Arcane Warrior
Chapter 9: Blood and Tears
After the Fourth Blight ended almost four hundred years ago, the majority of Thedas assumed that the darkspawn threat long since eradicated, no longer posing a threat to the surface world. Their evil banished to the realm of folklore, religious doctrine and nightmares. Even those who would admit to their existence considered them a fading relic of a forlorn era, stragglers of a dying race to be mopped up at the leisure of the dwarves.
That pleasant lie was definitively put to rest as the darkspawn horde spilled forth from the Wilds, their endless ranks oozing between the trees, poisoned and dying from the presence of the living plaque that was the darkspawn, the chorus of their animalistic howls reaching an eerie pitch at the sight of the army assembled to challenge them. There were five thousand of the darkspawn in that first wave, and that could only mean that there were many times that number yet to come. Beneath the dark stormy sky, the horde looked like a seething swarm of maggots upon a gangrenous corpse.
It was a true horde the men and women of Ferelden faced; there seemed to be no individual units within the darkspawn, it was a shrieking, enraged mass of bloodthirsty evil that steadily advanced upon Ostagar's valiant defenders, but they held firm, grimly clutching their weapons and watching as the enemy they had hoped would never rear its ugly head ever again took the first steps of their charge.
Leaping down the stone steps, taking two and three at a time, King Cailan made his way to the assembled warriors, the King's Guard hurriedly trying to keep up in their heavy plate armor. He took one of the staircases his soldiers had used, arriving in the gorge behind the army, and the fighting men and women of Ferelden turned and cheered as their king threaded his way through their ranks. A cursory inspection proved to be quite reassuring; the troops were well-turned out, their armor and weapons in good condition, and appeared ready to endure the bloodshed to come.
There were a few who looked like they might be tempted to run, but at the sight of their king in his shining armor, their morale was restored.
Banner after banner, regiment after regiment, five thousand dedicated men and women stood within the gorge and upon the heights, ready to deny their enemy this night, and Cailan felt his heart swell with pride at the sight of them, his countrymen ready to fight and die to save this world from the evil of the horde. It was something that Loghain seemed incapable of understanding, he thought with a short-lived frown; he was not inspired by the thought of glory alone, nor by the fact that so many of his countrymen would willingly place their lives in his hands. They trusted their King, and Cailan would rather die than betray that trust.
Geoffrey and the rest of the King's Guard caught up with their liege lord at the front ranks. "Are all the men prepared?" asked Cailan.
"The Army of Ferelden stands ready, Your Majesty," Geoffrey answered for the group, offering the king his golden helm.
"Leave it."
"But Your Majesty, the scouts report a great number of darkspawn archers" the knight replied diffidently.
"The men should see their lord's face in battle and know that he bears the same risks as they. Leave it." In the chaos of battle, Cailan knew his bare head and golden armor would make it easy for the soldiers to rally to him if fight turned sour. "Bring it up to the chest in my tent. You have the key, yes?" Not giving his bodyguard a chance to respond, the King sent him on his way, barely deigning to glance at either the frustrated knight or the immense horde that threatened them.
True, the enemy were here in far greater numbers than in the previous battles, but the King maintained an air of resolute confidence in the face of that threat. The darkspawn are nothing, his every gesture spoke. They're already beaten, his posture told the gathered soldiers. He just hoped there would be survivors to warn the rest of Ferelden of the horde, he knew Loghain didn't approve of his 'peace talks' with the empress, but with Anora barren...
He just hoped he was wrong about his general's intentions.
"The plan will work, Your Majesty," Duncan expressed.
"Of course it will," retorted Cailan, joining the twenty-three Grey Wardens atop a wooden platform that gave him a commanding view of the army, and off to the side he saw captain Varel's diminished contingent, and when he met gazes with corporal Hawke, heavy shadows present beneath her eyes, they nodded to each other in respect. "The Blight ends here." Briefly, the King wondered if he should give a speech to further rouse the men's spirits, but to his consternation, the darkspawn were advancing far too quickly and there was simply no time to spare.
The army gave a defiant cheer, and across the field, the darkspawn reacted to this show of resolve with an insane fury. Their endless ranks, seeming for all the world like hell unleashed, charged forward, thundering towards Ostagar with all the fury of an angry giant, loud enough to drown out the thunder overhead. The entire mass of the darkspawn attacked together; they did not attempt to weaken the human lines with sustained missile fire or hold some of their forces in reserve like a normal army would, such tactics were either beyond the feral minds of the darkspawn or their boundless anger had overwhelmed what reason existed.
It was the latter more likely, as with the notable exception of emissaries who were capable of speech, it was a well-accepted theory that darkspawn did not think at all, and even the Archdemon could only aim them as one would a spear and left their murderous instincts take it from there.
"Archers!" Cailan cried once the darkspawn were within range of the archers, and the arrows took flight with twangs as they were released from their bows or clicks of crossbow gears, the arrowheads enchanted by the mages to burn even through the downpour. The flaming arrows sailed in expert coordination, the flaming missiles flying in beautiful arcs before finding their targets in the heads and necks of darkspawn individuals who looked like they would've been tougher to overcome in close quarters combat.
From atop the Tower of Ishal, overlooking the entirety the battlefield, the blood spilled, and the bones crunched, the fire and the earth, Morrigan watched the gathering army with curiosity. No one among the host down below would've recognized the young mage if they were able to see high enough to spot her, as she had donned the form of a raven.
She tilted her head in recognition at the sight of the wardens, though there were only two of them as opposed to the four who had wandered into her forest a day prior. She squawked indignantly as the first drops of rain fell on her head.
She took flight, hoping that the movement of her wings would keep the rain out of her feathers.
T'was truly an amazing sight, the battle, but she had seen the advancing darkspawn horde, and knew well that what the assembled soldiers were facing was only the tip of the iceberg.
The Ferelden King was looking at a massacre if he wasn't careful, and if he was... t'would not have been pretty either way.
The unending horde of darkspawn emerged from the mists like waves of the ocean, hurlocks, genlocks, shrieks, ogres and ghouls, both animal and human, outnumbered the allied forces enormously. A massive hurlock alpha led the charge every step of the way; soldier upon soldier falling to its massive ax, roaring into the pouring rain, clearly the vanguard commanding the massive host. If any darkspawn other than the archdemon could possibly command the horde...
Morrigan flew past to the bridge overlooking the battlefield. That is where she saw them, the elf Alim, and that Templar fool, they had made their way quickly across the bridge and were fighting back waves of darkspawn as two human men opened the heavy doors of the tower. Morrigan hovered there, all the while wondering why they were not down below with their fellows.
The men finally managed to get the barred doors open just as the last of the darkspawn fell to the templar's blade but were almost struck down by two blighted arrows from inside the tower, apparently the darkspawn had managed to breach the edifice.
The tower of Ishal now belonged to the darkspawn.
The wardens and their new allies made for the tower.
If they intended to gain the wardens' aid she would likely have to hurry.
The darkspawn were not interested in taking prisoners, not even Grey Warden prisoners.
Lightning flashed overhead, and the battle the battle continued. She couldn't help but wonder if the lightning was natural or if it was called down by the elf.
Atop the bridge, the work of the archers and siege engines continued, raining destruction down on the flanks of the darkspawn army, hoping to narrow them into a line that the fighters could pick off with minimal casualties to their own side.
Alim and Alistair left them to their duty, focusing on reaching the Tower of Ishal with all haste, though the elf spared a glance for the battle raging below them, and a prayer for those fighting it, though the only notable names he could think of were Hawke, Jena, Cailan, Duncan and Varel... and Carver of course. This was his first taste of full-scale war, and he trembled at the sights and sounds, the full gravity of their situation truly dawning upon him for the first time in the raging conflict before them.
It was all he could do to use his breathing techniques to calm himself, for fear of what might happen if he was unable to draw his blade or cast any spells in actual battle. He reminded himself that this was a normal sensation for those who experienced all-out warfare for the first time, and that it didn't mean he wasn't cut out to be a warrior.
Try though as he might, his success was all too limited.
"I take it you know what signal the King's going to use, Alistair?" Alim asked hurriedly as he ran, though he was almost tripped up when a soldier running the opposite direction clipped his shoulder.
"Trust me, I've been told," the older Warden said. "Let's cross the bridge as fast as we can. It'll take us a few minutes to reach the top of the Tower, and I'd rather not miss the signal."
Screams came from the bridge and soldiers were tossed aside as flaming boulders catapulted out of the misty Wilds, hammering the ramparts. One such missile arced into a tall stone tower and took out the upper floors, showering the ground below with broken men and stone. Ferelden's own siege engines answered, and a vicious artillery duel erupted while the two Wardens rushed across the bridge, stopping only to bring a few shaken archers back to their feet. Alim glanced at the battle once more, and beyond the burning light of the firewall, he could see more darkspawn pouring in to reinforce the main horde. Hopefully they can keep that firewall up; if the lines were broken, their forces would begin to take heavy casualties.
"This way!" said Alistair, taking a left up a small rise past the bridge. Alim was right beside him, and noticed the dozen frightened-looking soldiers the same time he did. "What happened here?" the former templar demanded, shocked to discover that many bore wounds.
"You, you're Grey Wardens?" the apparent leader of the troupe, a sergeant by his emblems of rank, hastily tying a bandage about another man's arm. He and the rest of his fellows bore the emblem of the White River Bannorn emblazoned upon their shields, and it was clear that this night had not gone well for them. "You must help us. The Tower, it's been taken!"
"What are you talking about, man? Taken how?"
"The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers somehow; they're everywhere! Most of our men are dead!"
A specter of fear fell upon Alim, and the elf felt his guts turn to ice-water. The battle that had raged at a comparatively safe distance was now right before them, and what had seemed like a duty designed to keep them out of the way of the real fight had become the real fight. "How could this have happened?" He asked in a panic before he stopped and thought about the likelihood of the darkspawn using the main horde as a distraction, drawing the wardens' senses toward the plains while tunneling up from under the tower.
Clearly the archdemon had more control of the horde than he had thought, if they were capable of pulling off a pincer maneuver like this.
"It doesn't matter," Alistair replied. "We have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves; Duncan and the King are counting on us!"
"Alright then!" Alim boomed. "I need one runner to inform the rampart companies of the situation! As for the rest of you, follow us. Alistair and I will lead, but we will need you all to support us!"
Oaths and cries of agreement sounded from the soldiers. Perhaps they did not wish to be outdone in valor by a mere elf, or maybe their pride and sense of responsibility would not allow them to flee from their appointed post, or they were inspired by the presence of the Wardens, or perhaps they were simply eager for revenge against the darkspawn. Whatever it was, it did not matter in the end. When Alim and Alistair stormed into the courtyard surrounding the Tower of Ishal, the two warriors followed, howling for the enemy's death.
At least a dozen darkspawn had occupied the courtyard, though most were busy with mutilating the bodies of the fallen.
He had to wonder why the darkspawn would wast their time with such a thing, but he supposed he would never understand those things.
They gave the enemy no time to consolidate their position in the courtyard. The first hurlock turned just in time to get its neck sliced open by Alim's wickedly edged magical blade. Hurlocks possessed a greater constitution than humans, and would not die immediately from such a wound, so Alim followed up by stabbing it through the heart and kicking the limp body off of his sword. Not even breaking stride, the elf was onto his next opponent, a genlock with a pair of curved daggers.
Alim brought the horror down with a quick lunge of his sword. Beside him, Alistair ploughed through the enemy, sword singing with their blood and shield crunching bone as he used it as a cruel bludgeon, urging the soldiers of Ferelden to ever-greater deeds of heroism.
"To the tower!" the former templar cried. "Press on to the tower!"
Alim heeded the call, cutting down another hurlock barring the ramp up to the ancient structure and blasting a hurlock bolter that had previously been taking aim at a soldier's exposed back with lightning bolt. He would not fail in this endeavor lest the darkspawn overrun the Ostagar defenders, and the thought of the blight reaching as far north as Lothering or the tower, butchering his friends and family... the determination drove him ever onward, strengthening both his sword arm and his magic alike.
"For Ferelden and the Wardens!" cried Alistair, raising his sword into the air after he dealt the finishing blow to a hurlock alpha.
"For Ferelden!" the soldiers echoed, the two seemingly simple words symbolizing the fires of patriotism burning ever brighter in their hearts, revitalizing them and driving them ever onward, through pain and exhaustion and through the stinging downpour, making them fight harder and harder.
"Hounds!" Cailan yelled into the night air, somehow being heard over the growls of the oncoming horde and the downpour and thunderclaps, and on cue a legion of mabari warhounds began their charge across the plains. Some of the hounds were larger than others, but even the smallest one stood with its shoulders at a human's waistline, and they were strong as well, even the weakest was able to pull an armored knight from his horse and maul him and the horse to death. Even the largest army would know fear if they faced a legion of charging, growling and snarling mabari.
The charging warhounds met the horde with a crash, with mabari biting the legs of darkspawn and dragging them through the horde, tearing them and many others apart until they too were cut down, mabari leaping onto alpha's chests and bringing them to the ground before mauling them to pieces and repeating this process several more times before being killed, mabari being impaled with darkspawn swords and daggers but using their death throes to shred their darkspawn aggressors.
Cailan, Duncan and the others within visual range cringed at the sounds of their beloved dogs crying as they were cut down.
The king drew his greatsword in a single movement before raising it to the sky, "for Ferelden!" he cried, pouring into his voice all his pride as the king of these proud people, his anger at the darkspawn who threatened to exterminate all that he held dear, and his hope that his people would emerge victorious before returning to their friends and family.
The people all gave a loud cheer at their kings rallying cry, any disenchantment they might have experienced at the unadulterated evil they were seeing in their enemy dissapearing entirely at the display from their beloved leader.
Their hope renewed, they all charged their enemy as one, each man and woman shouting their war cries along the way.
There was a tremendous crash as the two armies met, the sound of steel hammering crude iron as Fereldens and darkspawn clashed with an impact that shook the earth beneath. Then came the sound of metal striking meat, like a thousand butchers working in unison, punctuated by cries of pain and the howl of bloodthirsty monsters. Yet it was the monsters that experienced death that evening as Cailan's host carved its way through their ranks, a disciplined, solid block of warriors cutting the berserker hordes down where they stood.
At the forefront, Marian Hawke brought Fadeshear down through a hurlock's skull, kicking the tainted corpse away before she brought her sword up diagonally to parry an oncoming blow from another hurlock, its mace clanging harmlessly upon the enchanted silverite as she brought her blade in close before with a swift movement beheaded it. Not one to be so easily outdone, Carver took advantage of the temporary opening before it was filled yet again by more darkspawn, charged forward and killed two genlocks with a broad scything slash.
"Bet I end up killing more than you, sister!" came Carver's shouted challenge over the near deafening din of battle, "Stay focused!" Hawke shouted in response. "There's plenty for the both of us!" If Carver became preoccupied with a numbers-game then it would only leave him open to a darkspawn knife to the back, and that was not something she would be seeing if she could help it. Her whole reason for being here was that her mother had begged her to protect Carver.
The darkspawn horde was an unstoppable juggernaut, it seemed, as they were inflicting major losses on the armies of Ostagar, yet the Fereldans held the initiative as the warriors at the front held out their shields, overlapping each-other end-to-end, and with all the valor their hearts were capable of, slowly but surely, they drove their subterranean foe back. The weight of their advance forcing many darkspawn back into range of the archers and siege weapons, while those at the front lines were being torn to ribbons by spear and greatsword maneuvered over and under the shield line.
It was at the center of the fighting, however, where the men and women looked to see their courage renewed. For there was their king, golden armor gleaming despite the darkness, the blood running down the surface of it, wet with rainwater, his face was exposed to the elements like those of his soldiers who couldn't afford helmets, his golden hair sweeping from side to side as he swung his shining greatsword. Beside him stood the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, twenty-three men and women of prodigious skill and talent, clad in their steel griffon standard mail and plate uniforms, and where they walked, darkspawn fell by the dozens, the hundreds, cut down by gleaming blades, pounded by great hammers, and scythed by arrows.
Then came a new sound onto the battlefield; the hiss of darkspawn speech which indicated the presence of the dreaded emissaries, darkspawn mages. They were tall, standing heads and shoulders over a full-grown man. Their spiked armor was decorated with the skulls of small animals, their faces bare save for bloody blindfolds with headdresses of twisted, sharp steel.
With a gesture of their hands, they summoned forth wave after wave of strange darkspawn magic, and entire squads of soldiers collapsed, faces erupting into agonizing blisters, bodies bursting into flame or their minds fragmenting beneath the weight of waking nightmares. The mages of the Circle turned their efforts to shielding the army from the magical onslaught and firing their own magical salvos at the emissaries.
With a vengeful howl, the darkspawn horde charged over the smoldering remains of what was once a firestorm spell and the dozens of charred darkspawn it had felled. Once more, a storm of arrows and crossbow bolts met them, joined this time by the powerful magics of the Circle. Yet more darkspawn died, carpeting the ground with their bodies, and once again, the onrushing horde ignored their losses. "Stand firm, lads!" Cailan shouted, "this is where we break them!"
"Come on, you bastards!" Hawke crowed at the charging foe. "Come get some!" Other soldiers joined in, and soon the entire army was howling curses and insults at the darkspawn, daring them to come and taste Ferelden steel.
Hawke caught sight of Jena charging an Emissary, war cry leading the way, before raising her large sword into a single hand with the other grabbing the blade in the middle, and she shoved her weapon directly into the Emissaries face. Showing her acrobatic ability, she grabbed the sword's hilt and, with a running start, vaulted onto the sword and used it as a springboard to jump higher, her weight crushing the darkspawn mage beneath her before she ripped her weapon free and with a cry brought the blade down on the head of a second Emissary, bisecting the thing.
The darkspawn accepted the challenge and poured into the gorge, some cutting down their brethren in front of them in their haste to bring down their enemy. There was another thunderclap as the two armies met, the terrible clash of metal and flesh, but the darkspawn front line was reduced by the spiked barricades and hedges of sharpened stakes, ensuring that only a relatively small number could strike the Ferelden host at any one time. The charge shuddered against the Ferelden line like a wave crashing against a cliff at sea, the front ranks of the darkspawn breaking into bloody spray.
For those in the front ranks, their world had narrowed down to the monsters before them, all else was lost in the struggle for survival. At the center, companies of soldiers strained to hold their shield-wall against the pressure of the pushing horde, while on the flanks the greatsworders and halberdiers cut down the darkspawn where they stood. The ground was becoming treacherous now with spilled blood and broken bodies, creating yet another obstacle hindering the attackers' progress. Many stumbled over their slain brethren and were quickly put down by the cunning warriors of Ferelden, and the gorge rang with the screams of the dying. And all the while, the mages of the Circle did their work, revitalizing injured and tired troops, sapping the strength of the foremost darkspawn, and striking out against the enemy with blasts of frost and fire and lightning alongside the volleys of the archers.
For the first time it seemed, in the lifetimes of the mages gathered, they seemed like ordinary men and women. They were fighting for the survival of their country, just like everyone else. The magic spewing from their hands and staves, it seemed, was no different than the arrows being launched from the bows of the skilled archers, or the blades or spears being swung in the hands of skilled practitioners. Perhaps, after the battle was over, they would eat and drink and laugh, celebrate and laud each other just like everyone else.
They would be equals in the eyes of their brothers and sisters in arms, not ruling over them like the Tevinter mages of old, nor serving under them like the Circle mages of now, but true equals.
The thought filled them with hope, and that hope in turn made the fire in their hearts burn all the brighter and made them fight all the harder. They gained a new incentive for fighting the hated darkspawn, hope for the future.
No battle strategy, no matter how well thought out, survived first contact with the enemy. Unbeknownst to the King, the frantic battle to reclaim the Tower of Ishal raged on. Blasting another hurlock, Alim led the ragged band of defenders through the darkened halls of the ancient edifice, the light of fallen torches displaying the grisly scene before them. The tower garrison had been caught unaware by the invaders, and within the barracks of the first floor, the bodies of soldier and darkspawn alike had been strewn about without abandon.
Alim was relieved to see that the tower defenders had not gone down without a fight, but it would be for nothing if they could not give the signal in time. "Alright then, what's the fastest way to the top of the Tower?"
"There's a staircase on the north side, Warden," the corporal explained. "We used to have a lift that ran up the central shaft, but it looks like the darkspawn smashed the gears."
"To the staircase then. Let's move!"
"Look at that!" Alistair declared, maneuvering a torch down the length of the barracks. Illuminated by the sputtering light of the fire, they could see the massive hole at the end of the room leading down to the fortress' lower levels. "That explains how the darkspawn got in here to begin with. Must have dug a tunnel over the past few nights, then came up through the catacombs beneath the fortress."
"We were never able to fully chart the lower levels, Wardens," said the corporal, eyes bulging in horror at the thought of darkspawn waiting to strike beneath them. "A lot of the chambers had collapsed or were blocked off, and with all the battles, we've never had the men to spare. They could have been digging this for days, and we'd never have known!"
"Nothing we can do about it now," said the elf, nervously glancing at the collapsed floor. They had neither the time nor the means to block it off, nor could they spare anyone to guard it in case any more darkspawn emerged. "Lighting that signal is our main priority. Let's move!"
The ragged band pushed deeper into the Tower, and almost immediately came under attack from the darkspawn marauders that had laid the garrison to waste. The Wardens struck first, cutting their way through the packs of grinning genlocks and snarling hurlocks that opposed them, punching a hole through the darkspawn to allow the soldiers to lay in with their long spears. At the stairwell leading up to the second floor, a gang of genlock archers awaited them, their black-fletched arrows shrieking down the hall. The first of the soldiers fell, peppered by their shafts, and Alistair ordered the rest into a shieldwall. "Alim, the door!" he shouted in warning, seeing one of the genlocks break from the pack and flee towards the heavy wooden door securing the stairwell.
With a great shout, Alistair and the soldiers collided with the darkspawn, and Alim stormed into the breach. The genlock had just opened the door when the elf cut it down, and he allowed the momentum of the charge to carry himself through to the top of the stairs, his blade slamming against the sword of another darkspawn. More darkspawn lurked beyond, evidently planning on securing the door and keeping their counterattack from going any further, but Alim was there, denying them. Viciously, the monsters attacked, knowing that the elf was the only obstacle keeping them from stopping the defenders in their tracks. Ducking a wild blow, Alim slipped under the foe's guard and slashed open its torso before shoulder-checking the mortally wounded darkspawn into its brethren to buy him some breathing room. Stumbling over each other, the darkspawn were easy prey for his magic, and by the time Alistair and the others reached him, the top of the staircase was clear, either side of the staircase lined with darkspawn corpses.
"Everyone alright?"
"We're good," Alistair replied for all of them. "Maker, that was desperate!"
"And we're not done yet. Corporal, how many levels are there above us?"
"Just two more, Warden. Third floor's mostly storerooms, then there's the top floor where the beacon is."
"And all of which are probably swarming with the darkspawn right now," remarked Alistair. "There aren't supposed to be any here anyways!"
"Well, you're the one who wanted a fight, and I think we've definitely got one," Alim quipped, taking up his sword once more. "Stay focused, everyone. We've got plenty of ground to cover, and time is against us."
And yet, even as he spoke those words, Alim's attention shifted to the broken masonry about the solid stone doorframe, barely illuminated by the sparse wall sconces. It was a large portal, able to fit two men shoulder to shoulder, but something had torn down or damaged several bricks on its way through.
Something big.
There was no time to consider it further. Darkspawn howls echoed in the night, and Alim took the lead, feeling the shadowy hand of the sundial move with each passing moment…
The Army of Ferelden had a superior defensive position. They had the high ground of the fortress upon which to assail the darkspawn horde, and the magics of the Circle mages to keep their tiring soldiers capable of fighting, and to lay waste to the tightly massed enemy. They had superior equipment and discipline, coordination and sheer, stubborn pride.
Between the various arms of their host, the Fereldans had slain thousands of darkspawn. Enough that on some parts of the battlefield, darkspawn corpses had fallen three or four deep, a bumper crop of desecrated flesh, ground to pulp beneath the weight of those climbing over them as if they were merely an obstacle. The seven thousand soldiers of Ferelden had executed a resilient and noteworthy defense that, on any other night, would have been enough to shatter the enemy formation and send them fleeing.
On this night however, it was hardly sufficient. As hard as they fought, for all that it had cost the darkspawn, the Army of Ferelden was slowly being pushed back, forced down into the gorge inch by bloody inch with the horde flowing in after them. Nearly the entire horde was packed into the valley now, sucked in by the human's fighting retreat, and at the mouth of the gorge, they were condensed so thickly they could not swing their weapons.
'Almost time', King Cailan thought, observing the flow of the battle with an educated eye. "Send forth the rest of the reserve units," he ordered a runner, his booming voice nearly lost in the roar of battle.
In the face of all this death and reckless hate, he was once again reminded of what he knew about Loghain's inevitable betrayal of him and his own and he almost lost heart. But he steeled himself, it would not do to give in to despair, for if his men were to die, he would prefer that they died with hope.
The troops at the front line would be weary now, and there was only so much the mages could do to restore their lost strength. They'd need fresh troops if they were to continue holding the line. There was little reason to withhold their full strength any longer. "Inform the archer companies that they are to continue their volleys for as long as possible. Should we run out of arrows, I want them out here to reinforce the battle-line, just in case."
"It is time, Your Majesty," said Duncan, gesturing with his sword at the milling darkspawn beyond the wall, gaining ground on their army. "See how the horde is compressing into the valley and gorge? Signal the teryn now, while they are concentrating their attention and have no room to maneuver. We can still win the day, but Loghain must strike."
"Then strike he will. Signal the Tower of Ishal! Let the beacon be lit!"
If there had been any doubts left in his harried mind about the vile nature of the darkspawn, what Alim saw on the third floor erased them permanently. This part of the tower had served as a kennel for a pack of mabari warhounds, and most of them were still in their pens when the darkspawn attacked. The enclosures were solidly built with thick, heavy wooden bars and sturdy metal hinges and locks, and despite their best efforts, the warhounds could not escape their tormentors, their plaintive moans and howls filling the room, drowning out the sadistic chuckles of the darkspawn as they stabbed the helpless animals through the gaps in the bars.
The fury that had kindled in Alim's heart through the long night burst into flame. "Vile creatures!" he roared, unleashing a gout of energy from his fingers that scythed through a host of genlocks.
"Hit them hard while they're disorganized!" Alistair ordered. "Somebody pull the lever!"
Near the door leading to the staircase, the defenders had installed a great wooden contraption that connected to the pen doors through a system of pulleys and ropes. Alim ordered his fellow warden and the tower defenders to distract the darkspawn, and evidently the humans had long gotten past his status as an elf and as a mage as they heeded his order immediately and without argument, allowing him to break away from the fight without trouble, and seizing the lever he yanked it downwards.
With the squeak of gears and the creak of ropes, the pen doors flew open, and the dozen vengeful hounds set upon their tormentors. In moments, the entire darkspawn war-band was thrown into utter chaos, outflanked by the hounds and soldiers, set upon by teeth, claws and swords.
A stray darkspawn came rushing in at the elf from behind, a broken and jagged sword raised high, but Alim was prepared for anything after the harrowing events of the past month, and the darkspawn ran face first into a barrier. Feeling the impact, Alim summoned a spectral blade and spun on his heel, beheading it in a single move. In the chaos of the fight, a darkspawn blade slashed his upper arm, his barrier absorbing the worst of the blow, but that blow had pushed the barrier to its limit, shattering it and slicing through his mail and making a small cut on his arm. Fighting through the sudden pain, Alim charged the blade's owner, and soon, a hurlock fell headless.
"Keep pressing them, we're almost to the top of the tower!"
In the eye of the hurricane, Alistair confronted the emissary leading the war-band, the air around them buzzing with intense eldritch power. Calling upon his templar training, the human sapped the creature's mana, its next spell fizzling away into nothingness. Shrieking in dismay, it lashed out with its wickedly sharp claws, but with lackadaisical ease, Alistair blocked and parried the undisciplined attacks and sliced through its leg, one of the warhounds pouncing on the toppled darkspawn not an instant later.
The warband's coordination seemed to die along with their leader, and the rest were quickly mopped up by the combined efforts of the Wardens, soldiers and warhounds.
Hissing in pain, Alim permitted himself to slump against the wall for a moment, easing the strain in his aching body with the white-blue glow of healing magic. "Are you all right, Alim?" Alistair asked, noticing the shredded links of mail on his arm.
"It's nothing. If you'll pardon a cliche, it's just a scratch." Wincing, Alim got to his feet, noticing that the surviving hounds were now clustered around him, sitting back on their haunches and staring at him expectantly, some of them tilting their heads adorably. "What's all this then?"
"Think they're looking to you for orders," said Alistair, shrugging at the elf's questioning glance. "They're mabari, right? You're clearly the leader here, they seem to understand that."
'Smart dogs' thought the elf, clearing his throat. He took stock of their situation, the tower was almost completely clear of darkspawn now, but the four of them were getting tired, and they would need the extra help to clear the rest, even if it was just the rest of this floor and the chamber at the top. Even so, a part of himself found the idea of ordering dogs around to be utterly laughable.
"Alright then, uh, dogs, there's a hole on the first floor that the darkspawn are coming up from, I need you to go down there and keep them from attacking us from behind."
For a brief moment, Alim felt incredibly foolish, but the kennelmaster had not lied to him about their how intelligent these dogs were. Barking their understanding, the hounds stood on all fours and streamed down the stairs to their appointed station, a river of fur and fangs that passed within moments.
"I admit there was a part of me that honestly didn't think that would work."
"Well, mabari are at least as smart as the average tax collector," Alistair reminded the elf, and even if Alim didn't get the joke the soldiers gave a hearty chuckle as they dashed on ahead of them. "Let's hope they can hold the line long enough for reinforcements to get here." Alistair said, once again in a serious tone, "last thing we need is more darkspawn coming up behind us."
"Truly," said Alim, forcing the aches and pains away. The wound on his arm was the most serious he had taken that evening, but it was small and there was no loss of mobility, and his spectral swords were so light there would be no aggravation of the wound. The rest of his mere bruises and scrapes, nothing worth slowing down for, and he noticed that Alistair bore similar injuries without a word on complaint.
He'd rest when he was dead. Right now, they didn't have any more time to spare just standing around like this.
When they left the main room and made their way through the hallway, more darkspawn burst out of the side rooms, previously used to store weapons and armor. 'This is getting old' Alim thought as they cut them down with swords, crossbow bolts and magic.
Ascending the last few steps, the bloodied warriors could only gape in horror at the hulking nightmare that knelt near the beacon, the awful sound of the rending of flesh and the snapping of bones in its meaty hands echoing through the chamber. The creature was immense, at least ten feet tall, brimming with corded muscles that writhed like pythons beneath the pale, mottled skin. It wore little in the way of armor, merely a loincloth and crude iron plates strapped to various places on its body, though the creature looked formidable enough that what little armor it did have seemed more like a luxury than a utility.
Hearing them, the thing stood to its full, intimidating height and turned, its footfalls causing the stone to shudder, and from beneath a prominent brow-line and a pair of long, sweeping horns, sunken eyes narrowed hatefully at the intruders. Each thunderous breath carried the stench of bone marrow and the taint, while its booming roar sent great gobs of spittle gushing from the maw lined with yellowed teeth. Behind him, Alim could hear the tower guards stumble backwards in fear, even as he forced away the tremor in his hands.
"Ogre!" cried Alistair, identifying the monster before them. "All of you, spread out! Hit it from every direction possible! Use those crossbows, aim at its eyes!"
Any other useful advice Alistair might have given was lost in the ogre's charge, bellowing its fury to all who would listen. The soldiers and wardens scattered as the beast charged, crushing the half-eaten corpses and hurling them away underfoot. Alistair shouted for the men to rally, but the creature was upon them, their swords and bolts cutting through its unprotected flesh but if it felt any pain then it did not display it.
Alim summoned the strongest arcane bolt spell he had ever attempted, and as the bright purple energy burst forth from his fingertips and impacted the beast's flesh, he expected its skin to explode into black chunks as the lesser darkspawn had, but it did not. It turned in place, though the movement was halted and slow, and roared at him. Eyes wide in fear, he could only draw and ignited his blade but was forced to dodge to the side as it charged at him in a frenzy.
Within the gorge, the battle for Ferelden's survival raged on, seemingly without end, with mortal and darkspawn locked in merciless conflict, no quarter given by any. The heroism and valor committed on that bloodstained field were beyond counting, undertaken by highborn nobles, common soldiers, dwarves of the deep, and elven servants who had lifted blade and banner to show their worth in the eyes of any and all who would bear witness, each and every one of them worthy of story and song and accolades. History was written that night, and each man and woman fought so that said history would be accredited to their courage.
There was Walter deGray, a lieutenant of one of the archer companies in the gorge. He and his keen-eyed bowmen cut down hundreds of darkspawn with their longbows, and when their supply of arrows inevitably ran dry, they took up the spears and poleaxes of the fallen rather than retreat and regroup as had been expected of them, and joined the main battleline, throwing themselves into the face of death without hesitation. Dying so that others did not have to.
There was Arl Urien Kendalls of Denerim, holding the left wing of the Ferelden formation. He had been a disinterested ruler, a poor husband and a terrible father, but on that night, he proved that, if nothing else, he was a proper soldier. When their defenses began to falter, the Arl did not run, but rather anchored his seven hundred knights, denying the enemy advance. It took a rush of ogres to break their position, and even then, the soldiers of Denerim took many of the titanic foes with them. He was amongst the last of his seven hundred to die, striking at the seething tide of darkspawn with his halberd and shortsword, his last breath spent cursing the monsters driving their jagged swords into his chest.
And then there was Marian Hawke, a farm-girl and secret mage from Lothering whose destiny lay far beyond her humble origins. There were many skilled swordsmen within Third Company, but none could hold a candle to the raven-haired warrior, her long, curved blade slaked with darkspawn gore. Face grim with determination and indomitable will, she cut down the brutes, each slash dispatching hurlocks and genlocks and shrieks with almost casual ease, her fadefire blue eyes sweeping over the field, marking her allies and her enemies. Those who must be protected and those who must be destroyed.
Hawke, Kendalls and DeGray... these people among many others would achieve much glory and valor that night… but it would not be remembered by any but the spirits who watched from behind the certain that separated their worlds.
Alistair ducked a wild blow from the ogre and was glad that he had when that same blow shattered a stone column.
The creature was clumsy and stupid but extremely vicious, lumbering and charging in a disorganized frenzy, but smashing everything caught underneath with an unnatural rage. Roaring, it pounced on one of the tower guards, hammering him to pulp beneath its massive fists, the force of its landing throwing the former templar off of his feet with the vibrations.
The other guard who had accompanied them moved to press the attack, but a single sweep of its arm hurled him aside with bone-shattering force, however the guard managed to lift a pike from the ground and run it through the thing's wrist. The ogre roared in anger and pain, swinging its injured arm around wildly, demolishing the nearby columns but also making it forget temporarily about the wardens.
Alim moved to take advantage of the ogre's distraction and started weaving a spell but was caught off guard when a slab of granite from a smashed column smacked into his forehead, knocking him into the ground. Alistair ran to his companion, becoming more and more concerned when he noticed the generous amount of blood dripping from the elf's cranium.
Stunned by the impact, the elf could hardly see, but noticed a large form rushing toward him, and desperately stretched his staff out before him, using the first spell he could think of. The ogre's charge halted in its tracks as the creature was bound in a prison of invisible energy.
Tightening his grip on his staff and bringing his other hand up, tightening his fingers as if trying to squeeze the ogre in his grip, his magic responded by tightening its hold. As Alim growled in concentration, blood dripped from his nose as he struggled to keep the powerful writhing creature.
He tried to signal for Alistair to end it, though he needn't have bothered. Already, the former templar was leaping from a broken pillar and burying his blade in the ogre's back. The massive darkspawn cried out and broke free of the spell holding it captive and it flung Alistair off its back before falling to the ground and going still.
Alim let out a shaky breath and dropped his staff to the ground with a metallic clang. Lifting one arm, feeling as if he were lifting a heavy lead bar, he wiped the blood from his eyes.
Alistair silently circled the ogre, observing the carnage, before he shook his head, reminding himself of what he was here for. Using his templar training to calm his mind and slow his racing heart, he went over to the brazier, thanking his lucky stars that the ogre's thrashing had missed this area. While Alistair finished doing what they came here for, Alim slowly stood on shaky legs. He felt the blood caked in his hair and sighed.
Angrily, Carver Hawke struggling against his sister's grip, ignoring the terrible gash down his upper arm. "What are you doing? I can still fight!"
"Don't be a hero, Carver!" Marian Hawke replied, since both brother and sister knew that he was too wounded and weak to fight, stubborn and hardheaded as he was, a pilfered shield was all that was keeping her wounded brother separate from the seething mass of evil that was even now filling the gorge, their line advancing further and further as the darkspawn pressed the soldiers of Ostagar into full retreat. A hurlock alpha hit her shield with its massive halberd, the jagged blade carving a deep scar into the wood and steel, the weight behind the blow almost staggering her, but with her brothers help she remained upright. A second blow from the alpha weakened the shield to the breaking point.
She looked around for someone, anyone to help them with their desperate situation, but saw that everyone else was distracted. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jena, but before she could yell to the dark-skinned woman her eyes widened in horror.
Jena's left arm was cut cleanly off at the shoulder.
She had seemingly lost her own large blade, making do instead with a bastard sword dropped by a slain warden, lacking the strength of a second arm to use the heavy blade any longer.
Hawke was cut out of her musing by her shield shattering, knocking her back into her brothers' arms with the force of the alpha's blow.
Hawke looked in shock at her now broken arm. The raven-haired warrior was tiring, and their army was beginning to falter. For thee and a half hours they fought as hard and skillfully as they could manage, but there were simply too many of them, while their own numbers only shrank with every passing minute. Where there were once seven circle mages bolstering the soldiers and attacking the enemy with their magic, there were now three exhausted men and women wearing only tattered cloth robes for protection, but who picked up sword, shield, and spear to fight alongside their fellows.
The only ones who remained uncommitted in the assault were Loghain's forces, who in any other circumstances would have served as the vanguard, the elite soldiers bearing the standard of the house of Gwaren cutting down dozens of darkspawn before inevitably falling themselves, in which case the battle would no doubt be going very differently.
The end result would have been the same however, the horde just too massive for their added numbers to truly make a difference in the end. But the soldiers didn't know this and didn't care. They were merely waiting for the signal to launch their flanking strike… and the Tower of Ishal remained as cold and lifeless as ever.
The hurlock shoved forward, planting its halberd into the ground and drawing a massive sword that only an alpha could have been able to use one-handed. Hawke tried to parry with Fadeshear, but with only one usable arm the parry was too weak, the black iron sword smacking against her right bicep with bruising force. Luckily, she managed to keep Fadeshear between the cruel blade and her arm, otherwise it would have been severed. Gritting her teeth at the pain, she kicked it off of her and brought the saber down on the alpha's head.
But there were always more of them to fill the gap, too many, and Hawke screamed her defiance as they attacked, she couldn't protect both her brother and her, not with a broken arm, not exhausted as she was.
She had no choice, sheathing her sword, she held her hand in front of her, readying a force spell. Exhausted as she was, her mana reserves were entirely untouched.
But before she could use her prepared spell, a bastard sword sliced the head off of the hurlock before her. Hawke gasped in surprise even as the power in her hand faded, even as Jena's sword cut apart almost a dozen monsters with extreme prejudice.
"Take out your sword Hawke!" The dusky-skinned goddess called over her mangled shoulder, and with her mind reeling she drew Fadeshear. The familiar two-handed saber in her hand once more, she steeled her mind, if this woman could fight with exhaustion and only one arm, Hawke could do it too.
And then, it came. Like the first light of dawn, the beacon atop the Tower of Ishal finally came to life with a brilliance that illuminated all of Ostagar, chasing away the darkness. It was as if the horrors of the battle dissipated in that moment, and as one the King's army cheered at the sight of the brilliant flame that lit up the dark corners of their hearts, filling them with renewed courage and hope. Even with less than half of the numbers they had at the start of the battle, they counterattacked with unmatched ferocity, halting the enemies advance to a grinding halt.
Hawke caught a glimpse of the King in his golden armor, a star burning bright among the darkness and despair of this darkest of nights, leading his battered soldiers back into the fight. "Alim" Hawke muttered fondly, a single tear dropping from her eye.
Grunting with each step, Alim trudged his burnt-out body forward towards the downed ogre. Drawing his sword in a labored movement, he thrusted it through its thick skin and into the thing's heart, before pulling it out and into the thing's brain, not taking any chances that it might still be alive.
Stepping back, he put away his sword before sighing tiredly. A hand came up to his forehead as he found the source of the blood, despite the large size of the piece of rubble that hit him, the cut was very small, and was located at the outer end of his left eyebrow, lucky as it could have been far worse, but it would still leave a scar. He was getting quite the collection, 'I just hope women are impressed by scars' he thought, chuckling amusedly.
He'd have a headache comparable to a massive hangover come morning. But alas, the injury was a minor concern given everything that had happened that night. The beacon was now lit, and Alim dragged his tired feet toward the window, overlooking the battle down below. He could see how badly they were losing, and how the lighting of the beacon managed to inspire the forces they had left.
It had come at a cost, though. Both of the tower guards accompanying them had managed to fight their way up the tower alive only to fall against the mighty ogre. He was only lucky that in exchange for their preternatural strength and battle prowess, the biggest of the darkspawn were extremely susceptible to magical attacks. At the tower's balcony, Alistair finished resetting his shoulder, shoving the joint back into place with a sickening crunch.
Alim didn't know when it was dislocated in the first place, but the lapse in attention could be forgiven considering the situation. "You should get that looked at," Alim told the former templar, noticing how stiffly his shield arm moved.
"I highly doubt there's any spare healers at the moment, and you're magics all out. It's just a little sore, I can still use it," replied Alistair, moving to stand at his side, gazing out the window to see the progress of the battle.
Hit by a sudden wave of drowsiness, Alim turned in place and slid down the wall to rest for a moment. "How's it looking out there?" Alim asked, leaning his head against the wall and shutting his eyes.
Leaning over the edge of the large window and straining his eyes, Alistair cast his gaze upon the battlefield. The intensity of the fighting illuminated by the many fires dotting the ruined fortress, lit either by flaming boulders that had crashed into them or by torches used by either side to get the upper hand on the other. "I'm no tactician, but it doesn't look good. King Cailan's forces are being pressed back into the gorge and the ruins themselves, but it looks like the army have caught their second wind.
"There's no room to swing a dead cat down there." He tried to joke, but Alim didn't even crack a smile.
"Once the flanking charge comes in, the horde will be caught in-between and trapped."
Alistair spoke with a confidence that he simply didn't possess, he was no leader and had little to no talent for tactics, and to try to read a battlefield like this made him nervous and fidgety, afraid that he would miss some crucial detail and mess up the whole thing.
"Wait," Alistair said, his voice suddenly concerned.
"What?"
Alistair didn't hear him. Alim's voice suddenly sounded like it was miles away, for in that moment, his entire world dissipated, and only the nightmare before his widened eyes remained. Alistair tried to voice what he was feeling in that moment, but no words would leave his gaping mouth, and the only expression of the shock, anger and sadness in his heart was the tears that fell from his eyes in a volume he didn't think was possible for a human.
The cheering from the gorge and ruins as the signal ignited was echoed by the three thousand men and women atop the ridge to the east of Ostagar, and Ser Cauthrien of Gwaren added her voice to theirs.
She had won much glory in her time as the most elite of Loghain's knights. Cauthrien was perhaps the finest swordswoman in the country, and a part of her wondered if the darkspawn would finally offer her the long-awaited challenge she craved. Beside her, Loghain was silent, his face taciturn and his eyes shadowed, it looked as if he were debating heavily with himself, but she dismissed the thought as absurd. "Captain Tully," she spoke in her icy voice, "once we reach the valley floor, we are to move fast and strike hard," she ordered a nearby officer. "The darkspawn must not be given time to react. The cavalry will lead the charge with lances in front, and behind-"
"Sound the retreat."
Cauthrien speech halted before she could get out another word, and it took her mind a moment to register what her General had said, and indecision and doubt took hold of her. "My lord, the King—he" Loghain interrupted her by grabbing her forearm roughly.
"Saving Ferelden from those who would destroy her requires that sacrifices be made." Cauthrien gulped fearfully at the very thought that the man before her was willing to commit a massive betrayal like this merely as part of some greater strategy to defeat the darkspawn... but no, the look in his eyes was the same one he wore when ranting about the Orlesians...
"The King has made his choice, and I have made mine. There is nothing to be gained here, and I will not throw the lives of my men away for Cailan's vanity. Sound the retreat."
Loghain released her arm, and Cauthrien had to fight to contain the panic rising within her, realizing exactly what her liege lord intended. The knight met her lord's stony gaze with her own, and for one brief, glorious instant, she considered denying that order. But she lived and died on Loghain's word, her zealous loyalty to him quickly overriding her misgivings about this plan...
"All of you, move out!" There it was. Those simple words that ushered in the eventual damnation of the house of Gwaren and the disbanding of everything that had anything to do with it. The men and women of the flanking force, their units hand-picked by Loghain, did not protest, they had faith in their General. They could not fathom his mind, and even an order like this must have been for the greater good.
And so, even as their countrymen fought and died to stem the tide of evil, Loghain and his three thousand men, their swords unbloodied, marched away from the battlefield and left King Cailan to his fate.
Just as Loghain had always intended.
Within the gorge at Ostagar, the light of hope that had burned within Cailan and his soldiers flickered and died, the host of brave warriors meant to ride to their rescue lost to betrayal. Cailan's host did not die easily, and the losses they inflicted on the raging horde would have been enough to cripple any other host, but they died all the same.
Soldiers died.
Nobles died.
Wardens died.
At the forefront, Duncan and Cailan stood back-to-back with the remnants of Maric's Shield, the bloodstained eye of the hurricane that raged around them. Cailan's greatsword hacked the darkspawn down as they came, shearing through their crude armor, while Duncan's blades became a whirlwind of steel. Nothing else existed for the Warden Commander in that moment, nothing but the struggle for survival and the need to defend his royal charge, so he remained willfully ignorant of the bodies raining down from the ramparts until the first splatter of blood smeared his armor.
"Maker, no!" Cailan gasped, the darkspawn forgotten, his blue eyes fixed at the horror above.
Alim's warning about the breach in the Tower of Ishal had gotten through, and the pack of mabari hounds had held the line for as long as they could, but it was all for naught as they were cut down without mercy. Atop the ramparts and heights of Ishal, cackling bands of darkspawn butchered the reinforcements before hurtling their ravaged corpses into the gorge below. Some had the misfortune to be thrown off living, their screams introducing their compatriots below to a brand-new horror, their hearts faltering at the sound.
Duncan moved to the side in time to avoid what was left of the Grand Cleric, and more than a few of the King's bodyguards retched at the sight. Spearmen moved to aid their King, but it was clear to all that the fight had gone out of them.
"Where's Loghain?" the King demanded, though he already knew. "We would have known if he had been attacked. Why isn't he here?" He wanted to deny it, if only to himself. But he had known the man for years, and thus had not missed the signs.
"Your Majesty, what do we do?" one of the knights pleaded.
Cursing the Teryn's name, Cailan composed himself, bowing to the inevitable. "Signal the retreat to all units. Any surviving members Maric's Shield are to lead the way; if the darkspawn get in their path, they're to kill them and open the way for our withdrawal. The rest of the army is to follow them out, but any who volunteer are to stay here and delay the darkspawn for as long as necessary. Spread the word and do it now!" he barked, sending the appointed messengers running.
"Your Majesty, you should retreat with your men," urged Duncan. "Our position here is becoming untenable."
"There are men still on the field, Duncan. I will not abandon them to pain and death just so that I may live another day," Cailan replied, taking up his greatsword once more. "Rally to me!" He yelled, raising the blood-soaked blade high into the air like a beacon of their rapidly dwindling hope.
Ahead of them, the men who elected to stay behind to give their fellows a chance to flee struggled to keep the enemy at bay, hundreds of darkspawn hammering at their shield wall. The spearmen gave a good last stand, cutting the frenzied monsters down from behind the wall, but then the emissaries brought their sorcery to play, conjuring swarms of flesh-eating insects that slipped through the gaps in the soldiers' armor.
The center of their line began to collapse as the sound of agonized screams filled the air and the darkspawn pressed the assault, cleaving their way towards the color epicenter of the ruins and the precious golden knight they gave their lives to defend. Sensing the threat, the spearmen rallied, forming a new shield wall.
The formation was surprisingly sturdy despite being assembled so hastily, yet it lasted mere moments before the darkspawn broke through, a hurlock alpha ripping the standard bearer apart with a saw-toothed greatsword and maul, trampling their banner into the mud as if it were nothing.
Enraged at the deaths of their allies and the disrespect towards their heraldry, the surviving warriors counterattacked with a desperate savagery, mercilessly slaughtering the darkspawn in their haste to retrieve the precious standard. To lose one's banner was the ultimate disgrace to a knight, dwarfing even death or defeat, and even the meanest, coarsest brute of their number would die before surrendering it to enemy hands. Cailan led the charge, levelling his blade towards the alpha. "He's mine! Mine!"
Shrieking, the alpha met the King's challenge, wielding its greatsword in one hand while the other held the maul with its stone head on the ground behind it, ready to smash its target into paste.
Cailan dodged the fast but predictable swing of the maul and swung his sword toward the creature but was blocked at the last moment. Cailan responded with a high thrust that nicked its neck, the darkspawn whirling away, blood gushing from its throat. The King's next blow took its maul hand off at the wrist, moving to the side to avoid the falling hammer, and pivoted on his heel, the momentum allowing his greatsword to bite deeply into the alpha's side and the thing fell to the ground dead.
Cailan grabbed he fallen banner and ripped it from the muddy ground, driving pole end deep into the same spot that it might stand proudly where it had once laid in defeat.
Rushing to catch up to the King, Duncan was the only one who heard the distant roar, the vengeful howl that kindled the song in his blood and sent fear down his spine. He heard it, crawling through his mind, arrogant, self-assured, and fully aware that victory was in its grasp…
A second roar cut through Duncan's reverie, but where the last one was miles away and heard only in his mind, this one was immediate. It emerged from the throat of an ogre that had charged headlong into the Ferelden shield wall, smashing their formation like a hammer through so much glass.
Duncan moved to intercept the darkspawn, only to be swatted aside with a backhanded strike of its meaty fist, shattering ribs and throwing him clear of the fray. Cailan's greatsword lashed out, slicing deep into its bicep, but nothing would deter the beast from its target, and in the most demoralizing moment in the entire battle, more so than even the betrayal of one of their own, grasped the King in its grip.
Enraged soldiers moved to aid their King, but they were too few, and were quickly torn apart by the lesser darkspawn surrounding it. The stench of the creature pervaded Cailan's senses, and he winced as the creature brought him up to its face, its rank breath booming like a great drum, gobs of caustic spittle scoring his armor. Beady eyes studied the King like some exotic specimen, and the ogre's lips curled back into an enraged snarl.
And with a forceful squeeze and a wet crunch, the ogre crushed King Cailan's torso and armor like a grape. Wheezing in pain, his final breath was driven out by the creature hurling his broken body into a knot of his men, ending the life of the man who would have earned the pride of the great King Calenhad himself without a shadow of a doubt.
The remaining soldiers of Maric's Shield left on the field went mad with grief at the loss of their lord sovereign, and the thought of his remains being carried away as a trophy by the vile creatures was more than their harrowed minds could stand. They counterattacked, screaming like madmen, their sheer fury overcoming the darkspawn momentarily. Others joined them; archers bearing whatever came to hand, battered halberdiers, their weapons blunted to uselessness, spearmen abandoning the protective confines of the shield wall, a furious rush of soldiers beyond all reason now. But the darkspawn were simply too numerous, washing over the humans in a tide of blood, and above it all, the ogre stood triumphant, roaring boastfully over the warring darkspawn.
It was then that the spirit world bore witness to the last heroic act of Warden Commander Duncan, enraged at the loss of his friend and his mind fraying from the Calling, he charged the ogre, blades drawn, the tremendous pain of his wounds a distant memory. Stray darkspawn moved to intercept him, only to be swiftly cut down by his silverite blades. The ogre turned, just in time to offer Duncan his opening. Leaping, the Warden-Commander buried his blades up to the hilt in its chest, using them to scale the beast.
These were superlative blades, each enchanted to be the bane of darkspawn, and the ogre howled and thrashed in agony as Duncan drove his longsword into the beast's heart, twisting it and then using it as a stepping-stone to sink his dagger into its main artery. Twisting his head to avoid the scalding spray of blood, Duncan grimly held on, forcing the blades in as far as he was able, even as the ogre fell and died, crushing lesser darkspawn beneath its bulk.
The impact rattled Duncan's broken ribs, and he fell to his knees, his blades still planted in the ogre's body. Worse than his physical injuries was the awful realization of what had transpired, the looming spectre of defeat that overwhelmed all.
Retreat became rout. The Army of Ferelden had fought hard and well, but even the finest soldiers could only do so much, and with the loss of their King and departure of their general, they had nothing more to give. Those too slow to escape the encircling darkspawn were mercilessly hacked apart, their screams ringing out from the camps and the heights.
And Duncan was left alone in Ostagar, crawling on his hands and feet to his friend's broken body, his head knelt in prayer.
The darkspawn encircled the Warden, hissing and snapping. Even their bestial minds understood that, despite being so badly wounded Duncan was a dangerous foe, so they kept their distance, working themselves into a frenzy, waiting for the numbers they thought they'd need to overwhelm him. Not as many as they might think, Duncan told himself, morbidly amused at the thought.
He had been badly wounded before, but nothing like this. Death would come for him this eve, whether he simply bled out or they elected finished the job. But after all, death was a Warden's constant companion. What had he to fear on that account?
Glancing upwards with weary eyes, Duncan saw the flame of Ishal remained undimmed. Yes, there was hope left for Ferelden. The army was beaten, but Alim and Alistair survived. It would have to be enough. He knew it was cruel of him to set the weight of the world on those two souls, but the Maker was not kind to his subjects.
He sighed, surrendering to fate. Had he been a younger man, he would have taken up one of the many blades that littered the ground and took as many darkspawn as he could with him. But he was old and gray from a weary life, and whatever fate had in store for him after this, then he would meet it with an open heart.
He closed his eyes and accepted what was to come with quiet serenity.
He heard heavy footsteps but did not open his eyes even as the Hurlock Vanguard came for him with its giant axe.
He did not struggle, not even as the Vanguard swung the axe.
Duncan did not cry out in pain when the ax cleaved his head from his shoulders, and when it hit the ground, the spirits wept for his loss.
"Alistair!?" Alim yelped as his friend suddenly screamed after an eternity of shocked silence, witnessing the scene in the valley with abject horror. For one brief instant, Alim swore that the former templar seemed intent on leaping from the tower. "Alistair!" Alim yelled when his friend started stiffly running toward the stairwell.
He got up on shaky legs, not having had any time to heal while he was resting beneath the window.
Alim gasped in shock as a blackened crossbow bolt hit his shoulder with a wet thud, falling to the ground as another and then a third bolt joined the first, punching clean through his armor.
He heard a pained cry from Alistair as he too fell to the ground, chest riddled with bolts.
Everything had gone numb. Even the bolts piercing his body had ceased to pain him, and the leaden weight of his body quickly becoming the only sensation he felt. Leorah, Irving, Wynne, Anders... everyone, I'm so sorry, he thought, the darkness closing in. I failed you all. As his life drained away, he heard the sound of great wings beats on the wind before a giant eagle flew through the window of the tower.
He must have been delirious because he saw the bird transform into Flemeth. She looked down at him and smiled before she focused on the darkspawn, and with a single swing of her staff the dozen or so darkspawn exploded into bloody gore.
She looked at the barely conscious elf and put a finger to her lips. She made a shush sound at him, and then everything went black.
