", or "In which the Chantry gives Gaspard a headache." I'm pretty happy with how it turned out though, though I had to rewrite half of it when realizing some idiotic choices made halfway through. Still, the final product is one I'm sorta comfortable throwing at you :)