Chapter 12: Death from Above
It began well before dawn, the sound of rhythmic drumming in the distance. Hour after hour it grew steadily louder, more insistent, until the warriors of Ferelden realized it wasn't drumming at all. It was feet, thousands upon thousands, steel shod, marching in perfect time. Their persistent beat drowned out all other noise, their impact sent shivers through the soil and up the very towers of Denerim. The sound took on a life of its own, all encompassing, a harbinger of doom, the entire world. Now, as the early morning mist finally evaporated, the sound ceased and Alistair stared down in awe from the parapets across the wide open fields at the army before his gates.
He had read all the reports, had mentally prepared himself for the odds he was up against. The preparation was not enough, the numbers on paper did not do the beast before him justice. The enemy was grouped in large phalanxes and columns of perhaps a thousand strong each. The dawn sun glinted off of shields and armor of every imaginable color and design, from simple chain mail to elaborately gilded works of art. Foreign banners snapped proudly amidst a forest of spears, the most prominently featured was that of a brilliant white dragon on a blood red field. From time to time, one or two of the massive columns would shift, adjusting its position on the field ever so slightly as massive siege engines were brought up into place, their crews already efficiently loading them. Every so often from somewhere in that vast fortress of flesh and steel a horn would sound, prompting a deafening war cry and the banging of shields so loud it made Alistair's teeth rattle in his mouth. For over an hour this went on, the horns blaring more frequently, the once incoherent howls of response morphing into war chants in an incomprehensible language. Now and again individuals and small groups from the front line would break ranks and pace in front of their comrades like caged beasts, stopping occasionally to bang a sword or spear against the shield of another. The human waves were rippling now, and Alistair could feel their berserker rage and battle lust rising from across the field. Their energy strained against the orders of their superiors, craving for the one word that would break their chains and set them loose.
Alistair looked at his own defenses which just yesterday had looked proud and imposing, they now looked meagre and almost pitiful. He could feel the fear radiating off his own troops just as he felt the energy from the invaders. Still, they bravely held their positions. These were proud soldiers of Ferelden, Ash Warriors, and battle mages from the Jainen Circle, veterans of the Civil War and the Blight. They would not shirk in the face of any enemy. He had to believe that.
Alistair played out the battle scenario in his mind. The enemy would unleash a barrage from their siege engines at Denerim's walls. But the walls were thick, and although portions might crumble, it would not collapse. Then they would have to advance over nearly a mile of open ground, all the while under fire from Ferelden's own artillery and archers that would thin their numbers. An army that size could not charge all at once, they would come in waves. Whatever battering rams they had brought would be ineffective. Denerim's gates were of iron-banded solid oak, with portcullis' forged in Orzamar. They would shatter their rams before they breached the gate. That would leave them one option, they would have to come over the walls. That meant ladders, men coming up one at a time. Their superior numbers would count for nothing. Maybe his brave soldiers could keep them from gaining a foothold on the battlements, maybe his own archers and catapults would thin their numbers enough, and maybe they would grind themselves to dust against Denerim's walls. Maybe…
"Sire," Eamon said next to him, snapping Alistair back into reality. Clad head-to-toe in armor with a sword on his hip and a shield on his back, the old man looked every inch the noble warrior he had been in his youth. Eamon nodded gravely toward the field, "Riders," he said simply. Alistair followed his gaze, and indeed a small column of horsemen had broken away from the main force and was riding for the main gate. A white flag of truce flew side by side with the white dragon banner. Alistair nodded grimly and made his way to the gate house and stood where he was quite visible as he watched the riders approach. His attention fixed immediately on the three men at the head of the column. One of them was tall and wore gold-plated armor that was all elaborate curves, and an equally ornate open-faced helmet on his head. The man next to him wore an engraved steel breastplate with greaves and braces, and a war skirt of metal-tipped leather strips. A bright red-feathered crest ran down the middle of his helmet to the nape of his neck. The third man pulled his attention away from the other two, for his plainness was startling compared to their magnificence.
He was garbed only in a simple tunic and breeches, and handled his horse extremely awkwardly compared to the other two. He was very small and slight of build, and only as the column drew to a halt in front of the city gates Alistair realized with shock that he was Dalish.
The two commanders sat on their horses, staring up silently at the walls before them. They exchanged a few words before the man in the golden armor trotted his horse a few feet closer, and motioned the Dalish man to follow. Up close it was easy to tell the young elf was nervous, but he did as he was bade. There were a few more seconds of silence before the gold-clad warrior spoke in a booming voice loud enough to be heard clearly. Alistair recognized the language, although he did not understand it, the gold commander was speaking Elvhen. Suddenly the presence of the Dalish made sense, and he shouted up a translation of his master's words, not quite as commandingly, but loud enough to be clearly understood.
"We seek to speak to King Alistair of Ferelden, lord of these lands and marshal of the city of Denerim." Alistair stepped forward and looked down grimly.
"I am he," he said, "And who are you that come bearing arms to the shores of Ferelden?" The golden man answered, the Dalish translating his words as he spoke.
"Generals Aethilis and Sulla greet you in the name of the Dragonborn Emperor of Tamriel, long may he reign, who by divine right hereby claims sovereignty over the Kingdom of Ferelden and all its environs, and all kingdoms and nations of the continent of Thedas. In his magnanimity, the Emperor offers the King of Ferelden and its people the following proposition: No one need die here today. Ferelden's soldiers may keep their weapons, its nobles their lands, and its king his throne, to govern Ferelden as he sees fit according to Imperial law as a vassal to the Dragonborn Emperor, to whom alone he will be answerable. Ferelden may prosper as a province of the Empire, with all its subjects granted equal protection under the law. All that is required for a peaceful resolution is for King Alistair to bend the knee here before the representatives of the Emperor, and for him and his nobles to swear an oath of fealty to the New Tamrilic Empire and the Dragonborn Emperor. What say you to this?"
Alistair felt the eyes of his soldiers on him, heard their faint mutterings. Without a word, he turned to a nearby archer, took the woman's bow and a single arrow from her quiver. Drew it back to his cheek, and fired.
The arrow hissed through the air and planted itself firmly in the ground a few inches in front of the general whose words the Dalish elf had been translating. Neither man nor horse so much as twitched, the general merely lowered his gaze to the arrow and stared at it with bemusement. To Alistair's surprise, a defiant cheer rose up from the troops along the wall. Alistair grinned mirthlessly as he handed the bow back to the archer. As the cheering died down he became uneasy at the sight of the golden general looking directly at him, and smiling broadly. He took off his helmet, and hair as golden as his armor fell to his shoulders. Alistair blinked in surprise and his mouth dropped open. He was an elf. He began speaking again, the even more flustered Dalish resumed translating.
"General Aethilis takes your response to mean 'no,' as was expected. He compliments your flair for the dramatic." Aethilis' smile faded into a grim expression, and he spoke much more quietly so that his words were barely audible. The Dalish elf looked up at Alistair almost apologetically. "He promises that what is about to come…it will be over quickly." With that Aethilis put his helmet back on and haughtily turned his horse. The column followed back to the enemy lines. Halfway there, Alistair saw him raise his sword over his head, and another deafening roar tore through the air. Before the column even made it all the way back, the first boulder slammed into Denerim's walls.
Death rained down from the sky. Boulders, shrapnel, and canisters of liquid fire fell all around him with unbelievable accuracy. It seemed as though not a single shot fell far or short of its target, they all landed right on top of Alistair and his defenders. Men screamed and wept and tried futilely to find cover. Alistair did not know which way was up and which was down, the world had become a spinning nightmare of terror and pain. He did the only thing he could do, he hunkered down and prayed the next missile would not be the one that hit him.
As quickly as it had begun, the bombardment ceased. Alistair was not sure how long it had lasted, it could have been hours or minutes, all that mattered was that the sky was clear once again. Alistair picked himself up and stumbled around disoriented, his ears ringing and head swimming. As the world snapped back into focus, the sounds of dying men, the stench of blood and burning flesh assailed him. His men were picking through the rubble, trying to clear pathways, douse fires, and get the wounded off the battlements.
"Shore up!" he shouted, "Archers to the front, get the wounded off these walls now! I need damage reports and casualties! Eamon…" Alistair looked around and realized Eamon was nowhere to be seen. Then he remembered when he had gone down to the gatehouse, his advisor had remained on the command platform. Alistair looked up to where it was and felt his stomach sink. All that remained was a pile of rubble.
Alistair took the stairs two at a time and began shifting through the stone and wood, desperately searching for his old friend.
He found him. Eamon's eyes were still open, staring lifelessly up at the sky, his head thrown backward at an unnatural angle. His arms were splayed out in the form of a cross, a jagged beam of wood thicker than a man's arm stuck out from his chest, covered in blood.
Numbness took hold of Alistair as he stared at the body of the man who had once been like a father to him. A man who, for the past thirteen years had been at his side from sunup to sundown. Guiding him, comforting him, chiding him, always there. Alistair had never once thanked him, or told him he loved him.
"Sire! King Alistair!" Fergus stumbled up the stairs, gasping for breath, face and armor smeared with blood and ash. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw Alistair. "Thank the Maker you're…" Fergus took a few steps closer and stopped short when he saw Eamon's body. "Oh no," he whispered. The two men stood in silence for several seconds before Fergus spoke quietly but firmly. "Your majesty," he said, "The enemy is forming up for assault. We need you on the wall."
"He's gone," Alistair mumbled, "How will I know what to do now that he's gone?" Fergus grabbed Alistair by the shoulder, spun him around and backhanded him hard.
"You are the King!" he shouted, "Your soldiers need you, your people need you!" Alistair stared at Fergus in momentary shock. He touched his fingers lightly to his stinging cheek and looked at Eamon again. He knelt down and closed the old man's eyes, then stood and drew his sword, eyes shooting death.
"To the wall," he said grimly. Fergus drew his blade and followed. As the two men jogged back to the front, they heard another war chant being carried from across the field in time with the rhythmic banging of drums. A single word, repeated over and over again, a word every man, woman and child in Denerim could hear and understand, it was in the common tongue of Thedas. Alistair felt an involuntary chill run down his spine.
"Death! Death! Death!"