Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 122: In the Archdemon's City

They were preparing to set out, carrying only the essentials. Bronwyn noticed that Riordan was carrying more than his weapons and rations.

"Riordan, what have you got there?" she asked. "Is that rope?"

"A trick used by dragon hunters that I read of in the library at Monsimmard," the Orlesian told her. "Sometimes the Nevarrans would use ropes with weights at the end to tangle the dragon's wings and feet. Sometimes they used nets or grappling hooks. I have neither nets nor weights, but grappling hooks are always to be had in an army."

Bronwyn felt her face redden. Yes, Jowan and Carver had mentioned ropes, but she had focused on their talk of spears, thinking it impossible for any number of Wardens to hold down a High Dragon. A drake or young female, yes; but not even the golems could hold a High Dragon.

No, they could not hold it down, but they might damage or disable it. Bronwyn had only pictured dropping a net over a smaller dragon. Tangling up the feet of any dragon was a workable plan.

"What a good idea! Thanks!"

She sent some soldiers to fetch some coils of rope and others to rout out the grappling hooks in the baggage wagons. They might need them anyhow, if the gates of Val Royeaux were shut. They had not been closed when Anders and Morrigan had flown to Val Royeaux, but the situation could have changed.

A hurried conference with her Wardens was probably superfluous, because everyone by now should know who was senior to whom. Still, while the Marchers got themselves in order, there was a moment for a private talk. Bronwyn mentioned the rope and hooks, and assigned people to carry them. She then gathered her most trusted people and told them what they needed to know in case of her death.

"The roster is with the rest of the Warden papers, back in our supply wagon. It's in the rosewood chest. Quite a bit of gold is there, too. Don't forget that everyone gets paid on Summerday. There's a copy of the roster in Jader, and I sent the newest names to Catriona. We need to send some mages to Avernus. Some others, too, to build up Soldier's Peak. After the Blight, we'll want to present the improved potion to the rest of the Wardens. I've been thinking about that. We owe it to Riordan and the others who've come to help us. Don't forget that the Archdemon's blood has to be preserved and distributed. I also think we should keep the Jader post going, since it's close to Orzammar. Consider one in the south in the old place near Ostagar. Not now, of course, but some day, perhaps."

"Bronwyn," Leliana said sternly. "You're going to take care of all of this yourself."

"I certainly intend to," Bronwyn agreed, "but no one can predict the future. I can't even predict what's going to happen today, or in the next hour. I trust all of you to do your best for the Wardens."

Tara touched her arm. "Bronwyn, I know I speak for everyone when I tell you it's been an honor to fight by your side."

That, of course, triggered a round of hugs and kisses and the shedding of a few tears. Morrigan watched from a distance, grimacing, but also uncomfortably moved. She had never thought to have friends, but she actually liked some of these people. Yes, Bronwyn was her friend — even something like a sister — and she was pleased with herself that she had done her part to keep her safe, even though Bronwyn must never know. With a determined sniff, she walked away, busying herself with the last details of preparation. She and Anders had been told to scout ahead as the army marched, and all their belongings must be in order for Bustrum and Ostap, who had agreed to carry them.

After the farewells, Anders found a moment to whisper a word in Tara's ear. At the moment, she seemed his only hope of retrieving something from last night's fiasco.

"What is it, Anders?" she asked. "You're supposed to be scouting."

"I know. It's just..." He made a face, feeling inexpressibly foolish. "You know what we talked about? You know that thing...?"

She stared at him, and then understood.

"You idiot. What did she do— show you her boobies and you went simple-minded?"

"Something like that."

She hit him in the stomach with her staff. Hard.

"You are such a tool!"

"Ow! Don't! Morrigan's coming back! She'll see us talking!"

"I'd like to give her a piece of my mind—"

"You promised not to tell!"

"You're a dithering imbecile. Is she already up the spout?"

"She thinks she is. Sorry."

He did not look nearly sorry enough, in Tara's opinion. He was trying to hide how pleased with himself he really was... how happy he and Morrigan were going to have a baby — even if the baby was an ancient malignant deity that would probably be worse than the Blight itself. Tara gave up all hope of getting him to do anything sensible. At least he had had the decency to warn her... no doubt hoping that someone else would take care of his problem for him.

She gave him a hard shove and stalked away, fuming. Right. That was Anders. She'd have to think of something herself. And she was going to discuss it with Jowan. So there.

First, of course, she passed on the story to Zevran, who laughed at Anders' utter inability to resist temptation, but then grew very serious.

"I agree with you, my Warden. It would be a supremely dangerous thing for Morrigan to create another little Morrigan, but far more powerful. Perhaps she, like our dear and unfortunate Bronwyn, will lose this child. A sad thing, but safer for the world."

"We'd have to be very careful. Morrigan would kill anyone she thought had done it, and I'm not exaggerating for a minute."

"I know you are not, mia bella. A quiet dose, perhaps when Anders is away. It shall be done."

"I'll pick Jowan's brain for this, too. He might have some good ideas."

Zevran was quite convinced that the birth of an Old God into the world would be a catastrophe. Personally, he would let Tara busy herself with potions and hexes. There was a simpler, more final solution to Morrigan's plots, and Zevran was quite prepared to put it into action, if all else failed. Morrigan was Tara's friend — in her casual, superior fashion — but she was not his friend, and he would not shed a tear if she perished. The Old God would not survive if its host perished.

"My friends, my brothers and sisters, my comrades from the cold lands of the Korcari Wilds to the flower-scented cities of the Amaranthine coast! This is what Thedas can achieve, when we see our goal clearly! This is the best of what we are! You and I have seen the world as it really is, and we know our true enemy. The darkspawn know no borders. The darkspawn know no race or title. In coming together, we have struck a blow for a better world, for mutual respect and greatness of spirit. Those who come after will envy us, they will remember our names, and they will fall silent when any speaks who stood with us today!"

Bronwyn knew how to pitch her voice to carry, and more than one mage in the crowd helped her discreetly with magic. Even those too far away to distinguish her words saw the tall figure in red armor: the hands stretched out as if in blessing, the bright eyes uplifted. The image remained with many, and the memory grew in the telling.

Her brief words over, Bronwyn sounded her horn, and the allies moved out once more, their numbers now increased by the Marchers. Loghain quickly revised his plans to include them, and was glad of the reinforcements. The more Wardens between Bronwyn and the Archdemon, the happier he would be.

There were darkspawn to be met on the way, but they were scattered, and dealt with summarily. Only Niall and Velanna were in wyvern form, and they carried the rest of the harness for the others. Also in the vanguard were the golems, tirelessly clearing the road, invulnerable to missile weapons. Out on the left flank, behind a band of Orlesian Wardens, Prosper de Montfort was mounted on Leopold. The wyvern was restive and fidgety, curious about the smell of the darkspawn, but also curious about the other wyverns. The scent of the male was infuriating, and Leopold longed to destroy it as an insupportable rival. The female, however...

The new mages chattered excitedly about the rumor that the Fereldans knew the lost art of shape-shifting. Speculation was rife about what the Chantry at home would do if it learned that mages could hide in the form of animals.

"I don't know what would be better," one girl said. "To be a cat so I could hide, or a giant bear — or a wyvern — so I could fight anyone who hunted me."

Another said, "I'd rather be a bird and fly away. I heard that they can turn into birds. Imagine the Templars trying to deal with that!"

In fact, at that very moment Anders and Morrigan had flown on ahead, watching for traps and ambushes. They called out in harsh bird voices, signaling their finds.

The Greenway had become a coastal road here, and they could almost always see the Waking Sea, with Isabela's little fleet within view. Unfortunately, the refugees had fled that way, and many had not escaped the darkspawn. Heads on stakes were seen far more frequently than milestones.

They passed the ruins of a little wayside inn, where sadly decayed landlords and guests alike were strung up on the beams outside. A coastal manor at some distance from the main road looked untouched, until the Marchers went to investigate and found the horrors within. Luckily, the women had been killed, and not captured.

"Unless the survivors were taken elsewhere," Sainsby grunted. He had gone on many missions to the Deep Roads, but he had never seen surface dwellings —human homes — despoiled by the darkspawn. It was hideous and disturbing. The manor was set alight, as the inn had been, to give a kind of funeral to the poor victims.

They had had a late start, but they were moving fast, unencumbered by the wagons, which were far behind and protected by the rear guard. Human soldiers hauled the light ballistae along, and dwarves hauled a wagon carrying the components for lyrium bombs. No one had more than he or she could carry comfortably. Aside from their usual weapons, Bronwyn and each of her Wardens carried one of Master Wade's dragonhunting spears, along with a spring-loaded anchor and its straps. If they managed to climb up on the Archdemon, it would not easily shake them loose. Luckily, there were enough of the spears and the anchors to distribute them to some of the others: Riordan, Visconti, and Sainsby, of course, and as many of their people as possible.

Astrid, walking beside Riordan, fell into conversation with him. They talked about the new weapons, and Astrid introduced him to Shale. He had seen the golem, of course, but had not quite grasped that Shale was fully sentient, and not subordinate to any control rod. He was also interested to learn about how golems had been created, and was told Astrid's speculations on Shale's origins.

"So you remember nothing of your former life?" he asked.

"Nothing at all," Shale rumbled. "Of course, when one has lived for many ages — far beyond the span of mere squishy creatures such as yourself — it all gets rather fuzzy. I do not remember all of my existence as a golem, for that matter, though that is due to much of it being so boring. Why bother to remember ages of standing immobile in the Deep Roads? I cannot complain of boredom recently, however. The darkspawn are an evil that must be eradicated."

Riordan was pleased at the golem's very proper sentiments. Astrid took the opportunity to raise a proposal she had not mentioned to Bronwyn.

"What would you say to a Warden post being established within Orzammar itself?"

Riordan instantly saw the advantage of that. "It would be a matter for the First Warden to approve, but I cannot see him refusing. I've often thought that Wardens should do more to take the battle to the enemy." He bit his lip, and tried to explain things he had not liked to say aloud in the past, not meaning to seem disloyal. "The lore indicates that there are millions and millions of darkspawn in the Deep Roads — so many that it would be futile to fight them there in strength — but I am beginning to wonder if that is mistaken. Supposedly the Archdemon brings the darkspawn onto the surface en masse, and we have not seen millions of them here —thank the Maker! Perhaps the past estimates have been exaggerated. Perhaps we could undertake a long-term plan to seek out nests and destroy them."

"We can move from reclaimed thaig to thaig," Astrid agreed, eyes gleaming. "We've already cleared the Amgarrak Road and installed new barrier doors. We've explored widely — or at least Bronwyn has — below Orlais. I think we could change the nature of the struggle with more emphasis on hunting the darkspawn down. Of course," she said carelessly, "once the Archdemon is dead, the surface will suffer through the Thaw, and that will take some resources, but it's foolish and short-sighted to let the darkspawn build up below. As Paragon, I'll have the power to establish the Wardens in the dwarven kingdom. I think it's time."

"You will have my complete support," Riordan assured her.

Meanwhile, Tara discussed pregnancy issues with a blushing Jowan, who was under the mistaken impression that she was talking about herself.

"Don't give up hope, Tara," he urged her, earnestly concerned. "I know fighting darkspawn is important, but you should have a life, too."

"It's just..." she sighed, and then twisted the knife a little more. "You heard how the Wardens made Fiona give up Alistair when he was a baby. He ended up living in a stable, raised as a servant. It's marked him: anyone can see. I couldn't bear for a child of mine to be treated like that! And it would be worse, because he'd be an elf!"

"Bronwyn would never do that to you! How can you imagine that?"

She whispered, "And what if Bronwyn doesn't survive?"

"Don't talk like that!"

"Well, what if she doesn't? The First Warden might appoint some hardass stranger who toes the Weisshaupt line. He'd make me give up the baby or be sent back to the Circle." She declared, with absolutely sincerity, "I really would rather die than ever set foot in a Circle again. So listen, there's something, isn't there? Something that nobody would notice? I don't want to hurt Zevran, but it's my decision."

"Of course it is," Jowan said, rather upset. "But it's apples and oranges. You've got Zevran. I can't imagine him leaving you in the lurch with a baby. If he had to, he'd stay home and take care of it."

She raised a brow, and he understood her. What if Zevran didn't make it?

"All right," he said, not wanting her to worry about it. "I could make something for you, but you'd need to take it early on. It would look like a completely natural miscarriage and doesn't leave traces. Just get through this battle today, and think about it, for Maker's sake! You have friends, Tara. You've got me, for that matter. I know I let you down before, but I swear I'll never forsake you again as long as I live!"

She grinned, remembering the story, and punched his arm.

They saw the towers of Val Royeaux before mid-afternoon.

They were obviously not as Bronwyn had imagined them, nor as she had seen them pictured in her history books. The distinctive twin towers of the Grand Cathedral had been reduced to one, and that one a shadow of its former glory.

On another hill, a little closer, was the Palace Compound, smoke rising from shattered domes. High above all should be the White Spire, the home of the Circle of Mages, In its place was a broken stump. It looked as if the tower had imploded, collapsing in on itself.

Loghain did not allow anyone else to know what he was feeling. The sight was unreal, fantastic. The last thing in life he had ever expected as to look upon the Grand Cathedral with his own eyes. It was hard not to be distracted by the ruby flame of spiteful triumph, seeing the capital of the enemies of his blood laid low. Bronwyn had grieved for the loss of innocent life. Yes, no doubt many of the dead had been innocent. Others, however, had been bitter, cunning foes, and some of them had been the very people he had fought at River Dane thirty years before. Had they not died, they would still be plotting the ruin and enslavement of Ferelden, and yet more assassination attempts on Bronwyn and himself.

Bastards. Let them rot.

The sky, already overcast, grew darker. A distant thunder rumbled from the grey clouds.

"Wonderful," Bronwyn muttered. "All we need now is rain." She turned to the other Wardens. "The city isn't looking its best, is it?"

The older Wardens exchanged glances, almost smiling. Here their long exposure to Taint was going to be of genuine use. Once they got closer, they should not only be able to sense darkspawn, but how many and what kind. They should be able to give the locations of the leaders and above all, of the Archdemon.

Or perhaps that would not be necessary. The remaining tower of the Grand Cathedral looked... odd. Loghain scowled at it, and peered through his spyglass.

A small, angular bit at the top broke off, and resolved into a dragon. The creature flew north and veered lazily, neck extended down as if to watch what was going on below.

Loghain, carefully expressionless, handed the spyglass to Bronwyn. She studied the distant Archdemon. Here they were at last, and she tried to analyze what she felt. Relief? Fear? Anticipation? All of those, she suppose, and many other things as well.

"If it's interested in what's going on there," she said, "I would guess that at least some of the other Wardens are still alive and keeping it busy."

"Good of them," Loghain remarked, not caring a copper about any of them. It was convenient for his own army, and might indeed save many lives. "Let's get moving and enter the city before it notices us."

They marched on, guided by the tiny black dragon-shaped shadow in the sky, as it lazily circled over the ruined city.

Loghain's final orders were written during the last halt. An aide held a flat board before him by way of a desk, while Loghain scribbled quickly. The map of Val Royeaux was vivid in his head: a brightly colored map marked with strategic objectives, possible ambush sites, and the quickest routes. Duke Prosper, ready to offer condescending, expert advice, was absolutely stunned by the man's grasp of a place he had never visited, and once again granted that the Fereldan had extraordinary ability.

Targeting defensible districts and then securing them with a house-to-house search was the safest, most reliable way to take a city, but those tactics were unsuited to this unique situation. The Wardens were right: the Archdemon was what mattered. Like the king in chess, its destruction would win the war. They could slaughter darkspawn until they themselves rotted from Taint: it would avail them nothing unless the Archdemon were slain.

They had to get in and get to the Archdemon as quickly as possible. Or more properly, the Wardens had to get to the Archdemon as quickly as possible. The role of the rest of the army, as Loghain saw it, was to protect the Wardens and keep them from being overwhelmed by the horde before they could accomplish their mission.

Sten presented himself before Bronwyn and Loghain as these arrangements were being made.

"The Tome of Koslun is said to be in the Grand Cathedral. I wish to go there with my men."

Bronwyn saw no problem with that. "That's where I'm going, most likely. I'll have to follow the Archdemon, but it seems to like the Grand Cathedral as well as anywhere else. It's possible that the darkspawn have made a nest there."

He nodded. "Broodmothers. We have fought such a creature together, you and I. It would be a worthy deed to remove them from the world. Yes, I think a nest is likely, based on what Tallis told Karasten. Coming from the docks, she said she saw almost no darkspawn. However, there were a great number in the walled compound of the Cathedral. She described tendrils and spongy matter that sounds exactly like what we saw in the Dead Trenches. There may be other nests as well, of course, but the Grand Cathedral is certainly the site of one."

"Then I think you and your men should attach yourselves to my party of Wardens," said Bronwyn. "While they must not attempt to kill the Archdemon, we could be of significant help to each other. Astrid is leading the team that will try to destroy the Broodmothers, largely with lyrium bombs. We can't expect they will be completely successful, so a party will have to go in and mop in afterwards. Do you have any idea where in the Cathedral the book is being kept?"

"I do not. 'Somewhere in the vaults,' was our only intelligence on the matter."

Bronwyn shrugged. "No doubts the vaults are extensive, but they're not the Deep Roads. And you won't have to worry about being discreet or nondestructive. Once you get to the Grand Cathedral, I would appreciative any help you can give Astrid and her people, but of course you'll want to find your relic. Good luck to you."

"I accept the sentiment in the spirit in which it is offered," Sten said gravely. "Though it is not luck that will save us, but courage and skill at arms."

Certain other objectives would have to be determined at the very last moment: The Wardens could detect darkspawn concentrations, but not until they were much closer. Once at the city gates, they would have a far clearer picture of the horde's distribution within the city. Speed was of the essence now. They must get to the city before the Archdemon could fortify the Gate of the Sun against them.

The troops were ordered to march at the double with a minimum of noise and no cheering. The point was not to rally opposition. They moved quickly, across the plain, and then down into the valley of the River Royeaux. Armor and weapons clattered and banged; the golems shook the ground. Thousands of troops simply moving made noise enough. They could only hope that whatever was happening on the other side of the city was noisier yet.

Spanning the River Royeaux was another stone bridge, occupied by darkspawn. The creatures squawked at the appearance of the army spilling over the hill, but had neither the sense to flee or to send for reinforcements. Archers shot into them on the run, while mages cursed them motionless. A darkspawn emissary hurled a sickly green spell their way and was frozen and shattered. At that sight, it was not possible for the troops to be quite mute: a grim chuckle greeted the sight, and some muttered approval.

The road curved, following the area's natural geography.. The Greenway fed into the Imperial Highway, which stretched out, straight and majestic, before the shining Gate of the Sun, not yet defaced by the darkspawn, not totally sullied by the Taint. Overhead, a hawk and a raven wheeled and fluttered. Thunder rolled out again, and a few drops began coming down.

Bronwyn could not help but admire the imposing entry. Cast in bronze and thickly gilded, the relief of Drakon Kordilius, first Emperor of Orlais proudly declared his heroic deeds. A great golden sun, the symbol of Andraste rose high above all. It was simply glorious. No wonder Orlesians were so overbearing. Loghain snorted at the opulence. and waved Riordan and Visconti over to join them. Sainsby arrived a few moments later.

"Do you sense anything yet?"

Bronwyn huffed a grim laugh. "Lots of darkspawn!"

The three older men could be far more precise, and could tell him where the darkspawn were concentrated, and give him some secondary targets that needed to be dealt with. There were powerful darkspawn Generals in the Market District and at the Palace. Probably another at the Alienage, though that was closer to the docks, and it was hard to distinguish it clearly, considering the intense sensation coming from the Cathedral. Loghain nodded, and instantly refined his strategy. Anders and Morrigan flew back to report, and Loghain refined it some more. The army caught its breath, and prepared for battle. Wyverns took shape, and were harnessed. Bronwyn smiled at Morrigan, and went to mount up. Scout trotted beside her, looking back at Loghain and Amber.

"Bronwyn!" Loghain called. She turned, and was surprised at the look on his face.

Ah. So he feels something, after all.

Perhaps she did, too, even after all that had passed. Certainly not that breathless, blushing adoration that had shadowed the past few years and relegated her to Highever like a foolish girl too immature to be out in society. But something. He was her first and only love, and he not ceased to be a great man in her eyes. A difficult, irascible, and unaffectionate man, but still a very great one.

She smiled at him. "Luck in battle."

He did not smile back, but strode toward her. She was startled when he grasped her arm and pulled her firmly to him.

"You're a brave and clever girl... and I love you." He took a deep breath. "Now don't do anything stupid."

The rough kiss was brief but hungry. It kept Bronwyn from laughing out loud at Loghain's concept of tender words. They were just so utterly... Loghain.

For his part, Loghain bitterly regretted not taking the time to make love to her properly that morning. Here they were, facing the Archdemon, and anything might happen to either of them. So many times he had failed to make a proper goodbye, and those he had loved had slipped away forever, not knowing what was in his heart: his mother, his father, Rowan, Celia, Maric... yes, even Cailan. Bronwyn must understand that he did not take her for granted.

The Fereldans looked on with delight and approval; the dwarves and elves with amusement; the Antivans and Marchers with interest; the Orlesians with faint horror and disgust. There were not many of them who did not think Queen Bronwyn far too good for Loghain Mac Tir. Not only was she a high-born lady, and he a bloody-handed peasant, she was Andraste's Champion, and specially favored by the Maker. A number of them, like Prosper de Montfort, Prince Florestan, and Boniface Clery, were not sure that it was appropriate for her to have relations with any man. Riordan and his Wardens, however, were far more tolerant.

"It's going to be all right," Bronwyn whispered to Loghain, looking up at him with a faint, arch smile. "I promise not to be stupid. We'll see each other again."

"I'll hold you to that."

Morrigan was ready and impatiently waiting. Loghain gave Bronwyn a boost onto the wyvern's back, and she and the rest of the chosen few were soon mounted and buckled in securely.

The army would punch through to the Cathedral, using the Avenue of the Sun. Units of the Fereldan and Orlesian forces, along with the Antivan Wardens, would travel down the streets running parallel to the main thoroughfare, since trying to travel on a single street, however wide, would create a bottleneck, and leave them only a narrow front rank with which to attack the enemy. Then too, they would better be able to protect the Wardens from flank attacks that way.

As to the secondary targets: the Marchers, supported by a unit of Legion of the Dead, would deal with the General in the Imperial Market. The Antivans and the Dalish would eventually deal with the Alienage. Duke Prosper was eager to go to the Palace.

"I know it better than anyone," he declared.

Loghain shrugged. The Orlesian's motives were perfectly clear to him, but if the fellow wanted to go there, Loghain did not much care. That wyvern of his was restless and likely to cause trouble, and it was best to get it away from the others.

"If you like," he said. "You are entirely welcome to the Palace. The Archdemon is what matters."

The Gate of the Sun was not simply a door into Val Royeaux: it represented a large and complex triple gate defense system. Denerim's Great Gate was a smaller, less sophisticated version, but knowing it gave them some idea of what to expect. There was no organized defense of the place, but it was still full of darkspawn.

It was decorated with darkspawn victims, hanging here and there like spoiled fruit. Some lucky survivors had escaped through the Gate of the Sun and fled to Vercheil or Val Foret. The slower, the older, the infirm, the hesitant— they had not fared so well, and had been slaughtered in great numbers. None of the Wardens missed that fact that there were not many women of childbearing age among the victims here.

But darkspawn had died too. The Orlesian gate guards had put up quite a fight, and there were heaps of hurlocks and genlocks scattered about, each centering around one or two brave souls who had died hard. For that matter, they found some dead ogres, surrounded by human soldiers who had given their lives to cover the flight of the escaping civilians.

After a month, it was all putrescence and rot. The stink was vile, penetrating the very stones underfoot. Carrion birds had attempted to feed off the dead, and had perished from Taint. It explained why the skies even before Val Charente had been so silent and empty. Not even rats could live long, though a few burst out from the rubble; Tainted and crazed and rabid. Dalish scouts watched for them with bows at the ready and arrows nocked.

It took time to clear out the Gate, for there were gatehouses and guard towers where darkspawn lurked. The Wardens and the rest of the army spread out quickly, however, and were able to put overwhelming force to bear on this enclosed, discrete area. A hard fight, but a worthwhile one. The golems shook the earth under the darkspawns' feet, sending them sprawling. The wyverns dashed about with terrible speed, knocking barricades asunder, crushing darkspawn, carrying their riders faster than a man could run. Bombs and grenades rained down, and the darkspawn were destroyed before they clearly understood their danger.

Loghain, careful to wipe his face and hands clear of blood using a clean cloth that he then discarded, gave the various units there orders. It was time to make their way into the city proper. The army marched through the inner gate and divided into Loghain's planned parallel columns, moving quickly toward their objectives.

First Enchanter Irving was tasked with standing with the Wardens and directing the mages. Most of their most experienced mages would be fighting as wyverns, and many of their newest recruits were apostates: half-trained at best. The mages from the Ferelden Circle were used to following Irving's direction, and his presence would hearten them. Knight-Commander Greagoir and his Templars, however, was ordered to help support the left flank, with dwarves, Fereldan soldiers, and the Antivan Wardens. The two old men shook hands gravely, and parted ways.

The Marchers broke off and headed to the Imperial Market. A little later, a large force of Orlesian chevaliers under Duke Prosper, and supported by a dozen Orlesian Wardens led by Clovis, turned at the Imperial Way, toward the Palace. In the parallel columns, the Antivans were spread out on the fringes, on the watch for darkspawn attack. The main body continued up the Avenue of the Sun and the streets alongside it, keeping the remaining tower of the Grand Cathedral before them as their lodestone.

Ahead, the broad avenue opened out into a spacious, elegant square.

"Place Reville," Loghain muttered, remembering his map. The square was old, but had been renamed after Mad Emperor Reville, the bastard who had ordered the invasion of Ferelden. It must have been quite the place before the darkspawn redecorated. The flowers in the long marble planters were dead, and the statues looking down on the square had been vandalized and reinvented as darkspawn idols. Strange arcs of metal were strapped each to famous Orlesian's back, reminiscent of grotesque wings.

Overhead, they heard a outraged bellow. The Archdemon had noticed them at last.

Off and on, the northern Wardens had been fighting for an entire day.

That did not mean that individual men and women had fought that long. That was impossible, even for Wardens with their Taint-fueled strength and stamina. The warriors and mages took turns, the healers repaired the damage, food was brought up from the baggage train— hidden in a ravine— and gobbled. Wardens collapsed behind the lines and slept fitfully for an hour or two, and then struggled up to face the enemy again.

The First Warden had somewhat pulled himself together, and now busied himself with logistics. He was good at numbers, at administration, at making things work. That had always been his strength... well, that and his ability to play Weisshaupt politics. The latter ability meant nothing at the moment; the former ability was vital. He was not a coward, but he was not a great tactician or strategist. He must leave that to others—mostly to his Second Warden and to Pentaghast and Elagabalus.

"We're bleeding the darkspawn, Commander," Athis murmured to Pentaghast, shaking him awake. "We're bleeding them good. Look what the robes have done!"

Pentaghast grimaced, but did not rebuke her for using that derogatory term for mages. The Nevarran mages called themselves that, after all. Besides, he was too startled at the sight before him to pay much attention to anything else.

Powered by Blood Magic, the Tevinters had changed the very shape of the battlefield. Instead of the flat, grey-brown plain, stretching to the walls of Val Royeaux, Pentaghast saw a defensive maze of swells and hollows.

This was terrifying, overwhelming magic, and it frightened the other Wardens as much as it encouraged and shielded them.

Mages swayed from lyrium, and some turned aside and vomited where they stood from the effort, but when they united their magic, the very earth cracked wide; the Wardens were lifted onto rising ground, and ditches and pits appeared to trap and confound the darkspawn.

Breastworks swelled up to defend the ballistae and the Wardens who operated them. The shields were tilted up to provide protection, since the Archdemon now and then attempted an attack from above. It was wary of them now, and did not wish to risk further injury to itself. It also was sending out fewer darkspawn to challenge them, for the creatures were unable to close with the Wardens, or even inflict serious damage on them.

"It's a delaying tactic," Pentaghast muttered. "It wants to keep us out of Val Royeaux and wait for its reinforcements to spawn."

"And it has the walls of Val Royeaux to keep us out," agreed Athis. "If we try to storm the city, we'll be massacred."

"Possibly. Possibly not. I think that given time, our Tevinter friends could collapse the walls. We'll have to attack sooner or later. If we can just get some rest, we'll have a better chance." He stared at the distant figure of the Archdemon, gliding through the sullen skies, wishing he could strike it dead with the hatred he felt.

As he watched, the Archdemon veered sharply, bellowing a challenge. It flew away toward the south, and the horde before them was suddenly leaderless and bereft of will.

There was not a moment to lose.

"To the Gate!" roared Pentaghast. "Follow me!"

"There it is!" Bronwyn shouted, pointed straight ahead. "Ballistae! Mages! Archers! Make ready!" Like the rest of the Wardens mounted on the wyverns, she jumped to the ground. Riding the wyverns had been a good vantage as they slaughtered darkspawn on the way, but the wyverns could fight the Archdemon best if they were unhindered by Wardens and saddle harness. Teams dashed forward, previously assigned to each wyvern, quickly unbuckling the straps.

The Archdemon visibly started, its head swerving about to see the unsuspected threat in the city it had claimed. Then it seemed to hover in the air for moment, before changing direction. It was heading their way, screaming, preparing to flame and rend.

Bronwyn had seen this before. It was just like the false Andraste in the Frostbacks, who had killed Cullen and nearly killed the rest of them, too. She briefly felt a shiver of the same terror she had experienced then.

But then here she was, facing this creature not with a mere handful of brave souls, but with an entire host of heroes; with advanced weapons and bombs and clever tactics. They had killed Flemeth, the mighty shapechanger and Witch of the Wilds, with a far smaller force. She was absolutely certain they could kill this creature, who was clearly relying on its size and strength.

But it would not be easy. At the same moment, the right flank was set upon by a sudden rush of darkspawn, led by a pair of ogres. Loghain and his soldiers would have to deal with that, while the Wardens in the center dealt with the Archdemon.

"Sten! Support Loghain!" Bronwyn ordered. The Qunari, like a battering ram, dashed to the Fereldan lines, and immediately engaged the darkspawn minions.

The Wardens withdrew to what shelter the building lining the street afforded, looking like terrified people running for their lives. It was not entirely a sham. Bronwyn hoped that it was a temptation the Archdemon was unable to resist. She sheathed her sword and dagger, and like the rest of her people, unslung her spear: razor-sharp, well-balanced, light but strong. Only the mages kept their staffs, holding them on high, ready to cast. The wyverns hugged the walls, ready to leap on the Archdemon if it touched the ground. Had the Archdemon even seen them? Did it smell them? Did it know what they were?

The creature was nearly on them, neck stretched out at full length, wings folded in a graceful dive. Bronwyn shouted, "Loose!"

Curses, spells, arrows, and explosive bolts rose in a lethal fury. The Archdemon had never imagined that these puny creatures could actually resist it. The mages had been briefed to hit with united spells, thus not canceling each other out. The paralysis spell, combined with a misdirection hex, crippled and confused the Archdemon. Arrows glanced off its scales, but penetrated its nostrils and flew through its open maw. One struck it in its ruined eye, which did not blind it, of course, but pained it. Two of the ballistae bolts missed altogether, but one, envenomed, struck the creature full in the belly.

Still stiff from the fading paralysis, it hit the ground hard, driving the bolt in further. The Archdemon shrieked its outrage to heaven. In a moment, the wyverns bounded at it, coordinating their assault like a wolf pack around a bear.

A few arrows were loosed. "Wait!" Bronwyn shouted. "You'll hit our own people!"

For the moment they must wait and see what damage six wyverns could do. Bronwyn called to her newest mages. "Do what you can, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else!"

Some hexes and curses, carefully targeted, got through. Area spells were out of the question. One paralysis glyph caught both the Archdemon, Jowan, and Niall in its grasp. The cleverer mages aimed at the Archdemon's head and wings, and slowed the creature somewhat. The rest was up to the wyverns.

Even in wyvern form, Tara was furious with Morrigan. She spat poison in the Archdemon's face, and then turned to snarl at Morrigan. Morrigan, taken aback at Tara's hostility, but assuming that it was a warning to be careful not to strike a killing blow, twisted away and clawed at a huge wing.

Ten times the size of any of the wyverns, the Archdemon lashed out with a massive tail. Anders was thrown through the air, and did not quite land on his feet. The injured wyvern lay winded for a moment, and then hesitantly rolled onto his belly, testing whether it dared move or not. Something was damaged, but Anders could not heal himself in this shape. Reluctantly, he shifted back into human form, and began repairing his broken leg and cracked ribs.

Jowan squealed, caught in a blast of arcane fire. Tara took advantage of the Archdemon's distraction to leap in from the left, blind side and bite the dragon's neck close to the head. The stream of fire broke off as the Archdemon shook its attacker off violently. Tara bounded away, over the Archdemon's back, raking her talons in long streaks, ripping off scales. Jowan screamed again, dashing away, changing back to his human shape, trying to heal himself. The burn was excruciating. He had never felt pain like this.

Velanna leaped in to spit poison, and the dragon's front talon lashed at her with alarming speed, slashing open her side. The wyvern doubled back on herself, shocked at the wound, dashing away to Anders. The mage groaned with the effort of healing the long wound, and was only partly successful.

"You'll need to shift for it to work!" Anders called. Furious, impatient, the Dalish elf changed, and Anders made a better job of it. Instantly, she changed back, and charged the Archdemon, roaring. Anders swallowed a lyrium potion, and shot another healing spell at Jowan's burn.

Niall tried to scramble up the Archdemon's back, wanting to get at the wings. His fangs tore at the base of the right wing. Tainted blooded bubbled up, and the Archdemon writhed with pain, trying to beat its attacker away. Niall bit at a tendon, feeling he was really doing damage, forgetting how long a dragon's neck was. The head snaked back, and huge jaws seized the wyvern, shaking Niall like a rat and then tossing him aside. Back in the ranks, Maeve uttered a wild shriek. She rushed out, Quinn at her heels, to drag Niall to safety, in the projecting corner between two building.

The wounded man hadlost all control over his shape, and with bizarre contortions returned to human form. His injuries were ghastly. Anders hobbled over to help him. They were down to three active wyverns, and the Archdemon was damaged, but might well kill them all. Bronwyn could not throw them away. Anders, Jowan, and Niall were all hurt. It was time to step in.

"That's enough!" she cried. "Back off, wyverns! Archers! Mages! Keep aiming at the head and wings! Come on, the rest of you! We're going in!"

She charged, spear at the ready, followed by the Warden melee fighters. They had all been organized roughly in groups of three: Alistair, Emrys, and Oghren worked together; another group united Brosca, Bustrum, and Ostap, and Bronwyn expected great things of them. There were a dozen groups altogether, and they almost immediately began doing serious damage. The dogs worked with the fighters: even Jowan's Lily, who had watched the wyvern fight, whimpering. Now she was loosed, with Scout and Magister, and they challenged the dragon, barking and dodging. Bronwyn had tried to make them understand that they must not get too close, but she was not sure she had succeeded.

Adaia and Siofranni dashed out, Siofranni throwing noise-making bombs in front of the Archdemon to keep it confused, Adaia shooting it in the face with the Airbow: jumping, skipping, calling insults. The girls were not doing much damage, but they were preventing the Archdemon from choosing a victim.

Zevran, Fenris, and Silas insisted on coming with them, but they were armed with swords: their mission to protect Bronwyn and the other Wardens from darkspawn that broke past the army. The Wardens were too focused on dragon-killing to protect themselves.

Against the walls, Leliana commanded the archers and First Enchanter Irving the mages. It was a day of horror, but Irving was secretly pleased that all his years of study in an isolated tower on an island had at last actually proved good for something: he had a real talent for battlemagic.

With Bronwyn's charge, most of the wyverns, now decimated by the Archdemon, fell back into human shape. Tara raced over to help Jowan, who could barely walk; she supported him as they hurried to find Anders and Niall. Lily broke away and made a dash for her master, tail wagging anxiously. Velanna's blood was up, and she had become so invested in her wyvern form that she did not change, but hissed at the humans and then darted away, further down the avenue, looking for darkspawn to slay.

Morrigan, the most experienced of shape-shifters, changed directly from wyvern to hawk, and fluttered up to a balcony above the fight. There she took human shape again. She was nearly invisible, safe from attack herself, and in a prime position to cast spells down on the Archdemon without hitting anyone else. It was quite the spectacle. She was almost mesmerized by it, watching the struggling little figures in armor, thrusting their spears into the massive, red-purple body.

Down below, Anders was trying to save Niall, despairing of accomplishing anything but easing his pain. Maeve clung to his hand, crying.

"I want you to have all my things, Maeve," Niall gasped out. "My trunk's in the baggage train. And take my belt pouch. There's a nice necklace in it I wanted to give you after all this was over. There's gold, too. Somebody's going to get it, and I'd rather it was you..."

"Oh, don't!" she sobbed.

"No... take it. Quinn..."

Quinn slipped it off and gave it to the distraught Maeve, while Anders worked feverishly.

Niall tried to smile, but it was a raw grimace of pain. "My mother always said... She said I was a mage for a reason. I hope I haven't disappointed her..."

Maeve could not speak. Anders said roughly, "I know she's very proud of you."

Tara and Jowan joined them a moment later, moving along the walls. Jowan's face was grey and drawn with agony. Tara cast the only weak healing spell she knew at him again and again. Jowan lowered himself to the pavement by Niall's twitching body, trying to rally his own mana.

There was nothing to be done. Niall's eyes were open, but life was already leaving them. He moaned, and called out "Mother?" very distinctly. And then he was dead.

Thunder pealed again. Lightning flashed dimly through the clouds. The storm drew closer. Maeve made a strange, pained noise through her teeth, and ran back to the battle, clutching her spear. Quinn paused, uncertain, and muttered, "Sorry." Then he followed her.

The three Circle mages, who had known each longer than they had known anyone else in the world, huddled together, mourning. Soon, Lily came, unable to stay away from Jowan. She licked his face, pressing close, mourning with his friends.

Even without the undivided attention of the Archdemon, the Marcher Wardens and the Legion faced a very nasty fight in the Market. A half-dozen ogres charged them —fortunately not all together —and then they were confronted by a huge hurlock General, commanding a very large force. The value of the mages they had summoned from the Circles of the Free Marches was incalculable. All the same, twenty Wardens, eight mages, and fifteen dwarves died there, amidst the vandalized remains of the most exclusive shopping district in all Orlais. Everyone was distracted by the splendor of the goods left behind by the murdered artisans, and indulged in an orgy of looting, almost before the the last of the darkspawn there was slain. Wardens broke into a wine merchant's shop, and smashed the tops off the bottles, guzzling rare vintages until the wine ran like blood. Sainsby furiously called his people to order, occasionally using the flat of his sword.

"We'll have time for that later!" he snarled. "Clear out the rest of the darkspawn so we can join the others at the Cathedral."

All the same, quite a few packs were stuffed with silk gowns and silver spoons, gold was thrust into belt pouches, and diamond necklaces were slipped under breastplates and mages' robes. Following Loghain's instructions, they fought their way through a curving street that led through a residential area, and ultimately back to the Avenue of the Sun.

It was starting to rain. Barely more than a drizzle, it was still enough to make the stones beneath their boots slick and treacherous. Worse yet, the damp stirred up the stink of darkspawn, steaming from the cobblestones.

Darkspawn were everywhere: pouncing on them from derelict houses; shooting at them from upper windows. Every street intersection was a skirmish, and an open square was an invitation to a pitched battle. These interruptions slowed them and cost them lives, but did not stop their advance.

They paused, though, when they emerged from a narrow passage and saw what the Archdemon was doing in the Place Reville.

Glad he had escaped the confrontation with the Archdemon — he could hear the beast's screams and bellows all too clearly — Prosper led the way to the Palace. He had reasons of his own for focusing his attention there. Thank the Maker, Loghain had seen the logic of sending Prosper and his forces in that direction. Wardens had sensed a powerful darkspawn General in that direction and a significant darkspawn force. No one wanted that force to support the darkspawn near the Grand Cathedral. They needed to be destroyed where they were. Prosper knew the area extremely well, perhaps better than anyone else in the army.

Mostly importantly, in Prosper's view, the Palace had vital symbolism in the war. The man who seized the Palace — however ravaged it was — was the man who would be viewed as the de facto Emperor. And then, it was full of riches beyond imagining, and secret archives that must not be scrutinized by foreigners. Prosper was fairly certain that the darkspawn had not broken into the treasure vaults: the doors were thick silverite, and the locks subtle. He happened to have the secret of them due to the clever work of an agent of his — who shortly met his end after reporting to Prosper, alas, thus making him unable to sell his information to anyone else.

The archive was in a secret room, La Chambre des Rumeurs. Prosper had been there many a time in his days of favor. Even finding the room would be beyond the capabilities of the darkspawn, nor would the contents of the room have any meaning for them or for the Archdemon. Here was decrypted diplomatic correspondence, here were the minutes of secret tribunals, here were the records of deeds done in darkness. Reports on the actual parentage of claimants to noble titles were kept here, along with the ponderings of the great spymasters of Orlais. Here one could discover how exactly the parents of the Imperial Princesses had met their end; here Prosper had learned that the death of Queen Rowan of Ferelden was not due to natural causes.

It would never do for Loghain Mac Tir to read about that. It would be best if that the man never entered the Palace; or, if he must, it was essential that someone else have the Palace in proper order, with all its buttons buttoned, as it were, before he set foot in it.

He shouted at Leopold to slow down. They were making sufficient speed, and the streets were becoming slick under the light rain. Leopold, overjoyed to be out and running, wanted to race away and leave the foot soldiers behind. That would be imprudent. Prosper knew the creature might grow over-excited and indulge in acrobatics that might unseat his rider. For that reason. Prosper was strapped in place very securely, and his back and neck protected from whiplash by the high back of the saddle. The buckles could be released at need quite easily, but they would not slip without active triggering.

The wyvern, however, was making a splendid portable battering ram. Any barricades in the streets fell before his might. His chevalie, running beside and behind him, mopped up the darkspawn that were left. Resistance had been light, with most of the darkspawn concentrated on the north side of the city.

A shout to his left revealed the presence of Prince Florestan, running along easily, hacking and slashing with great good will. He would not be a pebble in Prosper's boot for much longer. Further back in the ranks was a man who would deal with him once they were a little more dispersed and distracted.

From the Avenue of the Sun to the Imperial Way, they swept along to the gates of the Palace Compound, now sadly Tainted and tarnished. No matter: anything worth the keeping could be cleansed by magic and transported to the new capital of the Empire.

Where would that be? Prosper knew he might have to temporarily relocate to Montsimmard, or to untouched Val Firmin, but surely not forever. Perhaps an entirely new capital would be required: a monument to his power and taste.

The gates were open. The darkspawn were imbeciles. Leopold burst into the Palace Courtyard, and Prosper discharged his magnificent one-handed crossbow in the faces of the enemy.

A fairly nasty fight ensued. A big hurlock burst out of the palace doors, and ran, slowly and ponderously, at the attackers. A storm of arrows feathered him, but did not stop his charge. The creature trampled resistance underfoot, swinging a huge axe in a frenzy. The Orlesian advance broke apart into small discreet bands. Leopold loosed a gout of green venom that poisoned the monster— and struck some chevaliers, too.

Ah, well… the fortunes of war, my friends.

Leopold bit the hurlock and gave him a shake. That seemed to make an impression. Still, the hurlock got off a blow that made the wyvern squeal and double back on itself. Prosper swayed in the saddle, and the men about him shouted and leaped and swerved. For a moment, it seemed like someone else was on the wyvern's back, but that was brief. In the confusion, he felt a brief sting, and then realized that he had received a slight cut on his neck from a stray arrow or a flying bit of metal. It was nothing. The Hurlock General was stumbling, overcome with poison and fangs and many wounds.

Prince Florestan shouted again, and gave the creature the coup de grace with his glittering sword. A cheer rose up, much to Prosper's disgust.

But there were the Palace steps! All they had to do was destroy the last of the darkspawn and the Palace would be his! Prosper popped another bolt into his crossbow and pulled the trigger. A genlock fell… one of the last. He shouted at Leopold to make for the steps. He would ride up them and make a speech.

His feet were cold. That was odd. His feet, his ankles, his legs. Why was he so cold? The golden doors of the Palace hung ajar, but they shivered into rainbows as his vision faded.

"Wha... What's happening to me?" he gasped out, his tongue thick and reluctant. "Poison..."

The rainbows dissipated, and there was only darkness.

Leopold, sensing a sudden lack of control from his master, bounded back down the stairs and dashed away in search of the other wyverns in the city, the dead man still strapped to his back. Soldiers stared after the retreating Duke.

Corot, Prince Florestan's advisor, said solemnly. "The noble Duke has perished in the defense of our country. May his sacrifice not be in vain."

Ursus finished off the last hurlock, and made his way back to his Prince's side. The little dagger with its carefully envenomed blade was carefully replaced in its invisible sheath behind his big dagger. The big man smiled quietly. He was tired of having to fight off Duke Prosper's assassins. On the way up the Avenue of the Sun there had been another one, and he had almost got Florestan with an arrow. Best to tear up treason by the roots. He gave Corot a discreet gesture. The other man nodded almost imperceptibly. Prosper had thought the Prince a fool, because he was a decent man. He had not considered that those who loved Florestan might not be as decent.

"Come, my prince," Ursus rumbled. "The Palace is ours. You should go up to the top of the steps and say something to encourage the others."

Florestan blew out a breath, and ascended the bloody steps willingly enough. Too bad he could not do this in full sunlight, but the day was what it was. He wiped the rain from his face. "All right. A word. And then we've got to get back to the battle. Queen Bronwyn is counting on us."

He hoped he would survive today. Orlais would need a leader, now that Duke Prosper was gone. He had died bravely, at least, but Florestan was deeply relieved that the young and lovely Celandine would no longer be forced to marry him.

"My friends and comrades!" he shouted. "A victory! The first of many, I trust, and the beginning of the end of the Blight! Vive la Reine Rouge! Vive l'Impératrice!"

They could not get the Archdemon to stay on the ground, and the rain was making its scales slippery. Whenever Bronwyn tried to scramble onto its back, it would beat its injured wings, she would slide off, and the dragon would come down in another part of the square. She could not even get a secure enough footing to try sinking one of the spring-loaded anchors into its back, risky as that would be.

They had tried the golems against the Archdemon, but it was simply too tall for them, and they could not do any significant damage. They were knocked down and knocked back: not hurt, but ineffectual. Astrid sent them off to support the Antivans on the left flank.

The ballistae were at the ready, but could only shoot when the Archdemon was in the air, and even then it moved too quickly for a solid hit. One bolt had gone completely through the widest part of the sail of the right wing, but it was a clean hole, and dragon could still fly — at least well enough to gain altitude and come down again, instinct driving it to attack the Wardens again and again. Leliana swore with frustration at her wet bowstring that played havoc with her aim. Only magic was reliable in this weather. Tara was the least injured of the senior mages, and cast curses on the Archdemon with terrible, single-minded anger.

Darkspawn skittered through the alleys; they jumped from upper windows down into the square. Some got past Loghain's lines, and Fenris found himself fighting two genlocks at once. Another crept up behind him and then fell to Zevran's thrown dagger. Silas fought on doggedly, already exhausted.

A bolt of lightning flashed above them, and thunder rolled out almost simultaneously The rain came down harder, and diluted the blood on the stones in the square.

It was a madhouse around the Archdemon, as Wardens thrust and slashed at it with their spears and tried not to kill each other. Spears became lodged, and Wardens clung to them, trying to get them out and dodge the Archdemon at the same time.

Oghren was behind the dragon, ripping though massive tendons, stabbing again and again.

"D'you like that? D'you like that?" he jeered. "How 'bout a little more?"

The Archdemon shrieked, as Brosca stabbed it in the mouth. It reared back, carrying her with it, while she tried to yank the spear free.

"Brosca! Let go!" Bronwyn yelled. At the same moment, Alistair shouted. "Oghren, look out!"

Brosca let go, and landed hard on the pavement. Oghren was too rapt in bloodlust to heed Alistair.

The Archdemon stumbled, slipping in the standing water, and took a step backward. There was a shocked bellow, and Oghren's armor held for a split-second, before the full weight of the Archdemon came down, crushing the dwarf flat. Aveline, inches away, staggered back, wild-eyed, her spear trembling in her hands.

"Maker!" Alistair croaked, turning his eyes from the horror on the ground. They had no time to grieve; no time for anything but fighting.

Bustrum, practiced climber that he was, got a leg up from Ostap and managed to deploy his anchor into the Archdemon's back. There was a meaty thud as the prongs dug deep into Tainted flesh. The Archdemon shrieked again, and before Bustrum could buckle the strap around himself, the dragon was airborne. Bustrum and Alistair both tried to grab the dangling strap and were carried along with the creature, until the wet leather slipped through their grasp and they fell to the ground. Bustrum landed lightly, but Alistair twisted his ankle on impact.

"Maker's breath!" he groaned. He looked up wildly, expecting the Archdemon to come down on top of him. He rolled away, and looked around desperately for a Healer.

The dragon came down some distance away. Bronwyn reached for the anchor strap, missed, and slipped off the dragon's side again. She danced away from the talons and snapping jaws, swearing.

"I'll try this!" Riordan shouted to her.

He sheathed his spear and uncoiled the rope on his back, swinging the grappling hook in ever-widening circles. The Archdemon paused just long enough, and he threw the hook, catching the right wing at the second joint and ripping through tough hide.

Another shriek. The Archdemon went mad, beating its wings with a powerful stroke that sent Riordan clanging along the ground, stunned. Its tail lashed out, knocking its enemies flying, smashing through the front of the nearest building, showering the Wardens with shattered stone. Morrigan's balcony creaked dangerously, and she shifted to a hawk and fluttered away, panicked.

The Wardens below were not so lucky. Maeve died instantly of a broken neck. Among the archers and mages, Nevin, Cathair, and five more were brained by falling masonry. Others were down, some injured badly.

At that moment, the Marcher Wardens arrived, shouting a hurrah. The darkspawn that Loghain's forces had been holding back on the left found themselves attacked from the rear, and crushed between the hammer and the anvil.

Seeing the destruction of its minions, the Archdemon took off, trailing the rope and the anchor strap, headed for the safety of the south tower of the Cathedral. The ballistae loosed as soon as the dragon was high enough, but the engines were soggy with rain, and the aim was off. Two bolts missed, and one hit a glancing blow. The Archdemon's bellow blended with a peal of thunder.

"Stop it! It's getting away!" Bronwyn shouted, her voice cracking. Rain poured down her face like tears. "It's getting away!"

She would have run down the Avenue of the Sun after it, but Riordan caught her, a strong hand on her shoulder.

"We shall have to hunt it now," he said, grave but calm. "But I think this round should be awarded to us. We have paid enough for it."

Thanks to my reviewers: Zairazruari, Chandagnac, Kyren, Ie-maru, KnightOfHolyLight, Nemrut, Tirion I, Melysande, Chiara Crawford, Rexiselic, AD Lewis, Brenediction, mille libri, JackOfBladesX, Wedger, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, MemoriesoftheForgottenGuardian, Mike3207, Robbie the Phoenix, darksky01, DjinniGenie, Fenrir666, Lucy's Echos, butterflygrrl, Blinded in a bolthole, PhantomX0990, Jenna53, imperial queen, dragonmactir, Mystricka, jnybot, Trilobiter, Fastforwarmotion, Suna Chunin, Zute, Death Night's Crowbar, Candle in the Night. Forty-five hundred reviews! I'm really honored.

We know that in canon, Riordan went into battle with some ideas about how to fight dragons. I would guess that he, unlike everybody else, had been doing some research. The technique he tries unsuccessfully in canon works quite well (implausibly well, imo) for Cassandra Pentaghast in Dawn of the Seeker.

I really can't see long, individual goodbyes being practical. Unlike the game, Bronwyn can't pause the action.

Thanks to Nemrut, for a very useful tactical suggestion. Why couldn't the Tevinters, with their power and their grasp of elemental magic, not use Earth magic to reshape the battlefield to their needs?