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Rincewind was not running. It was not so much that he didn't want to (he did) but more that he knew it would be completely pointless. There was no running from this. He knew how his life worked, and how many Darkspawn raiding parties were in the area. He did have a backup plan in such eventualities; if you can't run find the safest place available and stay there. After much thought he realised where that would be; directly behind Cohen.
The two of them were not alone. The company of Avvars were also there, and they were mightily confused by the two men in front of them.
"Mage!" demanded the Avvar chieftain, "why is that old man sat on the bridge?"
Rincewind, alarm bells ringing in his head as they so often did when facing heavily armed barbarians, answered as best he could, "Erm because he's here to stop the Darkspawn from crossing."
The Avvar laughed, Rincewind cringed and Cohen ignored them.
"The old man is brave," the chieftain allowed, "but he cannot stand alone against these monsters. Has his mind gone or does he wish to end his life as a true warrior?"
The Wizzard was trying to answer that very question without fatally offending the Avvars or Cohen when luckily (well by some measure of the term) the Darkspawn arrived.
"FORM UP," the chieftain roared "THESE FILTH SHALL NOT PASS!"
Rincewind smirked, you're right about that, he thought. As soon as the first Darkspawn set foot on the bridge he began counting to ten.
Cohen stood his ground as the Alpha Darkspawn raised its' two handed battleaxe to chop him in two. It would have worked if Cohen had been sporting enough to stand still but instead he shuffled sideways. The luckless Hurlock was promptly stabbed in the neck, the axe staying where it was, embedded in the planks of the bridge.
About a minute later the bridge was littered with bodies and dripping with crimson gore. The Avvars were baffled.
"He was sent by the Mountain Father," said one.
"Perhaps his is the Mountain Father," murmured another.
The Chief turned to Rincewind.
"Who is he?"
"His name is Cohen and, well-"
"ARE YOU LOT GOING TO SHTAND THERE ALL DAY? I'M TOO BLODLY OLD TO BE DOING THISH ALONE!"
Some the tribesmen had the grace to look embarrassed at Cohen's entirely reasonable request.
"CHARGE!"
Rincewind was quickly forgotten as the Avaar rushed to aid Cohen. He was just about to find a comfy spot of ground to sit when he spotted something rather odd. Beneath the bridge a Genlock was clinging on to a barrel, avoiding the worst of the current and attempting to skewer Cohen from below with a long spear.
Rincewind headed towards the bank, wanting to do something but not quite sure what.
You could use magic, said a rather optimistic voice in his head.
The Wizzard laughed out at that absurd suggestion and instead picked up a decent sized stone and chucked it with all his might. The Genlock was caught right between the eyes and tumbled off the barrel into the rivers fastest current. The squealing runt was promptly swept off towards the sea.
"Ah well, I've done my part."
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Alistair found that he was more nervous about the speech than the battle. But he was the king (albeit not officially) as everyone kept telling him and certain things were expected of him. Making grand rousing speeches was one of them apparently. Odin was much better at this sort of thing but he was with the other half of the army, and Loghain... No he would not think about now, the anger and regret was still raw. He looked around, men and women, nobles and commoners, their sigils showed them to be from all corners of the realm.
"Before us stands the might of the Darkspawn Horde! Gaze upon them now but fear them not! Four times in history the Darkspawn have emerged and four times they have been defeated, AND THIS DAY WILL BE NO DIFFERENT!"
The roar of approval that followed that almost made their king jump out of his armour but he kept his balance and continued...
"Today we save Denerim! Today, we avenge the death of my brother, King Cailan! But most of all today we show all that have fallen that we remember and honour their sacrifice! FOR FERELDEN...CHARGE!"
Looking back he thought that went quite well.
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The Dalish had played their part well. Hundreds of the Darkspawn lay dead around the edges of the battlefield. The bulk of the horde had closed in, throwing itself at the shield wall in the west. With the shields to the west, the city wall to the east and the river Drakon to the south the horde were closed in on three sides, now it was time to close the trap. Led by their King they charged headlong into the Darkspawn's northern flank. Those unfortunate creatures in the ranks that first received this charge were caught almost completely unaware and were promptly cut to pieces and trampled underfoot. Those behind were able to hit back but while they had numbers on their side their opponents were better armed, better armoured and better prepared. King Alistair was, not unlike his late brother, leading from the front with the best of Feralden's soldiery. Ser Cautherin led Maric's shield fighting beside the King and cutting a bloody swath through the Spawn. Behind those knight and soldiers stood archers, human and elf engaged in their own fight, firing arrows high over the heads of their comrades onto the great dark mass that they had now surrounded.
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Ser Cautherin was in her element.
All her guilt for Ostagar, Loghain and the actions she had taken over the last year were gone. Instead the simplicity of battle, that cold, calm, single minded drive filled her to the core as it had so many times before. The Summer Sword, a blade given to her by Loghain was soon coated in Darkspawn blood.
Around her she saw men and women slaughter the Darkspawn with undisguised zeal. Now and then she saw someone fall but even the greenest recruits seemed to be taking several of these creatures with them. The fear of the Darkspawn and the power of a mass charge were the greatest weapons of these monsters. But the fear had been overcome and the charge had failed. Without those advantages the troops could outthink and outfight them. Man for man their army was the superior one.
She wasn't sure how long she'd been fighting, or how many had died when it hit her. It was no ordinary fatigue but a sudden, crippling exhaustion. Her sword nearly dropped from her hand and was forced to lean on it to stay standing. She heard the cackling of the mage that hexed her. She tried to close the distance but every step took so much effort...
The effect suddenly disappeared. She saw a bright, white light wash over her and a second light strike the Emissary. She turned to her left and saw the source of her salvation. King Alistair strode forward and promptly beheaded the Darkspawn mage. She'd heard he was trained as a Templar, some claimed he even taught his fellow Grey Warden. No time to think about that now. Their eyes met, she nodded in gratitude and the two went back to their bloody business.
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Both wings of the combined army were now fully committed and the horde was hemmed in. But the Darkspawn still outnumbered their foes by nearly three to one and showed no signs of slowing their savage assaults. And as long as their Dragon Lord was alive they would not break.
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The Dragon lord itself was flying high above the battlefield. It could sense all the Wardens on the battlefield.
Four on the field...my horde will deal with them...a dozen on the walls...they will burn.
The ancient creature dived straight towards the city.
The Free Marches Grey Wardens could of course sense the Darkspawn but such was the strength of horde in walls beneath them that tracking the Archdemon with such abilities was impossible. Only the sharp eyed watchmen, ordered to look out for such an eventuality prevented this from being a total surprise. Most, including Fergus Cousland, were able to scatter and clear the landing spot. The tainted god landed upon the western gatehouse, crushing an unlucky warden and several men at arms nearly flat with weight and momentum. Half the Marcher Wardens had gathered there; others were scattered along the length of the west wall. But everyone saw the Dragon land, and dozens rushed to attack.
There was no doubt to anyone in this fight that the Wardens were being targeted. One, a former cutpurse, attempted to sneak up behind only to have the Archdemon's tail smash straight into his neck, which broke on impact. Two more Wardens both heavily armoured and armed with great swords charged head on, only to be horrifically burned for their efforts. Arrows were shot at from all directions but most bounced off the Scales.
But Commander Aegon Trevelyan was no raw recruit and he had done his research.
"Archers! Aim for the wings!"
As Wardens and soldiers closed in archers began to punch through the wing membranes. One man, a refugee lumberjack from West Hills managed to tear part of the left wing with his axe. The Dragon turned its' head ready for revenge only to be frozen in place by Magic. The spell would only hold for a few seconds but a dozen more wounds were inflicted on the temporarily helpless dragon. The mage had been directed by Commander Trevelyan and both would face the full force of the Archdemon's wrath for their troubles. The fire burned the mage to a crisp and the Commander was brought to his knees, his shield ablaze. But for all the damage and death troops kept rushing in from both sides. The tide was turning against the Archdemon and it knew it.
The corrupted Dragon found a new target. He was no Warden but he was richly dressed and seemed to be organising the others. If it could cut off the head of these soldiers then it may yet escape in the chaos. Two knights stepped up to defend their commander and were swept aside and over the parapets to their deaths. The commander wounded and weakened as he was nicked the claw that killed his fellows but there was not enough strength behind the blow to cause any serious damage. The claw stuck again, knocking the brave fool off his feet and sent his sword clattering away. The head lowered, the jaw opened...
Then an ear shattering screech was heard across the city and over the din of battle. The Archdemon's head shook wildly. At first it difficult to see what had happened but then they saw; a single, black arrow embedded in a now ruined eye socket.
The screams, roars and frenetic movement continued for some time but the wounded creature finally mastered itself and spread its' wings and launched itself off the gate. It flew low, avoiding the elevated bolt throwers on the walls. But the wounds, particularly those on the wings made it clumsy and slow. Struggling to stay in the air, the Archdemon avoided the city's defences but it had to now fly over the battle, where archers, mages and siege weapons were waiting.
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Fergus lay on the stone, so he had cheated death twice in one year, with luck he would not make a habit of it. He sat up, wincing and spotted Warden Commander Trevelyan approaching, clutching his burned side. In spite of the pain he was grinning.
"Those wounds will cripple the Archdemon. It will not be flying for much longer, and once it's grounded we can finish this."
Fergus looked at him; there is nothing more dangerous than an old warrior with a cause. That was what his father used to tell him.
"How many did you lose?"
"Three dead, two dying, two more wounded." The commander's face was unreadable. "The healers are doing good work but I doubt either of my boys will be fighting any more today."
"Was that archer yours? I owe him my life."
"No my lord," replied the old Warden. "He's one of the volunteers that joined us when we took water at Kirkwall." The archer was beckoned forward.
And Fergus recognised him.
"Nathaniel?"
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