Author's note:

Disclaimer: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes.

I want to thank Serithus, Theodur, and Guest for taking the time to review the last chapter, as well as all others out there reading and, hopefully, enjoying my story!

We have reached the turning point many things hinge upon. The battle begins. And I've come to the conclusion that writing battle scence is hard. And takes a long time. Certainly took me long enough. But I wanted to have the entire chapter(s) written down, at least as a draft, before publishing anything. This point is now. You can expect one chapter per week for the next two or three weeks.

I'm glad to have made it this far, because this chapter and next two or three (depending on how much I add or delete from the drafts) were some of the chapters I looked forward to the most to write since starting this fanfiction. Without all of you, my dear faithful readers—reading, following, faving, and reviewing this story I probably wouldn't have made it.

Thank you so much!

Without further ado, enjoy the latest chapter of a book written in an age full of heroes.

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In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter XXII

The Begetting Of Bloodshed

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Carrion crows circled above, squawking, foreshadowing the events about to transpire.

Strong winds buffeted Anethayín, as she peered through the partially crumbled crenellations of the flagstone watchtower with narrowed eyes. The wind howled through the exposed interior of the decrepit edifice. It arrived cold from the north, coming down from the mountain-riddled Coastlands, tugging and stretching the forest of banners of the Men of the Laurel—as they'd began to call themselves—slapping the air like numerous whips.

Anethayín could easily make out countless crests of minor nobles, lords and ladies, knights and worthies disappearing in the whitewash flutter of more prominent Houses.

Lines of infantrymen under the emerald portcullis of South Reach took up the host's flanks on both ends. Their outer corners screened by columns of Highever men behind rectangular shields—the surviving veterans of Ostagar, who'd been under the command of Araris' late brother, Fergus. They flew the mint-coloured teardrop of Highever with pine lances crossed in front of it. Behind the flanks, on each side, a thrown-together formation of archers of various houses slung longbows and nocked arrows. The centre, many rows deeper, undisciplined militiamen mingled behind a thin shield of indentured soldiers. The demonised bull of West Hills, horns curled, and nose pierced formed a canopy of canvas above their heads.

The white-winged laurel wreath of the Cousland family and the banner of the Mortal Swords stood at the forefront, where less than one hundred horsed men waited. The turning water wheel of Waking Sea, Anethayín could not discern in the distance.

An equally as impressive collection—mayhap even more so—of forged allegiances formed a fluttering roof over helmeted heads opposite the arrayed Men of the Laurel. The low charcoal brick wall, a sinewy wolf loping over it, representing The Southern Bannorn. The beige crescent of Dragon's Peak, tips upturned, with five stars glimmering underneath. The brown boar of Amaranthine took up a large portion of the midsection of the loyalist army. At the left flank, the daffodil yellow wyvern of Gwaren carried by row upon row of heavy cavalry, knights at the front and men-at-arms at the back. The two cinnamon-coloured mabari facing each other, one paw raised in greeting—the banner of the royal Theirin bloodline perverted to Loghain's cause.

Anethayín wiped at her brow with the outside of her hand, tried to blink the distant figures into sharper focus. She would stand witness today, no matter what. To make sure that historians killed none of these men with a mere stroke of the quill, smiting the facts into the distorted recounting of their own making.

History is the vengeance of bitter old men, Emperor Kordillus Drakon I had supposedly said. Just before he'd had the Imperial Historian, Remkettri, flayed alive for portraying the history of his ascendancy to the throne in a way to curry the emperor's favour and not, as had been his duty, to relay it with utmost historical accuracy.

Anethayín would make manifest the unheard voices of those who bled and died today.

Half a dozen riders from both armed forces rode towards each other at a canter, intent on wasting time on a conflict of words before the bloodshed began in earnest.

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The flat Iachus Plains sprawled around him, broken only by the occasional larch or formations of rocks.

Franderel decided to shove a clamp on the ceaseless bickering inside his head, the shuffling line of second-guessing like a sickness of his mind. Weeping and buzzing climbed to a shrill, nauseating whine.

Franderel guided his caparisoned grey around, northwards and back onto the paved Imperial Highway. Soon the Tevinter remnant would curve to the right and past West Hill fortress. Franderel spotted the highest watchtower of his from rock-hewn castle, integrated into the spine of a low mountain ridge stretching along the Coastlands towards Highever and then further until falling away at the outskirts of Amaranthine.

Elderly, men, women and children unable to pick up arms for the rebel cause were ushered along by what remained of his men-at-arms and the few Waking Sea knights Araris Cousland had put at his disposal. All in all, not even two-hundred armed men shepherding thousands upon thousands of refugees to the supposed protection promised by West Hill.

They'd walked or ridden through the entire night and now till midday and it showed. Men hung in their saddles, half-asleep. Children stumbled over their tiny feet, crying out only to be picked up by parents. Eyes dulled, they cared only about putting one foot in front of the other. But the fear shone through it all, through every slurred, drunk-like movement, through every cast look. The refugees had yielded the relative safety of the palisaded encampment in exchange for a prolonged march to walls of stone.

Arriving at the rear-guard, Franderel saw a trio of outriders, galloping towards him at full-tilt.

'My lord,' one of the outriders began his report, still reining his horse in. 'Our lordship Cousland has made contact with the enemy.'

Franderel nodded. Then a queasy feeling overcame him, rearranging the insides of his stomach. 'Something else?'

The outrider gulped. 'We've cavalry hot on our heels, my lord. Quarter-bell behind us.'

The weeping in his head swelled. 'How many?'

'Didn't get a good look, my lord.' The outrider glanced at his comrades for support.

One of them piped up, a veteran. Without a waver in his voice, he said, 'Full-strength regiment, at least, my lord.'

Outnumbered five to one. Franderel spat phlegm on the pavement of the Imperial Highway.

'Give command to rally here.'

The outriders rode off.

Franderel regarded the cloudless sky, offered a quick prayer to the Maker for his men. The refugees would've to reach West Hill fortress without them.

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'What news?' asked Cauthrien, nudging her horse forward, retinue now complete with Commander Iskara at her side. Farah'an kept stride with long inhuman steps.

'Aye, King's Blade, a messenger from Commander Naujeri. At the time of the messenger's departure, Naujeri and his Amaranthines caught sight of the enemy. Engagement will happen shortly, if it hasn't already,' said Iskara, rubbing the skin underneath the leather strap of his helm.

After the execution of Commander Blist, Cauthrien and Iskara had discussed replacements and, through some brush with fortune, found Naujeri. A young cavalry officer who seemed to harbour as much disgust for Blist as Cauthrien and Iskara, if not even more.

'Good. I'll expect him to make quick work,' she said.

'Naujeri has orders to circle back 'round and attack the rebellion from the rear when finished.'

Cauthrien nodded in satisfaction. She jerked her head in the direction of the enemy. 'What make you of this, commander?'

'They have the numbers on us, King's Blade. But not the discipline.' He pointed. 'Veterans at the wings. Militia holding the centre with some heavies at the front, to take the brunt, no doubt. What cavalry they have, they've kept in reserve.' Iskara studied the surrounding cover available, a dense littering of larch, redwood, birch, and rock which spread in a curve, the epicentre of which was the royal encampment behind them. The forested flanks spread left and right of them.

'Somewhere.'

Iskara continued his assessment, 'Our own centre of heavies and medium infantry will break the militia. Might take some time, desperation's a strong incentive. But we'll break through and divide them. Then it's only picking one side off, while the other's kept at bay.'

'My men will carve a path through them,' offered Farah'an at their side, growling deep in her throat. 'They're eager for blood. Even if the sorceress who slaughtered our brethren won't be among the victims today.'

Iskara nodded in the way old men often did. 'A fortuitous turn of events, indeed. Had the apostate stood with the rebellion, the outcome would've been far from certain.'

The ease of his certainty irked Cauthrien. How could old men still be overcome by such unwavering conviction? Had this not been pounded out of the marrow of their bones over the many years they'd spent in this world? Beliefs ground to dust by the sobering confrontation with reality after harsh reality.

'These militiamen won't break easily, commander. We've taken weeks longer than anticipated. What with so many of our patrols gone missing,' said Cauthrien, tugging at the leather strap holding Summer Sword's harness.

'A few weeks of training, no matter how diligent, are nothing compared to a lifetime of soldiering, King's Blade,' said Farah'an, managing to layer her flanging voice with even more conviction than Iskara.

A horrifying thought occurred to Cauthrien. Certainty turned into conviction. Conviction turned into fanaticism. Fanaticism turned into myopia. Myopia turned into blind action, riding the back of certainty. Do I stand here with two fanatics? If so, she feared.

'They'll break.' Iskara gave a placating smile, intent on putting Cauthrien's mind at rest. Despite his effort, Cauthrien found she could do naught but doubt.

She squinted at the lone, pale-haired rider approaching them.

Cauthrien spurred her horse into an accelerated pace, eager to get this meeting over with.

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Alfstanna's horse whinnied beneath her. She tried to calm the beast, patting its flank.

Righting herself in the saddle, Alfstanna took a deep breath and tested her slung longbow with a few mock draws. Once satisfied, she rested the weapon across her lap, spared a glance at the Waking Sea knights around her, in hiding under the winter-faded canopy of birch and larch and the evergreen cover of redwoods.

There's no stopping the will of nature.

The sentence repeated itself, over and over again. A scratching echo, reiterating its meaning with every passing loop. Doubt. Hope. Fear. Belief. But it swung heavy with promise every time, no matter its actual meaning.

Alfstanna couldn't allow herself to be influenced by her own musings, harbouring new-found doubts as they did now. Not today! So much hinged on her, so many counted on her. Not only the men who'd ride with her to battle, her fellow peers of nobility, the refugees, her countrymen, all of them depended on her to do her part. And do it right she must. As instructed by the man who'd claim to own a momentum equal to nature's will. The harbinger of her doubts.

The necessity of conflict hadn't pressed Alfstanna to draw steel and shed blood often in her life. Sure, there always were raiders, bandits, and sometimes the odd consortium of desperate pirates pillaging along the coastline of Waking Sea. But nothing like this. Not large-scale battle.

The waiting infuriated her, sheared her nerves down to the core, exposing the quailing frailty within. Alfstanna wasn't made for this. Leave the killing to men like Araris who seemed to thrive on it. Who planned their next act of death before one was even finished.

An elven messenger arrived at her side, bowing once. 'Arl Bryland sends his regards, my lady. He stands ready to engage the enemy cavalry.'

Alfstanna managed a terse nod. 'On his command, then. Convey my regards to Arl Bryland and wish him the Maker's fortune.'

'Of course, my lady. Best of luck to you, as well.' The elf scurried off, disappearing in the gnarled undergrowth, travelling along the curving forest to Leonas' westward position.

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They'd taken to the likeness of stone and waited unmoving.

It didn't appreciate the need to cower like vermin amongst tiny wildlife as the beasts zipped over the Che'ell brothers' chitinous carapace.

But their master commanded them. And His word was beyond law. It was the lifeblood upon which their presence in this sphere of existence was paid for, nurtured, and sustained.

As the wheel of time passed numerous times and light and dark exchanged places, the Che'ell brothers had graced this world with their inimitable art. The seventh of the Che'ell brothers alone had slain a score of mounted humans as they ventured too far from their comrades and across the flatlands, exploring.

The long slits along its snout opened wide and drew in deep, the protective membrane inside vibrating with the motion. Wildlife froze around the Che'ell brothers, then went on to resume its business. The seventh of the Che'ell brothers tasted the stink of imminent battle in the air, the reek of unwashed human bodies and horses. The stench of bone-deep fear the humans liked to cover up with faked courage soured his nostrils.

Through the psychic link of their blood which bound them together and the received sensorium of Him, the seventh of the Che'ell brothers relayed the lay of the land and the position of meat to be eviscerated and displayed to its brethren.

A euphoric shudder drove through the Che'ell brothers, shared over the blood-link, and thus intensified into the giddiness preceding the ecstasy of coupling.

The time to hide would soon be over.

To be replaced by the time of the magnificent weaving of souls into the canvas of murder. The collection of ended lives to be carried on its shoulders, dragging the endless legions of slain along the trackless path with it.

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The ground cracked, in erratic patterns as only nature brought forth, by low spines of jagged and lichen-overgrown rock. Jan peeked through the underbrush, over rocks, and in between larches shielding them from the enemy's left flank.

'Why, by the Maker's hoary balls, are we here, Corks?'

The barrel-chested man in question glanced at Jan with one eye. 'How d' you know the Maker's got 'oary balls? Maybe he shaves every morn.'

'What?'

'Seen 'em up close? Tickled 'em godly testicles while you're at it?'

Jan controlled himself to hiss his annoyance. 'What the fuck you talking about, you empty-headed oaf?'

Dim-witted, Corks smiled at him, tongue lolling. Then proceeded to glimpse over the boulder both men hid behind, tongue pinched between his teeth in concentration. 'Were they even?'

Jan grumbled. 'Were what even?'

'The Maker's balls, o' course. Or d' one hang lower than the other? You know, like an old man limpin', draggin' his leg.'

Jan cupped his face, groaning.

'Shut up, you idiots!' Angry hiss from one of the sapper sergeants with them, glaring at them with a stinky eye.

'Great, you gone an' did it again, Jan. Made the geezer mad. Now we'll 'ave to dig latrines again,' said Corks, lower lip protruding in a sulky pout.

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Araris Cousland came to them alone, leaving his escort of grey-leathered Mortal Swords behind.

He didn't look like a man of noble birth. A battle-scarred veteran of many engagements—yes. Like one of those tribesmen living in the mountains or, at least, how Farah'an imagined them in appearance. Thin but not frail, muscles knotted lean like sinew, haircut rustic, and skin pallid. Only thing missing were blue tattoos curling along his limbs, further accentuating his gaunt features.

Farah'an settled down, palms of her hands resting on the pommels of her twin swords.

The King's Blade kicked her horse a few paces forward. Between her and Araris Cousland lay not more than a few armspans. The King's Blade raised a gauntleted hand in greeting. The gesture remained unreciprocated.

'I pray you'll have your men lay down arms and surrender,' said the King's Blade.

Araris Cousland arched a brow. 'And leave them to be cut to pieces by your men, Cauthrien? I think not.'

Commander One-Eye piped in, offering his sentiment, 'You'll address Ser Cauthrien as the King's Blade, rebel filth.'

Before the old commander could add any more insults, the King's Blade bid him to hold his tongue with a sharp motion.

As if Commander One-Eye hadn't spoken, the woman proclaimed, 'None shall be harmed if they lay down arms and surrender. There's no need for bloodshed. I give you my word.'

Lifting his chin, Araris Cousland's expression twisted into a sneer. His eyes retained a curious blankness. 'Oh, but there is, Cauthrien. There is. Don't you see the looks the men at my back throw at you. Even they know that this must be.' He made a point of glancing at Commander One-Eye. 'After all, you serve a tyrant who rewards cold-blooded murder and treachery with lands and titles. And those who'd stand up for justice he offers nothing but the sword.'

Araris Cousland spared each of them a glacial look. 'What you see as needless bloodshed, I see as Ferelden's answer.'

The King's Blade kept her cool. 'I would have this day pass without thousands dead. I would have a truce. I would have you speak with the king-regent to come to terms.'

It looked like Araris Cousland might laugh outright, but the startling vehemence circulating in his bright eyes was answer enough. 'We can start discussing terms once you've delivered Howe's head on a silver platter to me.'

Commander One-Eye's voice rose. 'In a time where Darkspawn roam our land, you'd rather spill the blood of men to sate your own madness! How unsurprisingly selfish of you. '

Araris Cousland swatted the remark aside. 'I'm going to blame your missing eye for that, whoever you are, old man. Because it seems the crown—you, that is—have put nothing but the Bannorn to the torch. Meanwhile the Darkspawn corrupt everything in their path.'

'So do not speak of selfishness to me, old man. It is all of you—Loghain's loyal lapdogs—who act based upon his selfishness so that he might illegitimately cling to the throne for a while longer. At least, until the Darkspawn come knocking on Denerim's gates. And let me assure you of something. When I've soaked the Plains with your blood and you've run back like whipped dogs to your master after today and the Darkspawn finally do come knocking, then you needn't hope for my timely arrival.'

It trickled down, sunk in. Farah'an saw it on their faces. Araris Cousland had struck the cord of an exposed nerve. Played a tune which stirred the spark of vague uncertainties.

She opted for intervention. 'Hubris is ever the precursor of defeat, human. I would have you know that words such as yours, I've heard countless times.' She paused. 'The broken bodies of the speakers is all which remains.'

Araris Cousland appraised her, his light eyes brushing over the porcelain half-mask strapped to her belt. 'And putting your faith blindly in a man who'd ruin Ferelden with his actions is better?' He smiled and it seemed to rip something from Farah'an. 'But who better to answer questions of faith than one who has been repudiated by her own faith—' like a punch in her gut '—an apostate to her people. You stand outside the circle and thus see what those inside are incapable of seeing. Yet you reel from the loss of being outside.'

Farah'an nearly staggered. 'Faith has no place on the battlefield.' The rest she made a point of ignoring. It had hit too close, too penetrating.

Araris Cousland studied her a bit longer. 'On that we can agree.' But his chastising tone told her, how very wrong you are. Can't you see them?

Farah'an held his cold gaze, felt weightlessness tingle her limbs. 'I look forward to cross blades with you, stranger who's name invokes fear in the hearts of many.'

Araris Cousland smiled in earnest, showing a perfect row of white teeth in a wry half-smile. 'As do I, Isala'k.'

Farah'an reared back, eyes wide. How?

Having taken his measure of them, Araris Cousland reined his horse around and rode off.

'Why did you say that?' snapped Cauthrien, keeping her voice low.

Gathering her thoughts, Farah'an craned her head. 'Because it is true. No matter how painful it is to admit. No matter how much he rattled you. Both of you fear this man. Such a truth can only be faced head on. Or its weight'll crush you underneath, King's Blade.'

The qunari mercenary captain stared after the retreating back of Araris Cousland. 'We've heard the name. We've seen what face it wears. Now we must stand against it.'

But face it with care we must. This man knows more than he should.

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They'd left the Imperial Highway, making for West Hill fortress with haste. Driving the refugees like herders their cattle. Wains laden with food, clothes, and other belongings were left behind, baskets were dropped or cast away. More than two dozen were trampled to death in the ensuing panic.

Wind bended the trees in the distance. Screams and shouts drifted up from behind. The refugees running for their lives to the by a neck ditch surrounded portcullis of West Hill, the bridge already lowering on massive chains of iron.

Two rows deep, about a hundred long, his remaining knights and men-at-arms and those of Waking Sea put at his disposal surrounded Franderel. Horses shook their snouts, black nostrils puffing out air, the beasts stamped with their feet picking up on the fact that battle was close at hand.

Franderel scanned the line of battle-hardened veterans. Some had lived through the siege of West Hill. Others had endured the long march with the Men of the Laurel. Select few had survived the dread of Ostagar.

In the distance the Amaranthine cavalry regiment neared, outriders ranged the space between them, shouting, taunting. Urging his horse forward, Franderel turned to address his men.

'Men and women of Ferelden!' He pointed at the approaching enemy. His steed buckled beneath him. 'We cannot fight this and live!'

He let the words sway and get picked up by the wind.

He drew his longsword in a theatrical gesture, high over his head. 'Are you with me?' he shouted.

Swords hissed out of scabbards in a clamour of steel.

'Let's carve our mark into these Amaranthine fuckers and finish them off, once and for all!'

A bestial roar rose up behind him, drove him towards the hated enemy like a father's belt whipping his back.

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The head of his massive war-hammer placed on the ground, Gallagher Wulff occupied the centre of the Men of the Laurel, surrounded by what few West Hills knights sworn to him still lived and the indentured heavies behind large round shields at the forefront. The larger part of the midsection of the armed forces under Araris' command was made up of the thrown-together rabble of hastily trained militiamen. In Gallagher's opinion not a reliable core to form the backbone.

Grumble he might, but he deferred to Araris' impeccable judgement on matters military. The boy had managed to prove himself so far. Though, now, it really counted. A toss of dice broaching the hairline between life and death.

And this battle, this decisive battle Araris picked out and shared not his plan of how to engage their enemy. How he planned to defeat their enemy, how to possess the battlefield, and live for one day more thereafter. Araris opted for silence in the sessions where they'd held council. Araris pressed them to trust. Shared only individual pieces of his plan with those who needed to enact their movements across the Iachus Plains.

Gallagher had tolerated this and voiced his support when the others made their misgivings plain only because Araris had saved the people of West Hills from the Darkspawn.

Gallagher Wulff closed his eyes, exhaled a deep breath.

Araris Cousland drew back the reins of his Orlesian-stock midnight mare. The beast pranced from side to side. Araris leaned down, disfigured mane of gold splaying over his shoulder in a long, bound tail.

He spoke low. 'You must hold them, my dear friend. You know most of them weren't trained for this. This is not the life they chose. But they'll make up for it in spirit.'

His features turned grave. 'Lead them. Lead their spirit. Hold.'

The lie came easy, but wrung his innards nonetheless. 'Don't you worry, laddie. The bastards won't get through. And if I'll have to kick some peasants' arse to the frontline with my own hammer. Then, so be it.'

He tried a nod, heaving every ounce of trust and a large part of faked battle-courage into the gesture. 'We'll hold.'

Araris sat upright in his saddle, reins cradled in his lap, he took in the Men of the Laurel sprawling at Gallagher's back and sides.

Gallagher couldn't bring himself to remain silent. Voice pitched with accustomed command authority for many to be heard, he put Araris on the spot. Wanting—Needing!—to know. 'Where'll you be, your lordship?'

Araris Cousland offered him a beatific smile. It made him look impossibly younger, brighter. 'Know that I'll be at your side if the need arises.'

West Hills' knights in plate armour and irregularly outfitted militiamen shuffled around at his words, whilst the men of Highever stayed silent, watching their lord. Something in Araris' words stirred them into involuntary movement. To acknowledge his words, in some feeble way.

The young man's unfamiliar smile grew infectious.

Good enough for me.

And it actually was.

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Astride her horse, behind the arranged forces of the crown, Cauthrien overlooked the field of battle from a flat hillock. A swarm of messengers surrounded her and Commander Iskara. Isala'k had already left them on their way back and joined her mercenary company at the frontline, ready to drive with vengeance into the flesh of the rebellion.

On the opposite side, framed by a decrepit flagstone watchtower and the plateau it resided upon, the entire rebellion watched the lone rider, cantering along its length. Flying the banner of the Mortal Swords of Highever, less than a hundred, grey-leathered mounted men fell in behind him.

Araris Cousland voice resounded impossibly clear in the fresh air as if shouted from a thousand throats. 'Cousland! Cousland! My father's House!'

The rebel host came alive in answer, bubbling with liquid rage.

'Ferelden! Ferelden! All our House!'

The roar, aflame with exuberant passion, drowned out everything else. Startled birds took to the sky, even the carrions seemed to stagger in their cycling above.

The rebel host began its steady forward march.

Cauthrien nodded at Commander Iskara. 'Sound the advance.'

The sound of horns pealed through the shouts of the thousand thousand throats of the rebellion, subsided into the stamp of leather-soled feet pounding the ground of the Iachus Plains.

Cauthrien squinted, rose in her saddle to get a better look, disbelieving the view laid out in front of her.

Araris Cousland rode past the right flank of the rebel host and made for the tall larches and the thick undergrowth which circled the entire way back to Cauthrien's camp, framing the battlefield in an arch.

Where, in the Maker's holy name, is he going to?

Then she saw.

The northern treeline seethed with movement.

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