Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime. -
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen
Knight Commander Greagoir sweated on his bed. Wynne sat beside him in the hospital they'd set up in the old temple. Warden blood had killed the taint that writhed outward from the spear-point's penetration - but the red froth that speckled his lips told of a killing wound nonetheless. Rylock strode into the ward as soon as she was able. She heard Wynne renew her argument for attempting to get the spear-point out so she could heal him, but he rejected it with an angry mutter. "The blood loss will kill me. I need time to say what I have to before I die."
Rylock knelt down beside him. She said: "You must chance the surgery. Kinloch Hold needs you."
Greagoir shook his head. "No. I need you."
The dark suspicion flitting across Rylock's face amused Greagoir. He tried to laugh, but it broke down into a coughing fit. A drink of water helped, and he went on, "I wouldn't ask you to give me the sword of mercy. I've got a really hard job for you. I want you to take command of the mages and Templars of the Circle. Not only in battle - but afterward. Mother Hannah of Redcliffe wants the Circle rebuilt at the Temple of the Ashes."
Calmly, rationally, Rylock argued. She was far better suited to hunting Blood Mages than spoon-feeding mage children. She intended to lead an Exalted March against the darkspawn. Greagoir lay with his eyes shut, unmoving. Rylock wasn't even sure he was awake until the man gave a shuddering sigh and said: "Twenty years ago you warned me about First Enchanter Remille. I didn't listen. But my real mistake was not to keep you on after what you did to Aneirin. If I had, instead of sending you to Kirkwall, you might have learned another way. Twenty years on and it's all happened again: one Blood Mage escapes...followed by an uprising. Again, the blame was mine. I acted too late to stop Jowan. Worse: I broke our own laws when I made Amell Tranquil. He was a Harrowed mage - he should have been imprisoned for a first offence. I did it because Irving convinced me it was necessary...but he was convinced by Uldred - and how, I would not like to guess. Uldred knew the outrage would empower the Libertarian cause, and his rebellion. Nothing good comes when Templars break their own laws - that threatens the rights of all mages, and they have no reason to trust us. Unless we find a way to get things moving in the right direction, history is always going to repeat itself. I want to hear you say that's true before I die."
Rylock bolted to her feet. "Such manipulation is unworthy! I intend to follow the Chant. Only that. I won't be tricked or shamed into following another Knight Commander's goals." Never again...
Greagoir opened his eyes. "You'll do it. Because it's right. Not the same way I would, but you'll do it. We're no more alike than black and white, but we want the same things. Now let me rest."
For several seconds Rylock stood over him, clenched fists working furiously. She was in a positively foul mood as she spun on her heel and stalked for the door.
Towards her new command.
Greagoir died not long afterwards. A wounded Chasind warrior, one of Fergus' men, lay in the hospital bed beside him. He stared thoughtfully into the candlelit dimness. Then he repeated the ritual reserved for a tribesman who died well: "Go easily. Take our respect on your journey. Please leave your courage for those of us who still fight." He wasn't sure why he felt compelled to say those words for a member of the Order who persecuted the Chasind for harbouring magic-users, but he felt better for having done so.
The defence was wounded. The rupture was small. So, thought Loghain, was the head of an arrow. It killed, nonetheless.
The darkspawn had surrounded Ostagar, attacking from the damaged southern wall, the western gate, and from Lothering Forest. The General seemed to have changed position: moving west where the defence was stronger - allowing the ogres to complete the destruction to the south. Cauthrien's doomed charge had saved Alistair and his men, but it meant they no longer blocked the route northward. The darkspawn could veer away and surge toward Denerim at any time.
The night was shattered by the crash of yet another boulder. Walls that had been built to withstand arrows, fire, and even battering rams were no match for the ogres: Loghain counted a living wall of at least nine. Twice, they struck the large, illuminating torch-brackets. Spilled oil created a heavy soup-like haze, floating atop the darkness. Three men, huddled immediately opposite the impact, were ripped by shards of stone shearing off the inside surface. Ragged, spinning like leaves, they fell to the ground below like bloody dolls. That section of the wall's top collapsed, taking out battlewalk.
On the top floor of Ishal, Loghain looked out over the intervening clear area at the deep crescent knocked out of the stonework. Through it, he saw the southern arm of the horde pouring through. Dworkin and the archers lobbed Blackpowder jars and missiles downward. The range was too close for catapults and they could not use the trebuchet without further damaging the fortress and killing their own men. The first battle-mad darkspawn ignored arrows and missiles to clamber through the gap in the outer wall. Screaming unintelligibly, they appeared in the courtyard like creatures boiling up from the Abyss. Others, totally oblivious to anything else, scrabbled at the edges of stone as they had dug for the Old God, further widening the breach. To the north, the darkspawn were shadowy, hidden by fir trees. To the west, the cloud of taint spread by the Hurlock General was a roiling purple mass that shrouded the view like smoke.
Loghain was about to command the southern defence - but Rylock put a gauntleted hand up to stop him. Instinct told him the mixture of contemptuous fury and genuine dread disfiguring her was more important for the moment. She said: "That stink that burns the eyes of my men and makes them choke - that's taint, isn't it? Spread by the General's magic."
"Yes. It poisons the air around the creature."
For a moment, Loghain thought he saw the gloss of panic tighten on Rylock's features. She had believed her Templars capable of countering the General's magic - but they had no abilities that worked against taint. Then she was the Knight-Commander. "That means that you, I, and Warden Alistair are the only ones immune. When we reach him, I'll hold the abomination off while my Templars and mages attack at range." She spun without hesitation, racing to spread that word. It was just in time. Templars were backing away from the afflicted area, discovering their powers were useless. Some dragged wounded or tainted comrades. Even as Loghain watched, one threw down his sword of mercy and fled.
Loghain looked away from her and was surprised to see Nathaniel had come up undetected. The young Howe said: "If the creatures get past Lothering Forest, Denerim is doomed."
Loghain disliked it when people pointed out the obvious - but he saw Nathaniel had something else in mind.
"The forest is wood. With Dworkin's Blackpowder jars, added to magic, I can burn it. Then be on my way to South Reach to warn them."
An arrow sighed overhead; a darkspawn squealed below.
"I've left Leliana and Shianni in charge of the archers."
"It's a bad idea." Nathaniel's agreeing nod was barely visible. "It's too much. One man alone can't do it."
"I'll take the assassin, Zevran - and a mage. A volunteer - hopefully with some knowledge of stealth. Not one of the Knight Commander's "tame" ones."
Before more important matters crowded into his mind, Loghain was briefly surprised at Nathaniel's tone - he didn't see what reason he had to dislike the Chantry. Then he remembered how passionately Rendon Howe had hated them after Mother Bronach stood by while Byron Howe was killed, the castle sacked. And Nathaniel had grown up in Kirkwall, where the Knight Commander was said to be a tyrant. He wasn't sure Zevran was the best choice - he'd been willing enough to turn against his employer after Rilian had defeated him. But perhaps Nathaniel had something to offer him.
"Very well," he said, "Go find your volunteer."
What a bizarre situation, Anders thought. The grandeur of the ancient Tevinter fort would leave Denerim Chantry's for dead. Pillars like oaks and doors like the gates of the Golden City. And in the midst of all this splendour, the dilapidated people. Irving: pale as sea-salt, tears and sweat streaking the beard that made him look like he was being attacked by a wild animal. All the Templars not on the battlements or in the courtyard: stained and creased like bundles of dirty laundry. Knight Commander Rylock: heavy-eyed, her blood-spattered tunic now more black than purple. Wynne: in a stupor of fatigue. Knight Commander Harith's colour was sickly, his fingernails bitten down so far he had drawn blood. Ah-ha, thought Anders, so there are still traces of blood in his lyrium. Who knew?
The old Arl, Eamon, was there too, supported by the healers.
"This smoke," he complained absently, "It's so irritating. Gets in my eyes and makes me cough. Teagan is so lucky I left him back at Redcliffe. Wish I was there too."
Everyone ignored him.
"I've tried a scented cloth to the nose," he continued, "But it doesn't seem to work. Is there anything else I can do?"
"You could try wearing one of the Templar helms," Sweeney suggested brightly, "Those visors won't let much through. Explains a lot."
"Tansy," said Ines suddenly. Her eyes were glazed; exhaustion reduced a voice like a bag of razors to a low monotone. "Tansy or winter savoury. They make a nice paste to sooth inflamed eyes. I should have some in my pack."
Ho hum.
Knight Commander Rylock addressed the gathering: "Brothers and sisters in the Maker's service, I have called this emergency chapter to inform you that we have suffered a terrible defeat."
A pause. Well, go on. What are you waiting for? Say it. Say it!
"We are surrounded." A quiet voice: very clear, very thin. No emotion at all. Anders could tell she was trying to find the words. Very calm, though. Only her hands contradicted that. They looked uncertain.
"You will realise that many of our most valiant and pious brethren - including Knight Commander Greagoir - met a noble death on the battlefield to the greater glory of the Maker. But in suffering for righteousness' sake, they suffered as our Lady Andraste suffered. They died with confidence, knowing that they would be delivered to His arms. For Divine Theodosia the Second has said of the Templar knight: "should he be killed, we know he has not perished, but come safely to port."
Not a word about the dead mages! Inchoate images seethed across Anders' vision: the Blizzards and firestorms, the smoke and stone, black lightning as the darkspawn boiled around Irving's desperate stand. They had bought time for the northern forces to reach Warden Alistair's army. Karl's face, empty of all expression, eyes like glass staring up at me.
Karl's body had been placed with the other dead - the Templars, mages, soldiers and Chasind - burning like the ancient Alamarri chieftains. The pyres were still blazing: a greasy pall of smoke drifted sluggishly east. We have to die in war to be treated like people. In Kinloch Hold, they were cremated, ground into powder, and disposed of in the lake. No-one ever said it out loud - but Anders had explored every inch of that prison and never seen urns bearing the names of dead Enchanters. I guess the phylacteries take up all the shelf space.
There was a muffled noise. Ser Bran had bolted for the doors. The look on his face was wild and frantic.
"Stand down, Ser Bran," Rylock responded, very gently, "It is not yet time to fight. It is time to pray."
Bran didn't seem to hear. Suddenly Wynne stood up, just a row behind. Pushed past the knot of Templars and mages and laid a hand on Bran's shoulder. Anders caught only snatches: "Need...stay...strong...help..." It seemed to get through. Rylock said not a word - just threw Wynne a look of gratitude.
Someone else was crying. Anders could hear the gulps and the snuffles. He looked around - it was Carroll. His face was hidden, but his shoulders were shaking. Beside him, Cullen. Glassy-eyed. Grey as offal. Ines was weeping too, her head on Sweeney's shoulder. It was incredible to Anders that any mage should cry over Knight Commander Greagoir - but he supposed the old bastard had been kinder than most. Karl, who had come from the Gallows in Kirkwall, had told him Knight Commander Meredith didn't even let the mages form relationships. Ines and Sweeney had shared a chamber ever since passing their Harrowings. Strangely, he and Karl had been the only other two who had found a sense of family together. Apprentices made the rounds on a regular basis, as casually as scratching an inch - it was generally accepted that everybody would have been with everybody by the time they were Harrowed.
After the Harrowings, they changed. Enchanters and Senior Enchanters schemed and wrangled, studied and formed meaningless Fraternities. They gathered cliques and worked their way up through serving whichever faction was in the ascendant. Anders and Karl had speculated over this: whether the power mages possessed made them like tigers - lone predators who, when bunched together in a zoo, fought each other. Or whether it was because no-one expected anything better. From their earliest days, they were taught nothing beyond spells and following rules. They didn't cook, do their own laundry; were treated as potentially dangerous creatures without morals, loyalty, nationality or family. Anders wasn't sure what had made him and Karl different: unless it was that both had known a life outside the Circle. Karl had been from a farming family in the Free Marches. Anders' mother had been an Elven servant at Denerim palace. Both had tried desperately to keep their sons. With Karl there, Anders' many escape attempts had been half-hearted: he had yearned for freedom, but their relationship had pulled him back like golden chains. Now the chains were broken. Having no sense of family with any of the others, fighting for them seemed as stupid as a prisoner fighting for his jail, knowing the bars would slam shut as soon as he was no longer needed.
"Comrades in arms," Rylock's voice - commanding attention, "these are days of tribulation for us all. But despite our trials, we must not surrender. You may say that such terrible creatures as darkspawn are proof that the Maker has abandoned us. Well, I say the Maker allowed the darkspawn to be created to test the faithful. I ask you to consider the words of Divine Renata the First: "Andraste's victory was not dependant on a large army; her bravery was the Maker's gift."
Ha! Divine Renata struck the contribution of Shartan from the records. She would say that, wouldn't she?
"I call on Sister Leliana to lead us in our devotions. Praise be to the Maker for all His mercies."
All what mercies?! Have I missed something here? I thought we were talking about a disaster...
Rylock bowed her head. Anders didn't pay attention to what Leliana said, he simply appreciated the view. Gorgeous - strong - hair falling like red rain down her back. The heavy smudges under her eyes only made them seem darker, more alluring. After the prayer, he was surprised when Rylock consecrated the remaining vials of the Templars' lyrium in full view of the mages - normally they never got to see this, no doubt because some mage would point out that a few words didn't change the fact that the mage and Templar mixtures were the same. He was even more surprised when Rylock had Sergeant Rocald and Cullen help her pass the stuff round to mages and Templars together.
Nothing like lyrium to get the old blood flowing. Puts the spark back in your spirits. The lift back in your life. Anders muffled laughter in his sleeve at the look on Harith's face. He didn't speak - wasn't allowed to - but his expression said it all: mages before him?! By the time it came round to him, would he be left with the dregs? And - yes! Here it comes. A hungry look from Harith as he eyed Anders' potion. Not on your life, garbage-guts! Time to bolt it down, just in case he decides to exert some force...
Sweet.
The doors were wrenched open. Teyrn Loghain led the way, flanked by a young nobleman who looked the spitting image, Warden Alistair, Teyrn Fergus, the Elven supply-master, and two other nobles whom Anders did not know. One looked like a younger, blonder version of Fergus; the other an older man whose sandy beard was speckled with grey. "Is everyone here?" the Teyrn barked, "Good. Then we can begin." He parted the crowd like Andraste parting the Tevinter straights - except that Loghain had to get in there and do it with his elbows. Straight down the middle, with the others trailing in his wake. The bodies surged together behind him.
Loghain addressed them, and Anders didn't like the coiled tension in his muscles; the way his iron-clad boot tapped the stone.
"Rylock. We'll start with your assessment."
Rylock cleared her throat: "General: the breach in the southern wall has doubled in size within a few hours. The ogres are relentless. My Templars are stretched to the limit holding the Western Gate. The Hurlock General will keep using his filthy magic until we choke. The remaining darkspawn attack through Lothering Forest. We won't be able to keep them out for longer than a night."
A babble of protesting voices echoed round and round the chamber the way lake Calenhad battered the Tower during a storm.
Loghain raised a hand. Amazing what an effect he can have. The noise ebbed. The silence that fell was so heavy it seemed to crush air from Anders' lungs.
"I had reached practically the same conclusion myself. Wynne: do you have the casualty figures?"
Wynne blinked. She looked a hundred years old. "Five-hundred and twenty-three dead; one thousand and forty-five wounded."
"Maker preserve us," breathed the sandy-haired lord.
Rylock made the sign of Andraste.
"Then what are we going to do?" Irving wheezed.
Anders looked to Loghain: standing there like some kind of long-nosed, hawk-faced statue. "I believe there's only one thing we can do," he said quietly, "I believe..."
"...that we should charge from the main gates and give our lives to the Maker as Andraste gave her life for us!" Cullen: white face gleaming with sweat and devotion. Hasn't been quite right since Uldred.
"That's insane! That's no more than suicide!" The shrill, frantic voice of Harith.
Cullen slowly shook his head. "Not suicide, Knight Commander. Martyrdom." Anders could see the notion really appealed to him. He could equally see that it didn't appeal to Harith. "Martyrdom!" he screeched, practically climbing the walls. (No-one was going to make a martyr out of him!)
Suddenly aware that all eyes were on him, Harith pulled himself together, took a deep breath, and wiped the palms of his hands on his purple sash. "Certainly it would be martyrdom," he announced gravely, "But it would also be martyrdom for the people of Denerim. Without us, there will be no-one to stand between the horde and the capital. I cannot condone such an impious action. Is it right to think only of our own souls?"
No, it's not. It's not right at all. Let's be sensible. Let's live to fight another day.
"I agree with Knight Commander Harith," Rylock said slowly, "We cannot leave Denerim to the mercy of the horde." She turned to her fellow Templar and said, "Your concern for the capital's citizens does you credit." There was nothing to suggest her words should not be taken at face value - expect for a certain gleam in the dark eyes; the flat, cool stare of a hunting hawk. "If we meet the horde in the open, that will happen. Likewise if we attempt to retreat. We must hold Ostagar for as long as we can."
"Indeed," Loghain said - glaring at both Cullen and Harith like an eagle watches mice. "Cyrion: what are your figures?"
The grey-haired, flour-speckled Elven man looked up slowly. His face was gaunt; gnarled skin hanging loose from grey cheeks. "There are supplies for a few days more."
Rylock turned to Loghain with a dark and bitter glare. "There are the horses."
"Thank you, Knight Commander. I've ordered all remaining barriers put at the western gate. You and your people should stay behind them, firing at range with arrows and magic. Warden Alistair," he turned to the younger man with a feral grin, "How do you feel about taking out the ogres?"
Alistair's lips twitched in a hard-bitten grin. "I've certainly had the practice."
"Good. You're with me, then. Now: Lord Howe intends to take a small group and break out through Lothering Forest. We need a volunteer - a mage."
Anders' brain worked quickly, weighing odds. He was startled to realise he didn't care. The chance for freedom was worth any price. He stepped forward.
"You're in."
Rylock stepped forward too - face like a thundercloud. "Absolutely not! That mage is a flight risk. He'll get off a paralysis spell, leave you to the horde, and be on his way out of Ferelden. I refuse!"
Anders met the furious glare with a louche smirk. "Flatterer."
To his amazement, the young nobleman said: "If this mage has experience of fleeing the Circle, so much the better. He'll have some knowledge of stealth."
"And of paralysing or stunning you as soon as you let your guard down!"
Anders could not read the thoughts behind the silver eyes. They were pale, cool, boiling with some secret amusement. "Knight Commander," he said, with grave courtesy, "I have no intention of letting my guard down. You have the word of a Howe that, if you do not find this mage safely locked up in Denerim Chantry when you return, it will be because the Maker has taken him."
Strangling with outrage, Rylock's jaw worked several times before she managed a response. "If...if you feel it is best." The words stuck to her tongue as though they had claws but she forced them out.
Anders couldn't hold back the big, smug smile that all but wrapped itself around his face.
"You find this amusing, mage?" she said tightly, "I'd be interested to see how far a sense of humour gets you against the darkspawn. Because I've yet to see the creatures die laughing."
What is it about me? Can somebody please explain? What is it about me that instantly makes me the target of every iron-spined, bladder-brained, po-faced, arrogant, soulless, purple-skirted meathead in the entire Chantry?
Rylock carefully refused to look as Nathaniel Howe, the Warden's Elven assassin, and the mage left the Templar Tower. Watching Anders gloat might make her do something foolish. As Loghain organised the archers, Voldrik's crew, and Bannorn against the assault on the southern gates, she turned to her own motley group of Templars and mages. She had been trained to organise Templars, and knew the capabilities of her men and Greagoir's. She had not been trained to lead mages - or even consider them allies - and aside from Wynne knew absolutely nothing about what they could or couldn't accomplish. Mentally, she ran through every spell she'd seen used on her or her comrades over the past twenty years: Blizzard, Mind Blast, Paralysis, Inferno, Crushing Prison, Stinging Swarm, Stonefist, Tempest, various glyphs, Miasma, Death Magic, Walking Bomb, Curse of Mortality, Horror. She wouldn't allow herself to consider Blood Magic. She wouldn't have it used - not to save Ostagar; not even to save Denerim. As she'd experienced all those spells far too close for comfort, she didn't know what range was effective: could the mages function as archers, or catapults? Could they support each other - form a gestalt? She stared out at the sea of unknown faces and realised she'd better learn names too, and quickly. Shouting out "mage" or "robe" - all that was needed under normal circumstances - would get her too many responses. Most of them, she wouldn't like.
She began by asking: "Who is skilled in healing magic?"
Other than Wynne, two newly Harrowed mages stepped forward. One had red hair; one was dark and plain, like her.
"Petra and Keili are the best we have," Wynne confirmed.
The young mage named Keili was staring at her with an expression Rylock couldn't easily read. No - not at her - at the sword of mercy strapped by her left hip. Her dark eyes held disappointment; yearning.
"Why didn't you enact the Right? Then I would be free of my curse, by the Maker's side. Now we must suffer this."
It came to Rylock with a sudden jolt that, if not for the arguments of Rilian and Alistair and the orders of Greagoir, she would have seen all these faces die on the point of her sword.
"That's a - strange opinion for a mage to have."
"I was a Chantry Child in Amaranthine when my curse manifested. I must have done something wicked to be afflicted with something so terrible."
"I was a Chantry Child, too," Rylock said - surprising herself. "My parents were mages; as I suspect were yours. If there was sin, it was not ours. It is just an accident that you are not me, or I am not you."
As a child, Rylock had always known her chances of manifesting magic were higher than average. Equally, she had always known what she would choose. If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off. To serve the Maker as a Tranquil was, to her, no less worthy than serving him as a Templar or Chantry sister: one could only choose to make the best of what one was given. What she was lay in her choices, lay between her and the Maker; the capacity to feel emotion had nothing to do with it. She was the captain of her own ship; whether the waters of emotion were choppy or calm she would sail it to the Maker's shore. The Tranquil had seemed, if anything, to be full of brilliant clarity - holy purpose not marred by human weakness: the only people on Thedas not condemned to see through a glass darkly.
But her conversations with Wynne had taught her something. That the Chant itself said: "Magic exists to serve man." Therefore it was not intrinsically evil - a curse only to those who misused it.
It suddenly occurred to her that her earlier speech had made no mention of the mages who had died tonight.
She said: "A person may serve the Maker as a mage just the same as they may serve Him as a Templar. I want the two of you to report to Wynne."
To Rylock's annoyance, two old mages at the back were ignoring her completely: their attention wholly focused on an intense conversation with each other. She said, pointedly: "If you have something of value to say, say it so we can hear."
The woman who looked about Wynne's age and the older, ascetic-looking man jerked their heads up, offended. They were looking at her extremely strangely - as though on the verge of laughter. Or tears.
"I don't care if you hear, young woman," the old man snapped, "What would surprise me would be if you understood."
Carroll exploded into soggy snickers that he tried to muffle on his sash. Rylock counted to ten, slowly. She heard Commander Harith mutter: "Senile old menace" and Carroll reply, "Give the geezer a break - he's, like, a hundred. We Templars will all be senile at half his age!"
And if that isn't enough to ruin anyone's day.
Rylock uttered a quiet hiss like steam from a kettle and asked calmly: "Who is skilled in primal magic?"
A young, copper-haired man stepped forward. His hazel eyes were serene. He wore the sun-brand on his forehead. With the mild, disinterested air of pure observation, he announced: "I was a skilled elementalist before I was made Tranquil - for speaking against Knight Commander Greagoir. Now, it seems unfortunate he did not follow the Qun: where it is the tongues that are leashed, and not the magic."
Maker's breath! What sort of a Circle is it where even the Tranquil give me sarcasm?
Briskly, she said: "Are you skilled with herbs or potions? If so, you could..."
"I am skilled at nothing beyond crafting magical armour," he said, and raised a hammer. "It makes the arms very strong. Strong enough to cut through darkspawn defences."
Rylock stared - then shook her head, quickly. "You are not trained. As a Tranquil, we Templars are responsible for your safety."
"Some would say I have no life to lose. That my soul passed on the day I was forced to the Rite. The Chant itself says the Maker intended us to return to the Fade each night in dreams - that we might always remember Him. I neither sleep, dream, nor love. I am like an earthworm shown a sunset that has no place to store the memory. What does that say of me?"
What does it say of us? The thought scratched at Rylock's brain like a cat sharpening its claws. If he is right, then Tranquillity is blasphemy.
She was unutterably relieved when Harith said: "Actually - I have an idea: something he could do." Tactics and strategy she could handle. Decisions, like scissors snipping away alternatives, reduced the world to a series of absolutes.
"Speak."
"Someone could bring Voldrik's water-pump to the western side of the battlements."
Rylock blinked, nonplussed. "We need it to put out fires. What good will it do us to bathe the darkspawn?"
"Might help with the smell," Carroll suggested brightly.
Harith snorted derisively. "We could wet them down, then have one of the Primals cast Chain Lightning. The water will act as a superconductor."
Rylock gaped a moment, like a landed fish. Harith was brilliant. What a pity he normally drowned his talent in excessive lyrium.
"Make it so."
Leliana caught up with the grim Knight Commander as soon as she had finished organising her Templars and mages.
"Yes?" The word was curt, short - to Rylock there was no such thing as conversation for its own sake. Her mind seemed to still be on something else: the usual hard focus of her eyes was struggling. Thinking was going on - beyond the need to give orders, or obey them.
"If there is time," Leliana said, suddenly shy, "I could take last confessions. I know I am not qualified to do so - but there is no other Chantry sister here."
"I don't see as that should be a problem for you," Rylock said briskly, "You have done more than enough unofficial preaching."
Leliana blinked in surprise. She could not fail to miss the rebuke - Rylock was never particularly subtle - and wondered what she could have possibly done to have earned this woman's dislike.
"You're very...blunt. And you don't approve of me. Why?"
In another moment, Rylock would have kept her thoughts behind her usual wall of impenetrable silence. Stress and exhaustion made her blurt out:
"You have been telling everyone who'll listen of your vision - of your own version of the faith - yet you have made no commitment to anything. You are not confirmed - you travelled with Rilian but did not choose to join the Wardens - you abandoned Ser Bryant and all his men in Lothering. I resent this."
Pain ripped a gasp out of Leliana. "That...that's not what happened!" She saw herself in Rylock's eyes: a raconteur who gathered bits and pieces of other lives here and there - the Chantry, the Wardens - and then moved on, cannibalising parts of them for songs and stories.
Was it not true? Her vision had been so real - the rose had been real - but had not the Guardian of the Ashes said: "You enjoyed the attention your beliefs gave you"? Was that all there was? Had she not been running ever since Marjolaine had betrayed her? The cruel laughter of Harwen Raleigh rattled at her in the shrieks of the darkspawn - candles guttered in their brackets above her head, reminiscent of the smirks and whispers of his followers. A sword clanged - she heard the slam of the dungeon door that had closed her away from light and life and love. She had fled Marjolaine to take refuge in Lothering - had fled Lothering to take refuge with Rilian - had not stayed with Rilian at the end...
She had never told Rilian about Marjolaine. Not even when Rilian, in her innocence, had described her as the woman who had trained her mother. Leliana had never admitted she had worked with Adaia - that the training had been more than music. She had told herself it was kinder: Rilian believed her mother a victim wrongly accused of theft - better to let her believe that than explain the theft had been of something worse than coin. Papers. Detailed plans of Maric's intended voyage. Neither Rilian nor Leliana had seen Marjolaine in years - there had been no reason to warn her. Still, she knew she had been ashamed to admit that she and Adaia had escaped Harwen Raleigh together - running until they could run no more - that she had kept on running even as the guards had cornered Adaia. Run until she had found Dorothea and the Chantry. She thought of how she'd kept the truth from her closest friend, and felt dirty.
"You are right: I have made no commitment. But today I stop running. If there was a Mother here to take my vows to the Chantry, I would give them."
Rylock looked abashed, embarrassed. "I should not have cast stones: Andraste herself warned against doing so. It was unworthy."
"It's forgotten. We're both wound as tight as my bowstring. I want you to know, though, that I believe in my vision. The Maker has not abandoned us. His love has flown into every flower grown; He is the keeper of the garden. People want to think he does not interfere in the physical realm, so that when He does return they will feel special; chosen. But I have seen him in the rose of Lothering - in the colours of air and rain - in the people around me. I believe. Ferelden will not fall to the horde."
Rylock said, gently, "Believing that the Maker does not influence the physical world is not the same as believing He has abandoned us. He influences the world through those of us who follow Him. Whether we win or lose today does not make him any less than the goodly god He is. What kind of faith fights for reward - either here, or in the afterlife? We fight because it is right - because He is all that is good. What matters is Him, Himself - that is all I have ever wanted."
Leliana smiled, ashamed of her own judgements - though she had not voiced them. She had cast people like Rylock and the Chantry Mothers who had argued against her as having a dry, dead sort of faith. Instead, Rylock's more orthodox faith was as deep and visceral as her own - all the more beautiful because it came with no conditions; no expectations of victory or even comfort. Rylock's sombre face and quiet eyes seemed austerely bright...Leliana saw the Maker in her as she had seen Him in her companions: in Rilian, in Wynne and Alistair, even in big bad Sten, whose death was a raw ache in her heart. She smiled at the thought that Sten and Rylock were really quite similar people - and smiled even wider when she thought of the tongue-lashing they would have given her if she had shared that observation. They were starlight - they were golden. What a shame they didn't know. Or was it? Perhaps true beauty was a thing unrecognised by the conscious self: a thing of being rather than seeing.
Appreciation of people and nature was Leliana's personal form of prayer. It was Elven philosophy...she remembered vividly the day she had told Rilian about Elven servants in Orlais and Rilian had snapped at her, hurt because she had seen the words as patronising and demeaning. Haven't you understood anything! Leliana had cried, My mother was Elven - and when my Elven grandmother taught me the mourning song it was to give me a piece of the other side of my heritage!
To Fereldens Leliana was Orlesian - to Orlesians she was a poor relation afflicted by the odours of wet mabari and Ferelden mud - to Elves she was shemlen - to humans she was an itinerant bard and part-time Sister. But Leliana knew who she was - and what she would become.
Should she die today, her soul would become part of the grass and flowers - her spirit would shine in the rain, forever transparent to the stars. She would see the world anew in each rising of its sun - she would live forever.
A thunderous crash suddenly shook the foundations of the Tower. The emissary at the western gates. As Rylock turned to reinforce them Leliana suddenly grabbed her hand. The desperate situation had crystallised something for her: terrible knowledge and instantaneous decision.
"Rylock - if you're going to hold that thing off you need to know: the taint cloud corrodes steel. I saw it in the Deep Roads. Here: take my sword."
She unbuckled the Dragonbone blade she and Rilian had found in the Deep Roads and held it out, hilt first. Rilian had been entranced by Topsider's Honor: by its legend and meaning. But the lighter Greensteel had been the right weight for her. So she had given Leliana the blade once worn by an Elven hero, in honour of their shared heritage.
"What about you?"
Leliana smiled and tapped the gleaming, walnut-brown arc of Farsong. "Today, we shall write our own legend."
Atop the southern battlements, Shianni worked The Dark Moon with deadly precision. Valendrian had told her it was a bow used by Shartan himself, during his rebellion against Tevinter. Staring down at the sea of grunting, straining men and darkspawn at the penetration below, she smiled: a hard curl of her lip. How fitting to put one right through the back of the slaver bastard! Not that she would be so stupid. Loghain seemed to be all that was holding the spawn back. He was destruction incarnate. His heavy Ferelden sword whipped like a wand. Where it struck, darkspawn bones broke - blades shattered - helms caved in. The spike on his shield punched open vicious wounds; its razor edge slashed throats as he jerked it upward. He reaped a fearsome harvest. Shianni thought to herself that serving as a human meatshield was the best use of shems she'd ever seen.
Beside her, Cale loosed with feral speed. At intervals among the long line of archers, Merrill, Velanna and Lanaya outdid even Dworkin for destruction, hurling flame, ice and nature spells into the horde in a fire-shower of ruin.
She dredged up the last of her own energy to engage a Hurlock warrior who had managed to climb to the battlements. Gasping for breath, almost sobbing, Shianni drew her DarMissan and thrust. The creature answered with a two-handed descending slash that hammered the point toward the stone. In the instant when both weapons were grounded, Shianni dropped to her haunches and drove the crown of her helmeted head directly into its crotch. It doubled the thing over. Measuring, she drew back the Elven sword and opened its throat. Light, quick steps avoided the gush of black blood. She slumped against the far wall and closed her eyes.
Next moment Leliana was there, looking afraid. "Are you alright?"
"Never better. We'll get him in the next round."
"What?"
"Nothing. How are the men?"
"Many injured. Many dead. There's a fire in the courtyard."
"I'll get men on Voldrik's pumps."
Shianni managed a long pull on her waterbag as she sprinted for the nearest. Rylock had requisitioned one for the western gate - the others were here. Checking the hoses, calling for help, she had them working quickly. Varel Baern of the Irregulars took over the pump handle, allowing her to return to the fight. She looked back, once. The fires seemed to be under control. Most importantly, the flames had not touched the area where Dworkin's Blackpowder was stored. She rejoined Leliana.
Staring at her thoughtfully, Shianni said: "Rilian told me you have an Elven mother?"
"Had," Leliana said softly, "She died when I was six. She was a maid to an Orlesian chevalier and his wife, Lady Celene. They lived in Denerim. A few years after the occupation ended, they returned to Orlais. Her name was Delena."
Shianni felt her face crease into a small, wry smile. Succinctly, she said: "We're cousins."
"Oh yes - I know Elves and Humans are very closely related..."
"No - I mean you're actually my cousin. And Ril's. Cyrion had a brother and sister. His brother was my father. His sister was Delena. When she left for Orlais, she left behind her Elven husband's child, Soris. Better to continue to send money for him than lose employment. Cyrion took Soris in - and me as well, after my parents died of marshfever. Delena was the one who introduced Adaia to Cyrion."
Leliana was laughing softly. She had a smile like sun on flowers. An oddly familiar smile. She looked searchingly into Shianni's eyes. "I see her in you," she said at last.
Shianni only shook her head in amazement. How bizarre to think that she had at least one thing in common with this too-tall, too-beautiful shem woman! Both had seen Rilian in the other.
During her long convalescence - the streets outside Cyrion's house vibrating with sideways glances and prurient whispers - Shianni had hated herself for thinking that things had happened the wrong way round. Because Rilian lived so much in her head. Imagination and creativity would have transmuted the shame - Nelaros, a dreamer too, would have loved her still. What had happened: Nelaros' death - the murder of Vaughan - the dark dirge of the Song - had seeped into thought like ink into water. Rilian was all thought: whatever darkened those darkened her - far more than any physical violation could have done. Shianni, by contrast, could have dealt very well with killing Vaughan - with the dark Call - simply by being pragmatic enough to push them from her mind. But she had prided herself on physical purity, industriousness, cleanliness - the traditional virtues of Alienage women that would have led, in time, to a virginal wedding and fecund marriage. It was only when she had found the Dalish - found Cale - that she had learned to value herself for courage, skill, commitment. She glanced over at the lithe-dark-haired form and smiled wistfully. Even so, she would still have given anything to change places - protect Ril from what awaited in the Deeps.
"If we make it out of this," she said, even as she sent an arrow streaming downwards to take a Hurlock in the chest, "You must read me Ril's diary..."
Nathaniel did not need Rylock's warning to keep both Zevran and Anders safely in front of him. Such caution was second nature. At the northern wall's small, hidden exit he ordered the illuminating torches put out. The murky orange haze flared and guttered out, dropping a silver-and-black blanket of snow and darkness over them. Nathaniel blinked quickly. The torch had destroyed his night vision; he took a few moments to grow accustomed. He twisted about, using his side vision to get a clearer picture, reading the world like a spider, through the tingling of its web. The forest was alive with shadows - the howls of darkspawn turned it to a living entity; a writhing, dark-crawling monster who sought to absorb them, swallow them. The dark columns of trees and the flitting shadows created a shifting ambiguity. He saw, and did not - could not - see. Shadows and darkspawn created a conspiracy of night and movement that revealed only peril. The grunting, panting exertion of the spawn came to him as the straining of beasts. He blended his body with the night - not so much a conscious movement as a draining of the self. He bled out, became part of the night. With each noiseless step, he seemed to grow beyond himself, became spirit-like. Zevran did the same: one minute he was there - lithe form and handsome face in front of Nathaniel - the next he wasn't. The mage did something similar. Nathaniel felt a curious whisper, like the touch of ice on his skin, as the Veil fluttered aside. Anders was now a translucent ghost - existing only partly in this world.
Both Nathaniel and Zevran carried bows and quivers of arrows; Anders his staff. All three were further equipped with as many sacks of Dworkin's Blackpowder as they could carry. Ordinarily, the fire would not spread within a snow-dampened forest - Anders' spells should fix that. They came upon three darkspawn in a clearing. Zevran's exhalation was no more than the hiss of a mosquito. It underscored Nathaniel's own dark-shrouded sigh. Silently, Nathaniel nocked an arrow - sighted. Zevran mirrored him. Nodding at each other, they loosed together. On Nathaniel's other side, Anders had paralysed the third. A second spell, a silent draining of life, was bleeding out its life-force even as it sat, mute and limbless, unable to move. Nathaniel's lips drew thin, like steel bending. No - he would definitely not take his eyes off the mage.
Zevran busied himself: packing Blackpowder jars into the hollows of trees - into the darkspawn bodies. He lit the fuses with flint and tinder. As soon as it was done, the three men ran on - silent, like wraiths in the night.
Darkspawn shrieked and writhed around them. Nathaniel cursed silently. The creatures had not seen them - but as soon as the wicks burned out the resulting explosion would illuminate everything, exposing the three running men cruelly. He could see the realisation echoed in the other ghostly-pale faces.
Anders saved them. Under his breath, the young mage began casting: a haste spell that gave wings to their speed, caused boots to fly through the terrain. Nathaniel wanted to laugh. It was exhilarating! They ran on, stopping to light more fuses - here...here...there... Soon, the silver glint of the river beyond the forest showed like a sickle blade between the bars of tall trees.
Anders turned - stopped to cast again. Nathaniel waited carefully until he was lost in the magic. The mage's face was alive, exhilarated - aware of nothing beyond the white, crackling energy at his fingertips. Silently Nathaniel reached into a fold of his cloak. Of all the myriad poisons he carried, he searched only for a small glass syringe. Then whipped it towards the mage with the speed of a striking snake. When he withdrew it, a single bead of blood glittered on the tip. Nathaniel carefully placed the blood in a tiny vial containing lyrium. Zevran hadn't missed it - but he was too sensible to say anything. In another moment Anders' spell had blossomed to fruition, enshrouding all three of them in a protective mantle of living rock. It embraced Nathaniel like a lover, sparing him the necessity of protecting himself. Even as the fuses exploded, one by one, sending fireworks up into the inky bowl of sky, the mass of darkspawn oozed from the trees, surrounding them.
The Rock Armour also protected skin from fire, Nathaniel discovered. He closed his eyes as Anders began his final spell: inferno. It budded and bloomed: touched all the Blackpowder jars in turn, like flint into kindling.
The Blackpowder exploded. The effect on the forest was thunderous. Rather than one massive blast, it seemed to build, rising to a terrible spectacular crescendo of sound and light. Blue-violet flame balled, billowed to red, leapt into the night. Jars rocketed across the trees, exploding in a glory of fire and light. The flames leapt through the darkness - touching the darkspawn army with death. Agonised screams and howls rose from deep within, as if the very forest was alive and groaning In the midst of it all, the towering trees creaked - groaned - and crashed to earth. The sky itself turned to red: a vast mushroom cloud that began as a single bright point and then exploded outward like a enormous red disc.
Anders, Nathaniel and Zevran were long gone by then, the Haste giving them inhuman speed as they reached the open ground and the liquid silver of the cooling river.
Nathaniel saw Zevran breathing heavily: delighted. "I haven't had such fun in years!" he breathed, in that musical Antivan accent. "We, my friends, are ridiculously awesome!"
Nathaniel startled himself by bursting into spontaneous laughter - something the controlled young man did not often allow himself to do. Anders too was flushed, his face - Cailan's face, Nathaniel noted with surprise - exhilarated.
"And now what, fearless leader?" they asked, almost in the same voice.
"Now Zevran and I will go on to South Reach - pick up horses, then ride to Denerim to warn them."
A sulky expression crossed Anders' face. "And me? Mages should walk, it that it?"
"No," said Nathaniel, rather amused by the childish petulance. He couldn't believe Rylock had seen this man as a serious threat! Nathaniel's own father had made dangerous apostates look like milk-fat kittens. If Cailan had been a child playing at war, this bastard of Maric's was a child playing at being a rebel. "I simply thought that, if you were to come with us to South Reach, the Arling will report to Rylock that you survived the battle."
Anders' eyes lit up. "You'd let me go? That's...rather marvellous of you!"
A smile flickered across Nathaniel's face: a fell smile, pale and cold. "When I warn Grand Cleric Leanna of the possibility of a darkspawn attack, she'll likely order the mage's phylacteries moved north to Amaranthine - while nearly all its Templars will be called south. Something to consider. You see, I've always been sympathetic to the mage resistance. In Kirkwall, I worked closely with a woman named Lianne, who shelters apostates."
As Anders left - unable to believe his luck - Zevran turned quizzically to the son of his former employer. "Cruel like your father. You give him his freedom - but take a blood sample? To send the Chantry hounds on his trail after all?"
"Oh no. The Templars are not the only ones who know how to track using phylacteries. So long as he lives, Anders will never be out of sight of me or my agents. Ever. He's far too useful to turn in."
Zevran was smiling. It was a smile of recognition. He saw in Nathaniel a consummate ruthlessness, and his inner being swarmed to it as to a flame.
Nathaniel knew the survival of both Fergus and Channon meant he could never gain the North. He'd be lucky to keep Amaranthine. Queen Anora would probably let him hold the Arling: Nathaniel had proven himself a hero today and having the entire North under control of the Couslands was too dangerous - better that they balance each other. That wasn't enough to satisfy him. Besides, Kirkwall had been his home for sixteen years. He had built a network of allies, spies and informants he couldn't hope to equal in Ferelden. He had watched Perin Threnhold's attempts to declare independence squashed by tyranny - he had watched as the man he was squired to was humiliated in a thousand petty ways. The Viscount's son, Seamus, was a good man - a friend - but he was weak. He had no goals. Kirkwall needed a stronger ruler - once Anders helped him overthrow the existing one. Both he and the mage had kept samples of Dworkin's version of Gaatlok. Not that he would stop there. Nathaniel was a true Ferelden patriot - like his father. Commanding both Amaranthine and Kirkwall would mean he owned the straights between - that would grant him unparalleled influence over shipping. He would have wealth, power - but what mattered more was that Ferelden and Kirkwall together could do what one alone could not. Throw off the chains that bound them - support themselves against Orlais and declare true independence from the Chantry.
Zevran was eyeing him a trifle speculatively. "You realise I was the assassin hired by your father to kill the Wardens."
"Yes - so I have noticed."
"I just wanted to report that I failed in my mission."
"You don't say."
"I'm terribly broken up about it." The gleaming amber eyes told a different story.
"The Wardens are not my enemy." No - not even the one he suspected of being his father's murderer. He had wanted to kill the Elven woman at first - lay a trap for her. But the stories he had heard had made him realize that his father in later life had become as much a disgrace to the Howe name as Thomas. In his youth, Rendon Howe had been there while the chevaliers took the Arling; been tortured and imprisoned. During that time, he had suffered like the damned. It had made him what he was: quick to anger, violent, sadistic. But Nathaniel would always remember that he had also been a patriot: a hero at White River. Better he died before people forgot that.
"However, if you want to make up for your transgressions, you may work for me."
"As an assassin?"
"Among other things. The exact terms of our contract can be left - open."
The laughing eyes regarded him. "That's quite an offer - especially from another man. That is, if we are talking about the same thing?"
"I suspect we are." Nathaniel despised his father and Thomas for having allowed pleasure to distract them from business. But he saw no harm in mixing the two now and then. Making love with Zevran would be like making love with a mirror.
Zevran moved lightly and gracefully to one knee. "I am your man, without reservation..."
Rylock stood at the central point of the defence of the western gate. On either side, streams of darkspawn charged from left and right. All avoided the monolith in their centre; parted around the Hurlock General like Andraste had parted the Tevinter straights. The General was a fearsome, misshapen ferocity. It stood at the centre of a silver-white mesh of glyphs. The dark spaces between were alive with crawling, living taint. A spectral shield glistened all around like an enormous sphere. The creature seemed to exert a kind of gravity, as if it were drawing all light, all sound, toward itself. Rylock felt as if she were looking down the throat of death. Her own attention was solely fixed on the General; she cast one Cleanse after another, countering each magical attack the creature threw at her comrades.
To her left, First Enchanter Irving flanked a unit of Templars with the fierce determination of a man past his limits. Their front rank were burdened with enormous spears, fully twenty-feet long, normally used only to break up cavalry charges. They moved with almost comic deliberation. When they came within fifty feet of the darkspawn mass, they knelt down - planted the butts of the spears within the hard-packed earth. They shone with blue light so fierce it was like lyrium itself. The darkspawn charged, war-howling. All those touched by the lightning-charged spears died. After the first charge, the power was spent. Irving moved them out of the way, covering the retreat with magical fire, then used the temporary lull to charge the next rank.
To her right, Harith's unit advanced slowly and methodically. He was backed by Rocald. Cullen and Carroll marched with them. Far behind, Thomas Amell was positioned on the battlewalk, spraying the water-pump to its furthest reach.
"Makes no difference to the smell," she heard Carroll mutter in disappointment. As soon as the spawn were wet down, Sweeney cast Chain Lightning. Rylock held her breath; could only hope he'd judged the distance correctly. At once, sputtering sparks of blue fire leapt between the spawn like the blue fins of gathered sharks. The crackle built and built. The next thing Rylock knew, the vista was aflame around her. Living air sizzled and writhed, white-hot. Darkspawn squealed, agonized; the hot, foul stench of burning scorched her nostrils. Ines added to the carnage by casting a primal spell that created a spectacular rainstorm. Together, water and electricity carried a massive charge. With darkspawn steel as lightning rods, nature combined all those elements to create the storm of the century. Screams all around her were grains of sand thrown against rock-hard focus. Even now, the General's Shield protected it. Every time she used her Cleanse to dissipate it, another rose to take its place. Around the General, darkspawn died in thousands.
Nonetheless, the mages were restricted to casting towards the far end of the field. Any closer and they would kill their own allies. They couldn't stop the masses of darkspawn already between the inner and outer walls. Harith moved his men towards their left flank. The Templars wheeled and struck in unison, precise as the movement of constellations. Thrust, block, recover...it was how they took on maleficarum far more powerful individually: by working together. But the darkspawn oozed around the bright rows like water around rock, creating gaps, breaking the unity into a maelstrom of smaller duels. Cullen and Carroll fought side by side. Notches and tears marked their armour. An enormous Hurlock brought a two-handed axe downward; Cullen took the blow on his shield, but the force drove him to his knees. Carroll tried to surge forward - but his excess lyrium usage and gawky eighteen-year-old frame made him clumsy as a puppy. The Hurlock swung its axe sideways to turn the blow. Then the creature dealt him a kick to the groin that nearly pitched him on his head.
Carroll hit the ground and doubled over, retching. At once, Rocald was there - fighting for both of them. He spitted the creature on a sword of mercy. Unseen by Rocald, another darkspawn had come up behind him. While Carroll gaped in horror, helpless with pain, the darkspawn whirled its sword towards Rocald's head.
Without bothering to advertise his intent, Harith quickly darted behind the creature and skewered it.
"I'm dying," Carroll whimpered weakly, "Darkspawn unmanned me."
"Forget it," Rocald growled, "Won't change your life."
Rylock almost smiled at the sight of countless fallen darkspawn: her people - both Templars and mages - had done better than she'd dared hope. But at once she saw she had breathed out too soon. A black cloud billowed outward from where the General stood - its own personal Blightstorm. Utterly silent, the dark crept towards them, revealing itself only in the sudden agonized screams and rales of its victims. The creature's malign staff sent pools of shadow like the one that had killed Pir Surana out into the fray. Shrieks rose like the damned. Rylock swallowed bile. Neither Cleanse nor Smite had any effect on taint. Not only could she not defeat the creature with Templar powers - she could not even remove the wards to allow the mages to take it down. For every one she dispelled, the creature raised another. Rylock realised in despair that emissaries, like blood mages, cast from their veins. It would never run out of Mana - it would never stop.
"Get back" she screamed, "All of you - fall back!" She charged. She was the only one immune to taint - and she had Leliana's sword.
Keili and Petra were already in the fray, dragging wounded Templars to safety - to Wynne and the healing house.
Leliana was absolutely right about the corrosive effects of the cloud. Gaps appeared in her armour like moth-holes.
"Maker's balls!" Carroll wheezed, as Keili half-dragged, half-carried him to safety, "Does this mean you'll have to fight that thing in your smallclothes?"
Trust Carroll. Rylock supposed her state of undress would make no difference to how she fought and died - but, all the same, she was glad she was wearing tunic, trousers and gambeson underneath.
The cloud of taint did not burn Rylock's lungs, but it confused her sight like shadow cast on an uneven surface. The darkspawn's movements looked like the flitting and darting of a silhouette. Only its double-bladed staff caught the light, gleaming evilly as it struck fire from Rylock's Dragonbone blade.
The General was surrounded by a miasma that drained life - a kind of necromantic magic that drew Rylock's strength towards itself. Moment by moment, it seemed to grow stronger. The white eyes writhed in its face, gleaming like a beast's. The spear-staff moved like a live thing. It caught and countered every strike, as if to spare the creature the trouble of defending itself.
Rylock's hands were slick with moisture; the gambeson stuck to her skin. Topsider's Honor had gone dead in her grasp; her chest heaved with exertion. It was like moving through treacle. The miasma sapped the resilience from her legs, the quick tension from her wrists, the life from her blade.
A flurry of blows. Loud as forgeworks; bright with sparks.
There was no question about it: she was going to die. She couldn't face the prospect with quite the same approval Cullen had. She couldn't afford to be beaten - absolutely could not afford to fail. If she let herself fail here, the taint cloud would strangle the life from everyone it touched - the pools of liquid darkness would eat through flesh and bone. Loghain and Alistair - busy with the ogres - would be encircled. Ostagar would fall. She struck wildly - once, then again - sheer fury driving away weakness. A slicing pain along her left side brought her back to herself. Not mortal; she knew that with the precision of experience. Nonetheless, it hurt enough to restore her reason.
Not this way. She was never going to beat the General like this. She thought of Loghain's admonishments with a sour smile: Forget the fancy Orlesian flourishes. Remember that fighting isn't an art.
If Loghain thinks he could do better than this, let him try…
Grimly, Rylock fought to prolong her life, keep herself on her feet for just one more moment…then another…then another if she could do it.
I've fought Uldred…Blood Mages…Hybris…surely I can keep myself going one more moment at a time…
Maybe not. The pain in her side had become a fire that filled her lungs, so that she seemed to snatch each raw breath through a conflagration. Her legs had lost their spring; she had no more strength to do anything but shuffle her feet over the snow. The taint cloud was a greasy red-black film over her eyes. But her sword remained untarnished, and her gloves - the magic-resistant Dalish gloves Rilian had given her - gripped it firmly. She used the blade to anchor herself.
Somehow not stumbling, not clutching her torn side, Rylock disengaged - then chopped swiftly from the side. The spear-staff wove gleams and flashes of lyrium-blue light as if its steel were a mirror.
Alright, she couldn't beat the General this way. Actually, she couldn't beat the creature at all. But she had to prolong the struggle. Time was vital. So she needed some other way to fight. She had to start thinking like Loghain or Rilian.
She had to do something unconventional.
Then she had it. She began to smile.
"Harith!" she called - though she couldn't see him; for all she knew he was already dead. But he answered her, weakly. He was coughing like a hag, lungs dissolving in taint.
"Pull everybody back. Then order the catapult crew to fire on my position."
Rilian would be proud.
"Does it hurt there?"
"Ouch!"
"What about there?"
"Ow!"
"And if I do this? Does that hurt?"
"Yeow!"
Maker save me! I thought people were supposed to go to hospital to get treated, not be tortured to death!
Carroll felt the touch of Wynne's healing magic as a blue rush, cool and soothing.
"There. If you have any trouble I'd recommend a poultice. Just the usual. Hyssop and wormwood, wax and vinegar, a little comfrey - maybe a touch of marjoram."
"To drink?"
"Don't be a fool, young man. It's a fomentation. A dressing."
Wynne didn't wait for a reply - just moved off among those more seriously hurt, quick on her feet for an old lady. Whizz, whizz, whizz. The old temple was packed with injured and tainted men, its floor of rushes slimy with blood and vomit, mute piles of discarded armour, filthy bandages. Hot as a rage demon because the fire was always burning.
Carroll struggled back into his armour and at once Wynne pressed him into helping carry the incoming to their beds. The sight of men with what looked like black spiderwebs literally eating away their bodies made Carroll gasp and turn away. Wynne was giving them vials. Sometimes it worked - sometimes it didn't. When that happened she tried the blacker mixture that turned them into Wardens. Sometimes those died too. Carroll watched a Bannorn soldier choke to death, white eyes writhing in his face.
"Cheer up, lad," a grizzled old Arl who had lost his right arm at the elbow muttered, "After Drakon River we lost ten times this many."
Carroll sank down slowly, head in his hands.
"The darkspawn will feast on our living hearts! The children of evil are upon us! There is nowhere to run! This evil will cover us like a plague of locusts!"
Who…what…where? Carroll looked wildly around. A voice like fifty thousand Denerim merchants all screaming in unison. It came from a tiny old Chasind shaman who had been assisting Wynne. The Knight Commander didn't approve of a tribe that sheltered its mages from the Circle but she had grudgingly said nothing. A tiny old man the size of a grain sack, with a beard like drifting cobwebs, all waving hands and staring eyes.
"We have transgressed and shall be punished! Our end is near; our days are numbered!"
"Hey now, old boy, things aren't so bad," Carroll tried to reassure him - but his voice stood no chance against the mighty tide of sound.
Such a big noise to come out of such a little old man - it's uncanny. So what should I do? Shout him down? (Impossible). Bundle him out? (He doesn't look very tough but you can never tell with these mages. He might have the strength of Andraste's big brother).
And what's this? Oh dear. Support from the patients.
One of Carroll's own comrades, Ser Beric de Launcet, was sitting up. His skin was grey where the taint ravaged him, eyes febrile and lucent. "It's true! It's true what he says! We are all sinners and this is the Maker's punishment!"
Old Arl Wulf shot to his feet like a gigantic slab of solid gristle. His stump must be causing him agony, which made him frighteningly white. Taut as a bowstring. Left hand bunched in rage. Deeply offended. "Sins? What sins!" he roared. "You'd better shut your festering mouth, my friend, or I'll damn well shut it for you!" Despite his pain, he looked quite capable of carrying out his threat.
"Denerim is supposed to be the birthplace of Andraste and look at it! Look at it! It's a sink of vice! A pit full of corrupt lords who argue politics while Ferelden falls to the darkness!"
"Your own Knight Divine is more corrupt than all of them put together!"
"Well, of course he is," Carroll put in, "He was born in Orlais. But that's not our fault, you know."
Laughter from the Bannorn soldiers. Carroll suddenly remembered that Beric had been born in Orlais too, before his family moved to Kirkwall. Deeply devout, they had dedicated their son to the Templars to make up for his brother being born a mage.
"What did you say!"
"He said Orlesians are all hatched from the same dungheap." A loud vote of confidence from Arl Wulf, beard bristling with satisfaction.
Beric lurched to his feet.
Good job, Carroll. Nice work. Wonderful. If I don't do something quickly I'm going to get a kick up the backside…
"What on earth is going on!"
Wynne. Hands on hips, eyes gleaming with wrath, not very happy. Like a mother who had found her children piddling on her newly-washed linen.
The warrior's grimace slipped from Arl Wulf's features, leaving a baffled, embarrassed cast. Beric blushed with shame.
"This is disgraceful."
"He started it!" One of Arl Wulf's men, in support of his leader. "It's the Orlesian's fault!"
But Wynne was above national prejudice. "There is no excuse for your behavior. You came here to be healed, not to fight. You should support each other; make peace."
Will they or won't they? Yes, that's done it. Arl Wulf angrily thrust out his left hand and Beric reluctantly took it.
Carroll tugged at Wynne's cloak. "That's where the trouble started." He pointed toward the Chasind. Wynne nodded and moved to speak quietly to the old shaman.
"Muster your courage."
The old man looked startled, confused. His voice dropped to a normal register. "I saw the blackness swallow the marshes whole! Only those of us who joined Teyrn Fergus survived."
"And yet you are here - here where the fate of the world hinges." The passion in Wynne's face was wonderful and dire. As though she had no arthritis and no years, no weakness of any kind, hope flooded out of her like healing.
A young Chasind struggling against the effects of the Warden blood muttered weakly: "I wish you hadn't made us wash off our death paint. It's not right, that I should go to stand before the Maker with my face unpainted."
"You will not die today," Wynne snapped - ordered.
Death itself would be afraid of her.
In the shuffling, hovering dimness, Carroll helped Wynne as best he could. Toward the south, the air shuddered at the dark-rending crash of rock on stone. He felt its imminence in his bones, like a thunderstorm.
At Ostagar's southern gates, the Cousland brothers looked across the courtyard at the deep crescent knocked out of the stonework. They commanded a mixed force of Chasind and Highever fighters: Nathaniel's men, and those who had been part of Channon's rebellion. Many of these were lightly-armoured Elven servants turned archers: remnants of the Highever and Amaranthine Alienages. Destroying Caladrius' operation had begun as strategy: starve Howe of income and starve him of options. It had become something more.
How strange that these brave people - Chasind and Elves - have existed in our shadow for so long, overlooked.
Well, that must change. Ferelden was changing: the war forced it to. Channon and Fergus had discussed a plan to grant land in the North to both peoples. Queen Anora was shrewd - she would see the sense in it. The Dalish too - a group of rebels from Clan Ilrae had helped train their city brethren. The plan to deprive Howe of income had worked so well the Arl had been forced to relocate the slaver ring in Denerim. It was there the Arl had captured she who brought him to his doom. A thin smile curled Channon's lip. To be denied the chance to avenge himself personally was disappointing - but there was also something just about such an ignominious death. Like Nathaniel, he knew full well the killer had not been Loghain. The Clan Ilrae rebels had aided the Elves rescued by the Warden, brought them safely through Amaranthine and on to her camp by the Hafter River. Channon had spoken to many of them. He only wished he'd had the chance to work with Rilian. The Dark Wolf and The Red Fox.
Highever Castle - Soldier's Peak - Vigil's Keep: between them, they formed a stone wall to deny invasion by sea. That wall would soon be tested, Channon thought grimly. It was one thing to welcome chevaliers who came as wedding guests - Channon had agreed with Bryce's support of Cailan's marriage to Celene - something else to sit back and allow invasion. For the Empress to expect them to cower like mabaris when faced with her whip hand was bare insult. The rumours of Chantry support were worse still. Channon was a believing man - supported an international Chantry - but in return expected them to be above national politics. Mother Leanna turning a blind eye to Howe's atrocities - to the death of Mother Mallol! - so long as the tithes flooded in was even lower. Fury burned in him. A Revered Mother - now Grand Cleric of Ferelden - part of that. It was unacceptable. Wrong.
He sought his brother in the flame-lashed, shrieking night: held out the Highever blade, hilt first. "This is yours, I believe."
"No, little brother. You've earned it." Fergus' eyes went involuntarily to the spiderwork of scars that disappeared into Channon's mail.
"My scars cannot be an argument against birthright. Besides: I brought my own." He drew Starfang from its sheath. Moon-pale, the blade that was made of no metal - not even Dragonbone - glimmered like light hammered into steel. He thought of something the Highever smith, Nelaros, had once said: fire and hammer alone can't make good steel. The mind of the smith determines. Channon had discovered the Elven man was right. What makes trial memorable isn't survival: it's the use we make of it. Those of us who survived the massacre have had to make better steel of ourselves than most. Or break.
"Why, little brother: you've been holding out on me!" Fergus' eyes were wide in mingled wonder and irritation.
Channon smirked.
Above the ramparts, the sky was thick and black with taint that spread sluggishly from the west. Fortunately, the air was too still to allow much movement. Channon knew a moment of relief they weren't facing what the Templars were dealing with.
Relief ended quickly.
The darkspawn forces appeared to be dividing - parting into a new formation, with a space between them wide as a house.
"Does the Hurlock General think it can lure us out there?" Fergus muttered incredulously, "Does the monster think we're crazy enough to let them hit us from both flanks?"
"No," Channon said, very clear and calm, "They are making room."
"Room for…"
In the clear space between the horde, a monster appeared. An enormous armoured ogre. Huge eyes, insatiable and raging. Teeth dripping taint in a maw big enough to swallow horses. It gave a roar of hideous outrage, howling so fiercely the fortress itself rang. Then it lumbered forward at the head of its eight brethren. In spite of training and determination, experience and courage, the soldiers in the front lines broke into panic.
The ogres' hands reached down - grabbing victims, sweeping others left and right. Teeth were loud as detonations as they bit through steel and bone. Helpless to save themselves, the ranks of Bannorn infantry, Chasind and archers came apart like water and began flooding in all directions. Their cries were everywhere: hoarse and frantic. Doomed.
Channon saw the sight set Loghain afire. Alistair beside him, the Teyrn barked like a trumpet: "Cousland and Bryland! Rally your men. We must stop this panic! Bring me my horse!"
Galvanized by the shout, Alistair raced for his own mount while two dumbstruck squires hauled Loghain's suddenly frightened charger forward. In another moment, both men were gone, spurring their horses into the face of an army transformed to tumult and chaos. Loghain didn't rage at the ogres, didn't rail at his men. He simply rode hard - rode conspicuously - between them and the line of ogres, his sword bright in his hands. Loghain and Alistair rode as close to the monsters as they dared, so close their mounts snorted foam and quivered. And there the Teyrn raised his voice like a war-horn against the hoarse screaming and the panic, the white-eyed and unreasoning dread.
"Rally to your captains! These beasts cannot finish us! They cannot finish me - and I am closer to them than you are!"
Channon, briefly, knew a pang. If I had possessed that presence, could I have rallied Highever Castle? The wistful question faded quickly: he had work to do.
Channon and Fergus split up, each man organizing his soldiers from the captains down. Arl Bryland did the same. The sight of their leaders on the front lines, impervious to horror, had a palpable impact.
Loghain's fierce, throat-ripping war cry split the night.
Fergus' Chasind gathered at the left flank in their standard three-prong formation: one shorter column flanked by two longer lines of mounted archers. The Highever troops gathered to their right, supported by Elven archers. On the battlewalk, the bowmen led by Sister Leliana and the Dalish woman Shianni loosed continuously. Shianni sent a shaft straight down the throat of a Genlock emissary. Immediately, she was the focus of attention. A flurry of darkspawn arrows narrowly missed her. Beside her, Dworkin lobbed Blackpowder jars into the horde. When these collided with the magic of the Dalish Keepers, inferno raged. Fire was general. Roiling plumes climbed into the purple sky. Behind them, part of the stone collapsed on top of one of the pumps brought to a point of greatest danger.
Channon fought his way toward Alistair and Loghain with workmanlike determination. His men managed to reach and hold a mound of rubble that afforded him a clear view of their struggle. He also saw the endless ranks of darkspawn between. Fergus reached the same position, grinning through his blood-caked beard, dark eyes inflamed with combat madness. His Chasind were pleading with him to rush the spawn.
"Let us go down to them now!"
"They are close - let us go!"
"Quiet down, you madmen - you'll not go a hundred paces before they cut you down," Channon snapped impatiently. Loghain, Alistair and the Bannorn troops were fighting to stay alive until the flanking armies reached them. But there were nearly a thousand spawn between the Cousland brothers and the Teyrn. They had less than half that. The Bannorn soldiers saw it too. The thought that Alistair and Loghain had already lost filled the valley with panic again, paralyzing a large portion of Ferelden's troops. And the Chasind riders had to contend with horses that were wild with fear, maddened by the stink of taint in their nostrils. In one sense, Channon knew, they were lucky to have got as close as they had. In another, it made no difference - they didn't have enough to reach the Teyrn and turn the tide of battle.
"Channon - cover me," muttered Fergus, "I'm going to outflank them and lob a few Blackpowder jars into the rear."
Channon caught his arm so hard that Fergus winced.
"You take one step and I'll break Starfang over your head! You're as bad as your Chasind. Now keep quiet and let me think."
The solution came to him as clearly as a winning move in chess. Channon had always been able to outplay his father and brother. Only his mother had been unbeatable.
"I'll send for Voldrik's trebuchet," he told Fergus, "We'll pack it with Blackpowder. You and I and a dozen Chasind will push the thing in front of us. These Elven gentlemen will cover us: we'll do this thing in style."
Fergus and his men roared their approval of the scheme and a white-horse rider was sent. Soon, Voldrik's team appeared, pushing the enormous structure like a giant toy chariot. Inside, the Blackpowder had only to be lit. Channon thought of his favourite of all Nan's stories: not the one about Harhaku she had told over and over again but one in which King Calenhad had sent an enormous wooden horse to his enemies, a deadly cargo hidden inside. Chasind jostled each other to find a place behind. Channon and Fergus grabbed as much Blackpowder as they could carry and nodded to each other.
Ponderously, the wheeled trebuchet lumbered forward, gathering speed with slow inevitability as they ran behind it. Its coverings of woven mats and bound saplings shielded it. Darkspawn arrows rattled like hail against the wood but did not penetrate. Several yards apart, suspended from thick rope, the mats were free to swing under impact. The sling arm, at rest, was hidden too. The Chasind warriors were chanting. Oddly, their warpaint mirrored the howling darkspawn: black-eyed, skull-faced, bloody-mouthed fiends. Fergus, abandoned to the primal revelation of combat, screamed with them. After a moment, the normally controlled Channon joined him. When they reached the ground that sloped downwards into the valley they touched the first of the Blackpowder jars inside the war-machine with a burning torch. Then let go. The structure creaked and groaned - rolled like a juggernaut - downward into the thickest part of the dark mass. Channon and Fergus lobbed individual Blackpowder jars in high, glittering, sparkling arcs. They threw again, while arrows rained down on the mass of spawn. The trebuchet crashed into the centre of the horde and they squealed around it. In another moment, the entire structure was split by an ear-rending crack. Balls of flame billowed high. It was a river of lava in reverse, pouring towards the dark sky. The night itself lightened to a fierce, murky red. The light clashed with the Blightstorm to become a roiling red-and-black mass - almost a living entity. Within, battling men and darkspawn were rust-coloured shadows - as if made of nothing but blood, like flayed men. Bags of flesh, trying to hold in their own lifeblood - condemned to see it spilled on the ground with profligate abandon. Is this how Avernus saw us?
The sight chilled Channon - but it inflamed him also. It seemed to cut to the heart of a death-struggle beyond politics or vengeance. This was the survival of one species against another. Nature red in tooth and claw. Gone was the need to mourn men killed or maimed doing his bidding. Gone the need for fear, for shame, for self-doubt. The Chasind followed the destruction, spreading out, still screaming, their swords and spears busy. Fergus and Channon ran with them.
Their blood sang, boiling with the joy of the hunting pack.
At the head of the army in the southern valley, Ravenous beside him, Loghain stared up into his own death.
He had no weapon to pierce the armour of the orge Alpha: the monster was encased in the volcanic aurum only found in the deepest of deep roads. There had been another time like this - when Loghain and his Night Elves had faced armoured, mounted chevaliers with wooden stakes and wearing rags. But that wasn't important. What mattered was his army, dissolving into panic. He had to do something to quell the chaos. And they were going to die anyway unless he found a defense against this creature.
One thing at a time. Death later was preferable to death now. In the space between, he could plan. The army had to be saved now.
So he called for his horse, brought by two frightened squires. He placed his hands upon the long rippling muscles of the neck - threw his right leg over - he was up. Alistair beside him, rode his white Orlesian destrier. Suddenly, something from behind nearly bowled Loghain over. Whipping round, he found himself looking into the dark, wide eyes of Ravenous. Rearing on hind legs, pawing the air, the mabari literally demanded to be with his new master. Loghain laughed; ran his gauntleted left hand along the bristly fur of the square head.
"What do you say, my boy?" he asked, "Are you ready to bring the ogres the death they're asking for?" Ravenous yipped in delighted assent. Loghain kicked his horse into a gallop, matched by Alistair, Ravenous beside them. He led them as close as he dared - so close he could feel the ogre's breath sweep over him; could smell its intense, rank stink.
"Rally to your captains! These beasts cannot finish us! They cannot finish me - and I am closer to them than you are!"
Behind him, the ogre opened its maw and howled. Somehow, he sent his call through the roar, demanding and clarion.
The scene in front of him still looked like chaos. The hoarse screams went on, full of fear. But Loghain had an experienced eye: he could see the state of the army changing. The Cousland brothers and Bryland held their ground; rallied their captains. The captains yelled for their men - more and more began struggling through the press towards them. When these reached the critical threshold, the army was suddenly transformed: no longer a rout interrupted by islands of order but an army vigorously quelling its own chaos.
The army was like a prophecy: resolving towards cohesion out of a swirl of prescient parts.
Prophecy.
Loghain regarded Alistair; seemed to hear once more Flemeth's dry, cruel, ancient voice: Keep him close and he will betray you. Each time worse than the last…
He had hunted the man beside him…sent assassins to kill him…never checked on Eamon's treatment of the child. Maric's son.
"Whew, that was close," Alistair breathed, "Thought we'd lost them. Now what?"
"We must not lose them again! We must retreat in order: let Voldrik's catapults take them out."
Alistair shook his head impatiently, "Won't work. In that time the ogres'll be tearing through Ostagar itself. As soon as you try, we're lost." As an afterthought, he added, "General." It was amazing how many nuances he managed to squeeze into the last word: somehow it came out a title, a challenge, and a borderline insult all at once. The flash in his hazel eyes might have been sarcasm - or a wild love of risk.
"Then what?" Loghain snapped, "Warden."
Alistair's eyes flashed. "Ril and I were fighting ogres together since Ostagar. I'd stand there and look pretty - bulldancer against bull - she'd dash between their legs and hamstring them. Ravenous would guard her back." He smiled at some private memory.
After a moment, Loghain caught Alistair's mood and smiled too.
As the creature charged them, roaring, flinging rocks that they barely dodged, Loghain darted between the wide-splayed legs, head down against the churned-up dust and snow, with sword out to his right and razor-edged shield out to his left. Both edges got the creature in the vulnerable joins at the knees. He carried on, bowling through like a juggernaut till safely past. Whirled back to watch the creature sink to its knees. Alistair leapt high, sword leading. Using the ridges on the ogre's armour as handholds, he climbed till he was staring right into its jaws. Seeing them face to face, images of Cailan's death rose in Loghain's mind like vomit. But Alistair was not Cailan - the skill of the wily Warden altered time and memory. He shoved his sword through the open maw, right up to its hilt, before the massive hands could crush him. Then landed on top of the collapsing behemoth and howled in triumph.
In a piece of time jagged and eternal as memory, Loghain was somewhere else:
...From his position in the front rank, facing the Orlesian charge, Loghain stared, transfixed. The grotesquely caparisoned warhorses looked huge; their hooves pounded the dry ground. Atop them chevaliers behind blank, soulless visors raised a metallic cry. Armour glittered, bright and relentless. Loghain yelled back, instinctively. Their motley troop of farmers and Elves yelled too: a sound half-bellow and half-scream. The animal smell of fear rolled off them in waves: so different from the acrid, feral tang men threw off before an even fight. This carried the dampness of panic-sodden hopelessness. They stared at Loghain with the desperation of drowning men, their eyes orbs of raw terror. Loghain met them one by one.
"We can do this," he told them; not pleadingly but with granite certainty. The world shifted beneath his feet; he felt suddenly strange, as though all the strength were draining from his body. They were pulling it out of him; demanding it. He gave it gladly; all the strength he had in him, and then some. The last eyes he saw were Maric's.
"Steady," he grated past blade-thin lips, the iron conviction of his voice carrying over the noise, cutting through their fear, "Hold. Hold..."
The approaching cavalry filled his whole vision: death approaching in a maelstrom of stamping hooves and flying earth and lewdly glittering steel.
"NOW!"
At the signal, the men knelt to the ground in the face of the cavalry nearly on them. As if by magic, they formed a wall, raising the wooden stakes that had remained hidden at their feet until that moment. The longest, held by the men in the rear rank, were fully twenty feet long. The first and second ranks held correspondingly shorter ones. When the butts were pressed against the earth, the points were a uniform barrier of sharpened, hardened wood. Unable to stop, and with many too brave to try, the first horsemen crashed into it. Those behind piled in to them. Instantly, Loghain's men were on them - cleavers, daggers, kitchen knives flashing.
Some of the chevaliers had gained their feet, unhurt. Maric roared a challenge at the nearest. The eighteen-year-old prince looked gawky and untrained next to the iron monolith advancing - but he spread his purple cloak as if in challenge: bulldancer against bull. The knight rushed him, eager to claim the Rebel Prince's head. The midday sun turned sword and armour and helm to white brilliance.
Loghain swept past the tableaux, his own leather armour dark and indistinct. He came past the knight's left side, slashing his blade downward toward the armour join at the back of the knee. The man gave a shrill, agonised scream; sank to the earth. Maric was on him - stabbing the point of his blade through the gap in the visor...
"You know," Alistair was saying, bringing Loghain back to the present, "Duncan told me something about darkspawn. They're not an army - the Archdemon is no General. The dragon's memories rise like bubbles from a dying mind, draw the spawn to the surface. They cannot plan for failure, you see. Failure would mean being shut back in the darkness, away from the only light they'll ever know. An army that cannot fail cannot succeed."
Loghain considered this a foolish piece of philosophy - and gratuitous, too - but, knowing how this man had unaccountably admired Duncan, refrained from saying so. Neither had time for debate. Together, men and mabari charged. Not towards the impossible safety of the army, engaged in its own death-struggle with the darkspawn who surged round them - but straight at the remaining ogres. For a split second, Loghain had the chance to be relieved Alistair was beside him, longsword ready, eyes bright for battle. Then General, Warden and dog crashed headlong into the massive living wall.
They kept going so well Loghain felt a rush of joy at the way they tag-teamed the ogres, the way their swords struck, their darting, dodging and sudden surges through the attack. Ravenous darted and leapt between them like a dun-coloured flame: guarding when they could not guard themselves, harrying attackers. The ogres seemed one massive single creature with too many eyes, too many fists. And their hate was palpable: a consuming heat. Nonetheless, they were flesh-and-blood - they could be killed.
Loghain and Alistair cut to the heart of the attack and kept going, fighting shoulder to shoulder, as if together they had discovered something indomitable.
It was amazing, really, how many rocks they dodged, how many of the ogre grab attacks missed them. When one got hold of Loghain, about to squeeze the life out of him, Alistair stabbed upward right into the creature's groin. The shock of agony robbed the fists of power. All three tumbled together in a mass. Ravenous stood over them, baring his teeth against any that dared challenge. The General and Warden rose quickly, fighting back to back against those that remained. The grate and stab told Loghain he had broken a rib - maybe two - but it didn't matter. Details like that had lost their importance: he had left them behind along with the ache in the fingers he could no longer completely straighten, the creak in his joints. Alistair was younger and stronger. But Loghain matched him blow for blow, swung and thrust as though the weight of steel transformed him, restored him to his prime.
It was amazing, too, how well Alistair fought. His face was splashed with black blood, dents dotted his armour, gore stained his arms. Yet he kept all harm away from Loghain.
What a strange surprise. Alistair is far more like his father than Cailan was.
And, for a few precious moments, they succeeded against unbeatable odds. Alistair returned the glance with an odd expression: as though Loghain made sense to him at last. If everything else was lost, still, no-one would be able to change the fact that he and Maric's son had died side-by-side instead of at each other's throats.
Their success had to end. Two men and a dog could not survive against nine ogres - and the darkspawn blocked the three-pronged cavalry charge from reaching them. But then the momentum of the battle changed suddenly.
The Cousland brothers and their deadly cargo smashed a gap through the darkspawn lines. Bannorn, Elven and Chasind troops poured in. The look on Fergus' face was keen as a cleaver; he had the hands of a butcher. Channon was controlled, methodical - guarding his brother where he failed to guard himself, allowing Fergus to give full rein to his Berserker battlelust.
At last, the valley around them stood clear of darkspawn. A Highever knight raised a ragged cheer. Soon, the call rang from everywhere; stronger, surer.
Loghain and Alistair stood cloaked in silence, too exhausted to do anything but sink to their knees. Loghain removed his gauntlets from shaking hands, lowered his head into them. He heard in that quiet the relief and loss and fearful hope that comes to every combat survivor. The silence of the warrior: alive, assessing cost. The most precious of all moments, sullied only by the knowledge that it must pass. Must be repeated.
As Knight Commander Harith lurched towards the battlements and the line of mages, his distress drew Ines and Sweeney to him. He was doubled up, bent over in pain, coughing his lungs out. Both darkspawn blood and his own stained the froth that bubbled up. He warded off Ines' ministrations. "No time. Got to go Voldrik. Catapult. Rylock's order."
Ines stared - Sweeney stared - then their eyes went wide in sudden understanding. As one, they dropped the Knight Commander with a couple of Mindblasts and left him in the care of Keili and Petra.
"Her name is Ellen!"
Both mages ran from the battlements, into the field below where the death-struggle raged.
Rylock was calm, knowing that she only had to hold out a little longer for the catapult to get there and put an end to both her and the Hurlock General. Despite the blood that welled from shoulder, thigh, forearms, left side, and a gash across her forehead, she beat back the hot, steel lightning and force of the emissary's next attack. That defense cost her an exertion that seemed to shred her wounded side. Reeling, almost falling, she staggered backward, only just saved herself from tripping over the corpse of a dead darkspawn. She barely avoided the next attack - barely - by running, lungs on fire, eyes full of sweat and blood, no life in her limbs, until she gained enough ground to turn and plant her feet and stand there wobbling to face the General for the last time. By bare will, she kept her sword up for the creature to play with.
Rylock didn't see what happened - her eyes were full of blood and taint - but there was a sudden clang and rush - and a couple of all-too-familiar voices:
"Get away from her, you foul thing, or you'll taste my magic!"
I order catapults and I get mages! What's wrong with this picture?!
"That's got'em!" Ines' triumphant shout. She heard shrieks from the darkspawn around the General as the mages cleared a path straight to it.
Then Sweeney's quavery voice, mumbling an incantation she did not know.
As if one crazed magic-user isn't enough!
As unsteady as a drunk, she stopped, locked both hands around her wet sword-hilt.
Almost retching for air, Rylock jerked forward and did her absolute best to split the Hurlock's head open.
Negligently, the creature blocked the blow. The force drove Rylock to her knees, the thud sounding dully like failure.
The emissary howled out a string of non-words, summoning a spell Rylock recognized as Stonefist. She rolled away from the full impact, but the shards splintered her right arm, broke fingers, snapped ribs. Consciousness came in bright, pulsing waves. Her body felt on fire, shot through with a separate agonies.
Those two have doomed us: they won't be able to dispel the taint cloud or the wards - the General will get them and everyone else…
She fought to stay awake, growling out a string of epithets so vile she startled herself. In all her forty years - more than half spent fighting maleficarum and demons - she had never felt the need to resort to language the Maker would not approve of. But if anything deserved it, it was this situation. She'd spent enough time with Loghain and Rilian to have a wide vocabulary.
Suddenly, she became aware of a strange shimmer around her that was not taint cloud. It passed through it, untouched. The writhing, air-borne droplets seemed to slow… Rylock seemed to slow… everything turned unreal and strange, like a dream where one moved in slow motion to escape something. The only thing that was quick was the footsteps of the old man, rushing into the bubble of taint, holding his breath. He did not cast - the lungful of air he got would have choked the words - he simply ran at the General clutching an old gnarled staff as though it made him mighty - a sword or scepter no-one could oppose. Rylock saw the General turn - impossibly slowly - to finish him. Groaning curses and agony, Rylock writhed forward, moving through slowed-down time - inched towards the creature's back. Had the General been facing her, it would have known it was safe - Rylock was barely able to crawl - but the creature could not know that. Forced to meet the threat to its back, it turned, ponderously, to finish the Templar. But Sweeney was too quick. In moments, he had thrust the Blackened Heartwood Staff right through the arm-hole of the Hurlock's mail.
The creature howled in agony - the glyphs and shields dissipated one by one as it lost concentration. Ines, standing just outside the cloud of taint, finished it with a Petrify.
Rylock pitched forward onto the stone hulk, so very tired. She felt the Maker's light surround her. It was safe to sleep now.
Forgiven.
Rylock lay in the hospital wing, stunned by exhaustion and amazement into muted, uncomprehending silence as Wynne tended to her, to Harith - and to Sweeney who might or might not be tainted by close proximity to the cloud. Her eyes gazed into the whirling distance, tracking motes of torchlight like golden bubbles. Her world had changed around her, and she was no more capable of processing it than an animal could process a game of chess. She stared around: glad to see that many of her people had survived: Harith, Keili, Carrol, Thomas, Cullen, Rocald, Petra, Beric, Irving. Although she held the rank of Knight Commander, Rylock had never had a true command before. She had been raised high because of her success as a mage-hunter - a lone predator - she had never trained or managed men like Knight Commanders Greagoir, Tavish or Harith. She was proud of them, she realised with astonishment, as she stared at the sea of faces. Proud.
Ines and Wynne were quarrelling violently over Sweeney's treatment. Wynne was trying to persuade him to drink the Warden blood - the same mixture that had cured Harith. Ines was arguing fiercely against this. Rylock thought she'd never seen anything so stubborn as the look on Ines and Sweeney's faces - though a single glance in a mirror would have told her otherwise.
"I can't help you if you're going to be like this!" Wynne cried, exasperated.
"You're wrong," snapped Ines querulously - the two elderly Enchanters seemed to be merely continuing an argument of decades - "You always think flashy magic - special powers - are best. I'll show you what I can do with plain, simple, wholesome herbs. I'll make up the mixture Remille made for King Maric."
"That was nothing but a placebo!"
"Oh no. There was a grain of truth in it - it just didn't work as effectively as Remille made out. His mixture had perhaps a ten percent success rate - about the same as the swamp flower that cures mabaris, on which it was based. I bet I could improve it."
"Alright," said Wynne, grudgingly, "I'll let you try it. But if there's no improvement you're both taking the mixture. There'll be no argument."
Rylock smothered a smile - but she smiled too soon. Wynne had rounded on her next - planting an enormous vial of lyrium by her bedside. "For the pain. Enough in there to hold a horse."
Wynne's power had knit bone and flesh back together in a way little short of miraculous - but there were limits. Rylock was more bothered by the lack of movement in her right hand than by the pain. She suspected she would never wield a sword with her former dexterity. A mace, perhaps.
She glared at Wynne. "To use the holy Waters of the Fade as a painkiller would be disrespectful. A Templar is supposed to take one vial per day, no more."
"You'll have what I think is best for you."
"I'm the Knight Commander!" Rylock exploded.
"Oh no," said Wynne - as though she had wanted to say this for the last twenty-two years - "You, Rylock, are the patient!"
Ines was looking at her, rolling her eyes in shared exasperation. "No sense in arguing with her," she sighed.
Rylock regarded the two old mages in thoughtful silence.
"I'm sorry, Rylock," Harith muttered from the bed beside her, "I never got the chance to relay your order. I'm not sure what happened. Must've been the taint."
"No matter." Rylock turned to Ines and Sweeney: "Your magic saved the battle - saved my life also. Thank you. I never knew any mages could be so...adventurous."
"We are not any mages."
What Rylock didn't understand, she chose to ignore. "Yes," she said carefully, "I can see that. But I still don't know how you became aware, so quickly, that your help was needed."
"How? I can smell the fart of trouble coming before the Maker lets rip," Ines boasted.
"Such language is unseemly," Rylock snapped.
"Language!" Sweeney chortled, "I heard your language as Ines and I came to help. I ought to wash your mouth out with soap, young woman!"
Rylock cast around for a suitable riposte and, finding none, subsided into sheepish silence. In the murky glow of the old temple, she watched as Loghain and Alistair moved through the rows of their men: talking with them, drinking with them, comforting the wounded and dying. They were both marked, but waved away Wynne's help, demanding she save her strength for "those who needed it". The Cousland brothers did the same; she also saw Rilian's cousin and a dark-haired Dalish hunter comforting their wounded. Three hooded Keepers moved among them, strange and alien, the torches they carried shrouding them in mystery. Sister Leliana, face bruised with exhaustion, was taking last confessions, performing the Rites for those beyond saving.
Alistair and Loghain ended by standing in the doorway, the mabari between them, staring out into the unspeakable detritus of war. Rylock decided to ignore Wynne's instructions to stay in bed and joined them. She supposed she did not cut a very imposing figure in her nightshirt, leaning on - of all things! - a mage's staff for balance. She carefully did not look around at those watching.
"It's over," Alistair was saying, as if he couldn't quite believe it, "When Nathaniel, Anders and Zev took out the darkspawn in Lothering Forest, it broke their stranglehold. And between the rest of us, we defended Ostagar. Ha!"
"It's not over," Loghain growled softly, "It will not be over until the end of the Archdemon."
Alistair said nothing, but Rylock read her own realization in his eyes: the war would not be over until Rilian was dead. Alistair must have already known this - but it was shocking to see all the life drain out of a man's face, like blood from a wound. As if the Warden's mabari understood the meaning, the dog nuzzled him, low, soft whine sounding oddly like human keening.
Loghain surprised her by putting a hand on Alistair's shoulder. He said: "It's the right fight; for the right reasons. We must not waste the chance she has given us. We'll march to Denerim at once - for if she fails, the capital must be defended at all costs."
Alistair's eyes were like lead: heavy and cold. "I know."
Shortly afterward, the battered survivors were stunned when three of Rilian's Wardens returned through Ishal, to tell them of the death of The Mother and of Rilian's journey into the deeps. Wynne took the wounded Aveline into her care, working the same miracle on her injury as she had on Rylock's. Jowan assisted the healers. Ser Otto joined Rylock, Alistair and Loghain to describe the battle in the deeps, and Rylock bowed her head in prayer for Boann's soul and Rilian's.
Amid the snow and black ashes, the writhing Blightstorm overhead beginning to scatter like a thousand bats, the torches of Ostagar wavered and blended, winking out behind swirls of taint only to burst into brightness again. They were in a disperse cluster, their constant shifting giving them and the pale grandeur of stone a mysterious, transient quality. Changeable as the past that made Ostagar stand for failure and betrayal - and the present that made it stand for unity. The Bannorn, the Chasind, the Howes and the Couslands, the mages and Templars, had fought together. A Chasind funeral drum throbbed. It contained the steady thud of a human heart. The flaring belligerence of the war-beat had faded to grief; the torches were a listless pale glimmer. Lights went on in healing tents and wagons, transforming canvas tops to massive golden-light lanterns. The weary, stunned survivors were spectral creatures drifting through the darkness, seeking solace in company. Several formed a circle. Soon, there were flames within that enclosure. Pyres. Committing the dead.
In a baffled need to articulate her sense of holy mystery, Rylock said abstractedly:
"Sister Leliana told me of a vision. Of a rose that bloomed from a dead white branch, untouched by decay. Of an impenetrable darkness. Of plunging toward the Void. Of seeing the Maker not through a glass darkly, but face to face."
She expected Loghain to scoff, but to her surprise he only nodded. "Visions and prophecies. They seem to always stand in need of interpretation." He smiled. It was a distant, thoughtful expression.
Song inspirations were:
Zevran, Nathaniel, Anders mission: The Stones - Midnight Rambler
Nathaniel and Zev: Adam Lambert - By The Rules
The Last Battle: Sinead O Connor - Hold Back The Night
One of the things I regret about this chapter is that, because of my wish to cram everything in, there wasn't space to expand on all of the characters and themes that interest me. One is the story of Thomas Amell. Another is the back-story of Anders and Karl. With the latter, I'm lucky that it's already been done beautifully: analect's version in Ephemera is, to me, canon. It never occurred to me to wonder how the dead mages were disposed of in the Circle Tower until I read Arsinoe's horrific description in Victory at Ostagar. I think her theory must be true - the Tower is in the middle of a lake, and there are no urns with the names of former Enchanters found in the basement.