Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 123: The Lightning-Struck Tower, Redux
They needed time to rest and lick their wounds, but there was little time to spare. The dead were carried out of the rain and placed in the buildings remaining around Place Reville. One elegant townhouse was chosen for the Warden dead and wounded. The latter were laid out in the ravaged rear parlor off the entry hall; the former in the library. Anders gave Niall and Maeve's valuables to a distraught Quinn.
"I don't want their coin!" the boy cried.
"Take it," Anders advised. "It's what you've got for keepsakes."
They had lost over a score of Wardens so far, which included three Antivans killed in an unlucky encounter with some shrieks, and a pair of Orlesians killed by the Archdemon. The door was closed on the dead and Tara wrote a warning on it.
"Sacred to the Grey Wardens. Trespassers will be hunted down and fed to the darkspawn."
And of course they were starving. Aeron and Emrys found the kitchen, the buttery, the pantry, and the wine cellar, and shared out what was fit to eat. The pantry stank unspeakably, for the fish and fowl that had been fresh on the day Val Royeaux fell was now anything but. The milk and butter had long since turned, too, of course. The rotting bodies of the dead residents who had fled upstairs did not much help the smell. The reek had permeated much of the other foodstuffs: sausages and hams that were cured and would be otherwise edible. Not even a Duster could stomach them.
Not all was ruined. Bread and pies had moldered in the pantry, but preserved in barrels were dried fruit and pickled herrings that could still be consumed. Wheels of cheese covered in wax were untouched. Also covered in wax were crocks of honey and jars of sweet preserves. There were crates of root vegetables that the rats had not lived long enough to investigate. There were boxes of chocolate and of sugar plums, kept for the delight of the wealthy. Some barrels contained fine white flour, and some held oats and barley, which could boiled up in hastily wiped cauldrons. There was an oven, which would take time to fire up, but could be used to make flat bread. Gilded furniture in the ballroom was broken up to fuel the cookfires.
There was wine in plenty, including Orlesian honey wine. The cistern on the roof was found and the water in it discovered to be safe enough. This place, guarded by a few Wardens, could serve as a refuge and a supply center. All around the Place Reville, various units were claiming their own headquarters. People were exhausted. In turns, they could eat and rest and prepare for the next move.
Leliana told off some of the newer Wardens to this duty: a few who were too injured to chase the Archdemon, but fit to stand guard and make their way around a kitchen. There were those who had never been warriors before the Blight, but who knew how to cook.
"Make a nourishing stew, " she said. "It will not take long for potatoes, onions and barley to cook. Make it in small pots, so the water will boil faster. Add the herring to it. It will not be fine, but it will be hot and put strength in us. A few at a time will come back here."
Sigrun and Brosca, practiced pilferers that they were, discovered a wealth of silver spoons for eating the stew, a hodgepodge of elegant bowls and plates to serve it in, and a parade of crystal goblets and jeweled cups for their drink.
During the halt, the army remained on guard. Sporadic waves of darkspawn burst out into the square and were promptly destroyed. The golems were invaluable, for they needed neither rest, nor food, nor water.
Cauthrien suggested building barricades to Loghain, but he only approved them for some of the side streets.
"We can't settle down here. We've got to move on after the Archdemon, and we've got to leave the Avenue open."
Bronwyn had not taken part in clearing out the Warden's headquarters, but remained outside, sheltered from the rain by a pillared loggia, looking through a spyglass, watching the Archdemon on the distant tower watching her.
Alistair, came outside, Scrapper trailing behind him, and brought her some food.
"You need to eat," he told her. On a painted fish plate with a gilded rim lay a bizarre assortment of food: herrings, olives, chocolate almonds, dried apricots from Antiva, and a big wedge of Haute-Cantal cheese. "And drink," he added, passing her a silver goblet of what tasted like a earthy Mourvèdre red. "That's good with the cheese. I tried it."
"You and cheese," she said, smiling in spite of herself. She gave some of the herring to Scout, who snapped it up, licking his chops, and then angled for a bit of cheese. "We had some good cheese after the Tower of Ishal. Remember?"
"Do I!" he scoffed. "Like I could ever forget! Especially the smoked Amaranthine. That was fabulous. I would have brought you bread, but there isn't any. Leliana put Rabille and Lucy to work cooking. Some others, too. They'll stay and make some stew out the odds and ends and try to bake some quick bread. Guard the place a bit. Anders is working on the wounded in there. You should come in and sit for awhile."
She shook her head. "Not now."
It had not been long, really, but they needed to advance. Bronwyn wolfed her food down hungrily and finished her wine in a long swallow. Riordan, Sainsby, and Visconti were coming — Sainsby was stuffing his face with a fistful of soft cheese — and it was time to pull their people together.
"You should have seen the Imperial Market!" Sainsby was saying to Visconti. "Prime stuff there, I can tell you..."
Riordan, predictably, did not look pleased to hear about the plundering of his homeland. Sainsby desisted, and began talking eagerly about the rope and grappling hooks.
Jowan came out of the Warden's house, walking normally. Bronwyn wondered how he could be fit to fight after such a serious burn, but he seemed determined. Lily bounded at his side, looking up at him every few steps.
"How are you?" Bronwyn asked.
"Fine, fine, no problem in the world," Jowan said hastily, which Bronwyn did not find particularly reassuring.
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really. I'm bandaged up and I'll be fine. Anders is coming in a minute," he added. "He left a couple of the new mages with the wounded. Between him and the First Enchanter, his leg seems fine. Amazing talent, really." He looked about, and saw Morrigan, sitting apart, daintily consuming a jar of strawberry preserves. "Have you seen Velanna? Has she come back?"
Bronwyn grimaced. "No. I have no idea what happened to her. She was last seen running off in wyvern form up the Avenue of the Sun. Morrigan warned me that mages can get too involved in their shape-shifting. Maybe she's forgotten she's an elf."
Alistair burst out in an involuntary laugh. "Impossible! Or at least, she'll remember it pretty soon."
Bronwyn smiled too, a little, but was annoyed at the potential loss of a powerful mage. Velanna had always been wayward.
The dwarves were coming out to join them, Astrid at their head. Orzammar dwarves hated rain, but there was nothing to be done about it. Loghain was talking to his old friends among the Dalish Elves. It was time to push on to the Cathedral.
Reveling in her power and freedom, Velanna bounded through the streets, spitting, smashing, ripping darkspawn as she went. Rain poured off her sides unheeded. An ogre started up, puzzled at her appearance, and she knocked him down and disemboweled him with a single swat. It was glorious to be so strong, to have nothing to fear. Her thoughts seemed different, more straightforward, more responsive to her senses as a wyvern. No darkspawn was her equal, and any shemlen in her way was no more than an ant to be crushed underfoot. In fact, she felt eager; ready for anything. Let the shemlen try to stop her.
Let the Wardens swarm over the Archdemon and die. She had done her part. Why should she give her life for those who had destroyed the Dales? She was sick of Bronwyn, that shemlen hypocrite, with her ever-so-noble-and-generous attitude; and even sicker of Astrid, that squat little one-armed durgen'len, who imagined she had the right to tell any of the elvhen what to do. The noise of battle faded as she left it behind, enjoying the sensation of running fast along curving streets, sometimes using her little wings to get a bit of lift so she could bound up to the rooftops. She killed the darkspawn where she found them, and needed no orders. It was a joy to escape them all at last, even Merrill with her earnest advice and Lanaya with her disapproving looks. She did not need them. She did not need anybody.
Her side was still tender, but it would heal in time. Wyverns were tough. Being a wyvern was very agreeable.
Stones rattled to her right. Something big was coming up the street in her direction, and coming fast. She lifted her snout, and smelled wyvern.
Was it that fool Jowan, or that simpering flat-ears Tara? Morrigan would not be following her — the shemlen witch had no use for Velanna, and the feeling was mutual. Anders would be busy healing Niall, so it would be neither of them. Danith had liked Niall… But he was a shemlen, and no concern of hers. In fact, what did any of them matter to her? Velanna the Dalish elf was fading, and Velanna the wyvern seemed far superior.
She sniffed again, and with her wyvern-keen senses, identified the smell.
Leopold, the shemlen Duke's pet! The beast must have escaped and was running loose. Velanna chuffed a harsh wyvern laugh at the thought of the chaos that would cause: the pompous shemlen demanding that they all cease their fighting and return his prize to him.
The wyvern burst through a blocked alley and scrambled to a halt within spitting distance. Velanna was surprised to see that the Duke was riding on Leopold, but he was not shouting orders or complaints. He looked… Velanna padded closer, while Leopold's great golden eyes stared at her.
The shemlen was dead! That was amusing. The dead man was propped up by the straps and buckles, his eyes open, a look of comical surprise on his face.
The ridiculously opulent harness was hampering the other wyvern's movements. Velanna came closer yet, and let the male smell her. Then, very carefully, she extended a single talon, and tore delicately through the saddle girth. Leopold did not move. With a noise like a sigh and then a thump, the saddle, Duke and all, spilled sideways onto the cobblestones, and Leopold was free. He trumpeted a glad cry, and she answered in kind. Sensing more darkspawn, Velanna squealed and went to hunt them down. Happy enough to please the female, Leopold followed, not much liking the darkspawns' smell either. The master was dead and his hold on Leopold gone forever. They should leave this strange, stony place, and find his old mountains…
The Gate of the Moon was shut. A deep voice was raised in command, shouting almost-words behind the defenses of Val Royeaux. The darkspawn had swung the bronze portal closed with maddening slowness, as Pentaghast and his Wardens dashed across the battlefield. Here the defensive topography of the Tevinters worked against them, for instead of a flat plain, they faced hills and valleys and abrupt drop-offs. By the time they were within bowshot, the gate was barred and the Wardens exposed to a withering volley of arrows and magic.
"Take cover!"
There was no choice but to withdraw behind the tall buttresses of the Imperial Highway. It would be a siege, after all.
"Something's going on in the city!" Athis shouted in her commander's ear. "Where's the Archdemon?"
"Up to no good, I daresay." He laughed. "Our Tevinter brethren will just have to make the rough places plain again, so we can bring up what siege engines we've got."
The Tevinters were in a huddle with Elagabalus, their commander, and were apparently about to do just that... or something of the sort. However, they were also waving their blood-spattered hands and discussing a project that very soon began to take shape: a growing hillock with a stone foundation, growing higher, and higher, as the Tevinters tried to create a place that would allow them to see over the city walls. It was amazing. It was rather horrifying. And because they were on a coastal plain, the earth was not really stable enough to support a pile of dirt very easily. The observation platform would suffice for the moment. The First Warden made them concentrate on the the battlefield next.
A rearguard was posted around the Place Reville, and the army resumed its march, sending out scouts and skirmishers to lure the darkspawn out. As far as possible, Loghain maintained his multiple column tactics, but some streets came to dead ends, or curved off in inconvenient directions. Every unit had its map, even if only in the leader's head, and they had points at which they would make contact.
He decided to drop the attack on the Alienage, since Visconti told him that though a powerful darkspawn had been there, it had since moved on to the north, and was probably engaged in defending that wall.
"Good," Loghain briefly replied. "If it's pinned down there, it's not fighting us."
A golem was assigned to each of the flanks, and they walked through fire, poison, and arrows unimpeded. Shale and the other three were at the head of the main column, just behind the skirmishers. The ballistae were rolled along, and with some watchful mages, formed a protection for the bomb wagon. A chance fireball would not easily set off the lyrium explosives, but they wanted no accidents.
The Qunari, their number down by two, moved with the main column as well. Sten had a better idea now of what each man could do. They were not bad soldiers, by any means, though inexperienced in fighting any enemies other than Tevinters and Rivainnis.
Now that their presence was known to the Archdemon, the numbers sent against them were far greater. The mages were doing better and better against the darkspawn, now able to cast area-of-effect spells in advance and together, something most of them had never tried before. The results were astonishing: in one case, the shaking earth had brought down an entire building being used by darkspawn snipers.
"They just… brought it down!" Bronwyn said to Alistair, absolutely astonished. "That's amazing!"
"That's why the Templars learn how to bring mages down," Alistair pointed out, though not very loudly. "You know you might well be giving them ideas."
"True," Bronwyn said softly. It was a moral quandary. She was giving mages ideas about using their powers... even letting them recognize that they were powerful when they had a common purpose.
But why shouldn't mages achieve their potential? Why should mages be imprisoned and emasculated, just so the non-magical could enslave them and imagine themselves morally superior because they lacked magical powers? It was awkward for anyone who truly believed—as Bronwyn believed she did — in the pursuit of excellence. She herself was superior to some others — in birth, in ability — and believed herself to have the right to rule them. That did not mean, however, that she had the right to tyrannize over them, to kill or torment them at will, or to permit others to do so. The Tevinter mages, as far as she could see, had taken their magical gifts to mean they had the right to do all those things. And Bronwyn had certainly seen the variation of intelligence, character, and talent among her own mages. Having magic no more made a mage a superior being than having high birth had made Vaughan Kendalls fit to rule a pigpen. Niall had been a kindly man, wanting to work for the common good; Velanna was a bitter, hostile harridan who cared little for anyone she did not personally love.
Bronwyn still felt their new Fereldan way was the best way: it gave mages an outlet for their gifts and ambitions, like letting steam vent from a pot. Let Bethany Hawke heal the sick in her clinic; let Enchanter Uldred and his mages serve in the army. It did not have to be an all-or-nothing situation. No one was putting the mages in charge: they were instead being allowed to make something of their lives. What would come of this experiment, she could not guess.
"King Loghain!" shouted a messenger, one of a patrol of four who ran at double time into the Avenue. "News from the Palace! The Orlesians have taken it, and the darkspawn leader is slain!"
A hearty cheer rose up, especially from the other Orlesians. The messenger reached Loghain, bowed, and said, far more gravely. "But there is sorrow, too. Duke Prosper was slain in the battle. Prince Florestan has assumed command."
"Unfortunate," Loghain responded, wondering what the Orlesians would do if he decided to dance the Remigold. In a way it really was unfortunate. Prosper was a capable fellow, and no doubt the Palace district had been taken due to his good sense. However, he was manifestly going to be a thorn in Ferelden's flesh later on. Loghain did not know much about Prince Florestan, other than the very silly moon-calf looks he directed at Bronwyn, but he was far less likely to give them trouble once they tried to get out of this awful country.
Bronwyn's reaction was somewhat different. She had been rather nervous about Prosper and his ambitions herself, but could see that it was a pity for Orlais to lose a strong leader at this juncture. Florestan would no doubt do his best, but she suspected that Nevarra would get more territory from him than it would have from the Duke de Montfort.
Very soon the main body, led by Florestan himself, appeared, joining up at an intersection.
"Your Majesties," he said, bowing to Bronwyn, and nodding more casually to Loghain. "You have heard the news."
"Yes," said Bronwyn. "We commiserate with you on the loss of the noble Duke. He was our esteemed ally."
"Then we shall avenge him," said Florestan. "You have not seen him, have you? He was still in the saddle—quite dead— when his wyvern ran away."
Loghain took a deep breath. It would never do to laugh.
"Have you ever been inside the Cathedral?' Bronwyn asked Riordan.
"Of course. Not in the more private areas. Perhaps Ser Silas would be of more help there."
"He described it in detail to me, but it's not the same as seeing it for myself. I've promised our Qunari allies a look at the vaults, since they want a book back that the Chantry borrowed some time ago." Briefly, she described the arrangement she had made about the Tome of Koslun. Riordan was pragmatic about it.
"I have been only in the sanctuary and the chapel of the Disciple Havard. Twice I have been received in the Divine's audience chamber. That is all."
"What about the bell tower? Silas says there's a spiral staircase going all the way to the top."
"Yes, I have been there, long ago. One must obtain leave, but it gives one a superb view of the city. Not as splendid as the one no doubt afforded by the White Spire, but that, alas, is no more, and it was nearly impossible of access. But I remember enjoying the privilege of climbing to the top of the south tower. It was a long climb, on a narrow, decorative spiral staircase. One saw the bells, of course, which were very interesting, and then one emerged into an elaborate room that opened out onto the roof garden. Both towers have flat roofs, and they were used for outings and picnics by the nobles and priests. Sometimes the Divine met with high clergy on the north roof, especially if they wished to make it impossible for anyone to eavesdrop, I am told."
"So we could send a force up the staircase to attack the Archdemon on the roof."
"We could, if the Archdemon did not inconveniently fly away. It would hear us coming, and would no doubt have darkspawn stationed on the staircase the entire way. There is only room for one at a time to pass. The ascent would be slow... and deadly."
She nodded, a plan forming in her mind.
"Horde," indeed.
Innumerable darkspawn crowded within the Cathedral Compound, even after the golems had smashed the gates. The Archdemon swooped down, flaming, but the press was so thick that the flames incinerated its own minions, as well as soldiers and Wardens.
The engineers were dealing more effectively with the rain. The ballistae, brought up near the walls, were tilted up, and scored two hits. The Archdemon flapped away unsteadily, up to the refuge of the Cathedral tower, another hole in its right wing and a deep wound in its neck. Lightning flashed overhead, briefly dazzling them all. Darkspawn, Bronwyn discovered, really disliked lightning. That had not registered on her before, but it made sense.
Despite being bloodied so badly, Tara, Anders, Jowan, and Morrigan changed into wyvern form, and helped the golems drive into the Cathedral square. There was no question of riding them, this time, for in this press, the wyverns would need maximum agility and the freedom to perform feats that would snap any rider's neck. Once in, they were followed by a mass of Grey Wardens and a solid phalanx of the Legion of the Dead. The rest of the army opened up the wedge, spreading out through the compound, maintaining a guard over the chokepoints at the gates.
Bronwyn fought her way through, with Alistair at her right and Zevran at her left. It made her feel ill.. uneasy... to be here, remembering that the Divine had named her anathema in this very place. While it was easy to scoff to other people, the sentence had preyed on her mind and caused her a certain degree of pain. The place was crawling with darkspawn, and the holy statues surrounding the square were defiled, but this had once been the heart of the Chantry, and it had cast her out. There might even be those among the Orlesians who had seen it. Prosper had.
But Prosper is dead, and cannot speak of it ever again.
Oddly, that gave her some relief, unworthy as it was. For her part, she would like that episode to be utterly forgotten. She had enemies, she knew, and she could imagine with what spiteful pleasure they would gnaw the bone of her humiliation. Her cousin Habren's face sprang to mind, and Bronwyn almost laughed at herself for caring what that vicious little fool might think, comfortable and cosseted in her estate in Denerim.
Darkspawn blood splashed in Zevran's face, and Bronwyn glanced at him in alarm. How many after today would be Tainted? It might not be the secretive Grey Wardens' policy, but she would offer the Joining to any it might save. If she could catch her breath, she must tell someone that.
More darkspawn poured through the far northern portal. They must get there and get it barricaded. Triumphant wyvern screams resounded, and golems shook the earth. Irving led some of the mages up to a clear space on a walkway along the low walls, where they could cast directly into the heart of the squirming mass of darkspawn. A raging storm rose up in a perfect circle, buffeting and freezing the creatures. A firestorm was tried, but the rain was too heavy for it to be entirely effective. No, lightning and ice was the order of the day.
Or night. It could hardly be more than a little past sundown, but it was dark now, the heavy stormclouds blotting out the light. The battle was lit with flashes of lightning, with darkspawn bonfires smouldering luridly in the shelter of the Cathedral, and with magefire blazing from hundreds of staffs.
Light blazed from the Cathedral, too, through the shattered windows and sagging doors, from the top of the belltower, and most eerily, from the purple, arcane fire streaming from the maw of the Archdemon.
Distantly, she heard Loghain's voice bellowing a command, as Greagoir and his Templars fought their way up to the wall to defend the mages.
Then she tripped on a root, and nearly went down. Someone behind her steadied her with a hand — she thought it was Emrys— and then she realized the thick tendril stretching across the square was no treeroot.
"Broodmother shit!" shouted Brosca to Astrid. "Guess this must be the place, Princess Paragon!"
Now that they were closer, they could see more of the tendrils. Nor were they all. Pulsing sacs clustered around the ornate doorway, and much of the inside of the Cathedral sanctuary appeared to be a repulsive shade of flesh-pink.
There were archers up in the tower, and up on the huge peaked roof of the Cathedral, and they were nearly in range of their arrows.
How to attack?
Loghain managed to get close enough to Irving to shout a question.
"Could you bring that tower down?"
"Too big. Maybe in a few days, but the Archdemon would have flown by then."
So, no. Bronwyn and her Wardens wanted to kill the Archdemon, not shoo it away to another place where it could lie low and build a horde all over again. In fact, it was likely that she wanted the Archdemon to stay exactly where it was. The snipers, however, had to go.
"Target the archers in the tower and on the roof," he ordered. "Get rid of them."
As the square was somewhat cleared, bands of soldiers with shields made a moving shelter for some picked archers and mages. They locked their shields, and crept forward, a little at a time, while others gave them cover. Those under the shields would peer out between the cracks, choosing a target, and then at a quiet word would pop up, and send a lethal message to the darkspawn.
Meanwhile, Bronwyn needed to get a message to Loghain. Her plan was now clear in her mind, and he had a critical role to play. She turned to pass the information to Emrys, trusting him to get every word right. He looked rather shocked, but was too disciplined to give her an argument. He slipped away, running toward Loghain and his men.
"Keep the Archdemon's attention. Make it clear that you're trying for the tower staircase, but can't get there?" Loghain growled. "Just what does the Queen have in mind?"
"I think," Emrys said, trying to be tactful with majesty, "That she means to do here what she did at the Rock." He nodded over to the Wardens, still surging against the darkspawn. "They've got ropes, Lord King. They've got grappling hooks. While the Archdemon laughs at us, thinking we'll never get up that narrow staircase, the Queen will be up and over the top with the Wardens, and be on the Archdemon before it knows what's happening."
Loghain felt rather sick, not liking the idea of Bronwyn risking herself like that; but also rather excited, wondering if it could possibly work. She had done it at Ostagar; she had done it at the Rock. Here, the greatest danger was from her own people.
"Pass the word," he ordered a lieutenant. "No matter what anyone sees, they are to point and shout only at the Archdemon itself and at the base of the tower. If they see climbers, they're not to betray them to the darkspawn!"
He swung his troops around, sheltering the Wardens from the darkspawn mob as well as possible. The Qunari and his men were in earshot. Loghain got Sten's attention, and pointed at the north gate of the compound.
"Help that golem hold the gate. If the Wardens are to take the Archdemon, we don't need any more darkspawn in here!"
Sten nodded curtly, and led his men in a flying wedge through the seething mass.
Riordan had cut his way to Bronwyn and they were able to step back just enough, behind a broken statue, to confer.
She told him, "I've asked Loghain to make a lot of noise and confusion down here. The Archdemon knows we can never get up that staircase, but it doesn't realize that there's another way."
He grinned fiercely. "Just like Ostagar."
"Exactly. The army and most of the Wardens must hold off the darkspawn, while I and my climbers go up the side of the tower." She gestured at it. "Look at it! It's ideal for a climber: plenty of ledges, plenty of carving, plenty of buttresses. I can start with my rope there —" she pointed. "And get up there and swing it up to that—"
"By the Maker!" he exclaimed. "I shall go with you!"
"It's going to be dangerous in the rain," she warned him. "The stones will be slick."
He gave a very Orlesian shrug. "It's not like I was going to live forever."
"If you've got any hill folk among your people, bring them. I've got a pair of Avvars who are splendid, and some others who have climbed with me in the past. And I've got Morrigan and Anders who don't need ropes to get up there. Speaking of which..."
She sounded a signal on her horn to recall the wyverns, who had done about all they could do in the compound without harming their own people. Instantly, they raced back to Bronwyn, slaying darkspawn as they bounded along. Pools of wyvern poison spread out on the stones. Trampled underfoot, Bronwyn noticed a straw-stuffed effigy dressed in rotting rags, and shivered.
Alistair was coming with her. Bronwyn had not the heart to order him away, though she felt she should. This was something he needed, if only for his self-respect. Nor were the climbers all Fereldan.
Riordan was coming, with a band of chosen Wardens. It was his country, after all, and no one had a better right than he. Bronwyn wondered how many would actually make it up the tower. The rain showed no signs of letting up, and the lightning flashes were startling and ominous.
Astrid could not follow Bronwyn up to the roof. It was galling, but she was no climber. She would have not the first idea how to shimmy up a rope, or whatever it was Bronwyn intended to do. Not that she wanted to risk striking the final blow, for she had every intention of surviving the Blight. Still, it would have looked better for a Paragon of Orzammar to be in the thick of things, helping. Now she was relegated to the ranks of the bystanders: to the press of soldiers and Wardens who would simply be making a diversion for the real heroes.
The party that had helped Bronwyn take the Rock would be going with her: Anders, Morrigan, Zevran and Tara, the Avvars, Darach, Quinn, Sigrun, even Brosca, who was gallingly more devoted to Bronwyn that to her own Paragon. Carver Hawke was going as well. Leliana was over there, gabbling furiously that she could make the climb, too, not wanting to be left behind.
What Astrid needed was a deed of as equal stature as possible, something that would not cause Bronwyn difficulty, but would be worthy and noble in itself, and…
Of course. The Broodmothers. The nest.
Besides, it was the most plausible distraction. It would be safer to do it now, too, than later, when the darkspawn would no longer have the Archdemon to protect. Most of all, Astrid wanted to do it now.
She pushed her way through the crowd to tell Bronwyn her idea.
"It would be safer after the Archdemon's gone," Bronwyn pointed out, looking a bit puzzled. "We could all go together."
"I have a sufficiently large party," Astrid disagreed stiffly. "I shall take Falkor, Hakan, and Soren. I'll have a large number of Legion of the Dead and I'll also take Shale with me. Better to destroy the nest now."
Bronwyn's voice sharpened a little. "I'd rather you didn't. It could startle the Archdemon away."
She looked very determined, and so Astrid, knowing she would not win in a contest of force, resorted to cunning. "Just as you say, then."
Bronwyn gave her a nod and darted off to join the climbing party. Astrid waited until she was absorbed in preparations, and then began quietly giving her own orders to bring up the wagon loaded with lyrium bombs.
A strong party of shield-bearers pressed toward the darkspawn guarding the staircase to the tower. "Guarding?" "Occupying" was a better word. There was a genlock or hurlock on every step. Visconti and Sainsby had gathered all those who could protect themselves from arrows, and who also could shout and make trouble. They had to strike a nice balance. They must attract the Archdemon's attention without actually frightening the dragon away.
It was dangerous, too. Many of the darkspawn used poisoned arrows, and an otherwise innocuous hit to ankle or calf could prove fatal.
The two commanders agreed, though, that as soon as there was the least hint that the Archdemon was failing, they would loose everything they had on the staircase.
Bronwyn last farewell was particularly painful.
"Scout! See Loghain? Go to Loghain and Amber. I'll be back soon. No, I can't take you with me. You're too big. Go to Loghain."
The mabari whimpered, backing away reluctantly. Bronwyn felt like crying herself.
"Go to Loghain!"
Meanwhile, Astrid had Falkor find Ser Silas. The Templar was distracted, just having bid Leliana farewell and given her a blessing.
"Is there a way into the Cathedral other than the big front door?" Astrid asked, not wasting time in games.
He knew several. When asked, he was quite willing to help Astrid fight her way to the best one for their purposes: the service entry.
"It is there that tradesmen made deliveries: food, silks, candles, firewood. It lets one into the lower reaches of the Grand Cathedral."
"Then that's where we're going."
Loghain noticed a large force of dwarves move around to the far side of the Cathedral, but believed them to be part of the holding action at the north gate of the compound. That seemed to be effective, and he concentrated on directing the slaughter of darkspawn in the south-east corner. Once they had rid themselves of the nearest dangers, they could hold off the darkspawn outside the compound walls, while the tiny figures he determinedly tried not to look at crawled up the south side of the Cathedral tower like so many ants.
Lightning struck the tower just as Bronwyn was high enough in her climb for a fall to be inescapably fatal. The Archdemon echoed the thunderclap with a wild scream. It was frightening.
Bronwyn suspected that she was not the only one who thought so. Tara had begged and pleaded and cried to go along, and soft-hearted Ostap had once again agreed to carry her on his back. Bronwyn was higher than anyone else at the moment, and knew better than look down or even look around her for her comrades, but this was a bad climb, and they would be lucky to make it. She did not see how all of them could. She had told her friends to take their time, and do their best, and that it was not a race. Once they were at the top, they would try to wait for at least a few others, and Anders and Morrigan would certainly be there. Bronwyn reckoned that even with a half-dozen and the element of surprise, they very likely could carry the day. The Archdemon was looking either down into the Cathedral courtyard, or north over the walls. It was blind in its left eye, and with any kind of luck would not see them coming over the south side of the tower's edge.
In some ways it was easier than Ishal. There were many more ledges for grappling hooks to sink into, and a generally rougher surface. Her boots had no trouble gaining purchase on the wall. But no one had watched her climb Ishal. Destiny had rested in her hands that night, but no one had known that. Now, thousands of eyes below could see her, trusting her not to fail; trusting her to see them through this.
The bowels of the Cathedral were filled with a loathsome mass of Broodmother matter. Stinking and spongy, it clung to one's boots with every footstep, and let go with a wet little hiss each time. Astrid was uncomfortably aware that she had never fought a Broodmother, and had no one in her party who had. Perhaps she should have summoned Sten.
But no: he was at the north gate and had plenty to do. The danger and glory of this venture were hers alone. She had heard the stories and asked the proper questions. She knew what to expect. And she had Shale, which was immensely reassuring.
So the tentacles rising from the floor did not complete unman her party. Shale stunned them with blows. The axemen came forward and chopped at them lustily. When darkspawn lunged at them from the shadows, Astrid's people were prepared. Distant moans rose further on.
Silas said, "The only place I can think of that would be large enough for what you describe is the Cathedral laundry. It's a vast chamber, with high vaulted ceilings. It had to be big for the boilers and the wide tubs."
"I don't want to go into the laundry," Astrid told him. "I want to find the floor above and drop these bombs down into it. Can you lead us there?"
"I believe so."
He led them through a maze of storage rooms and still rooms, along corridors with heavy, broken doors, lined with more of the foul tendrils. Dark blood stained the stone floors.
"Do you know where the vault is?" Astrid thought briefly of Sten and his book.
"Yes, but it's much further west, under the statue of Andraste herself."
"Forget it, then."
Rain fell on them in places. Part of the building's roof had collapsed, leaving a sizable hole to admit weather. Much of the main sanctuary floor had collapsed as well, piling rubble below. Picking their way through to their destination was no easy task. They had to change direction when one tunnel proved too narrow and low for Shale to pass at all.
Astrid's senses were on fire. There was a massive darkspawn presence ahead and below: exactly what she would expect of a Broodmother nest. As they moved deeper into the Cathedral, they found that tendrils had insinuated themselves everywhere: trailing down corridors, bursting open doors. They draped from floor to ceiling, everywhere laden with swelling sacs. Thousands of darkspawn were gestating here.
No one said anything. There was nothing to say. The stink was indescribable.
Behind her came her Wardens and her loyal Legion of the Dead. Many were heavily burdened with lyrium bombs that could be linked into compound explosives. Hakan carried the detonators: small devices that could be set off by a hard blow. In places they had to hack through sacs to squeeze through the corridors, spilling out half-formed embryos. Some were mature enough to shriek as Shale stamped the life out of them.
"Disgusting," the golem muttered. "I shall have to stand in the rain for a long time after this."
Silas looked about him, trying to get his bearings.
"I'm not sure..." he whispered. "Everything looks different."
"We're still going west," Astrid told him. "I've got enough stone sense left to know that."
So they moved on, hacking, hacking; wincing as unspeakable fluids splashed and dripped on them. Astrid saw no way that the Templar would get through this without being Blighted. He would of course be recruited; the Wardens could do far worse.
The moaning was louder now: a chorus of dull despair, ebbing and flowing like an evil tide, eerie music from a myriad of throats.
"I think... here..." Silas said, gesturing at a doorway before them. "It was an airing cupboard for the linen."
Through the door was a wide, circular room, built over some vaulting, which made the floor strange and uneven. The shelves that had once lined the walls had mostly collapsed, and piles of stained linen were scattered around the room, absorbing the spongy damp of the Broodmother matter until the linen was nearly indistinguishable from it.
"Paragon, look!" exclaimed Falkor. Using his axe, he scraped away some of the spongy matter from the floor, exposing a tendril. It had come up through the floor itself, penetrating the stone vaulting. Part of the floor was crumbling away from the support beams. They all felt an unsettling shift beneath their feet.
"Shale, you'll have to go back," Astrid ordered. "We don't want to put anyone more weight on this floor than necessary. Thanks for your help."
"Nothing, really," snarked the golem. "A mere bagatelle. I was looking forward to my showerbath anyway..." the muttering faded with the sound of heavy footsteps retreating.
Astrid had most of her Legion wait in the corridor, as the explosives team worked swiftly. Brushing stone chips away, they could see down into the chamber below them, but the light was dim. Astrid flinched back from the glimpse of monstrous bodies packed together, tentacles waving gently in an arcane breeze. The rest of the party were looking, too, through the other cracks in the floor. Ser Silas' face was drawn with the horror of it. Astrid shrugged off the emotions of surfacers, not quite grasping that the core of Silas' horror was the likelihood that some the monsters below had been women he knew.
Astrid steeled herself and took another look. She could see no sign of active darkspawn down there. They could widen some of these cracks, assemble the bombs, lower them down, and then detonate them from outside the Cathedral. It was risky, but doable.
Candles were found and lit, giving a little more light to work in. The bombs were taken from packs, and the work of assembly began. Falkor brought out the reels of wire that were be used to to lower them; the kind that would carry the detonating spark. Some of the Legion set to work carefully widening a few of the cracks in the floor. The men with the detonators handled them gingerly. A premature detonation would kill them all.
"Hurry!" Astrid growled. Silas looked on in wonder. He had heard vague rumors of dwarven explosives. They were apparently quite the equal of Qunari gaatlok.
Grit from the cracks whispered as it sifted away to the floor below them. Falkor fixed the first of the bombs to a wire, pushed it through the floor, and played out the wire from the reel in his hand. Astrid watched, heart pounding in suspense, as the device descended. She twitched the wire slightly to make it settle between two of the horrible, moaning creatures...
Stone exploded up at them in a storm of tentacles. The dwarves screamed as the floor disintegrated, and they slid, inexorably, into the ghastly pit below them. Broodmothers shrilled in rage. The air turned green with poison. More screams, as claws tore at dwarven flesh, and tentacles ripped limbs from bodies. A few had not fallen, but clung to the support beams. Soren shrieked as a tentacle reached out and dragged him down. Hakan was next to him, clutching the detonators to his chest with one hand, clinging to a beam with the other.
From somewhere below, Astrid heard Silas shout, "Maker! Accept your servant into your—aaahhh!" A horrible gurgling noise cut his voice off.
Astrid had sunk the hook of her metal arm into a remaining support beam and hung there, struggling to grab it with her right hand and pull herself up. It was not impossible, as long as —
An explosion below, the first of many, as Hakan lost his grip and fell, setting off the detonator charges. The minor explosion sparked a bundle of bombs nearby, and the resulting chain reaction was so swift that it sounded like one huge thunderclap to those outside the Cathedral.
Broodmothers were reduced to fragments in a burst of glorious blue-white light. As the light rushed up to meet her, Astrid's last thoughts were furious and despairing: an image of Bhelen, smug and smiling, surrounded by his happy family, dedicating a fine memorial statue of their late, great Paragon Astrid, once Gytha Aeducan.
No! no! I was going to be Queen!
The explosion that killed Astrid killed some of Bronwyn's climbers, too.
The entire edifice quaked. No one knew at first what had happened, and they thought it a close, powerful lightning strike. Much of the remaining roof of the Cathedral collapsed, sending up a cloud of dust, and sending the darkspawn snipers down to meet the cobblestones in gruesome splatters. The bell tower shook: so hard that two of the bells tolled faintly, and some of the darkspawn fell from the staircase. The Archdemon squawked in alarm, and then screamed in fury as it realized what had happened to the greatest of the nests. It sent out messages to its remaining lieutenants, summoning them from whatever else they were doing; demanding that they kill its enemies and avenge the nest.
The tremendous noise of the explosion covered the screams of those falling from the tower; those caught in mid-swing on their ropes, or those who were clinging to the stones in the act of tossing their grappling hooks. Thus died Sigrun and Clovis. Thus died Bustrum, who was too good a climber to have fallen for any other reason than someone else's fatal ambition.
Others, like Riordan, Leliana, and Quinn were hurt as their rhythm was thrown off by the shock. Alistair, too, had his nose bloodied by a wall that came up to meet him rather faster than he had planned. He held tight to the rope, and lived.
Bronwyn was perhaps the first one to realize what had happened, and it took her some time to pull herself together.
I will kill her. I am not joking. I am not exaggerating. I will kill Astrid, if I live through this.
Then the terrible unlikelihood of her survival struck her, and she choked back a sob, dangling between heaven and earth. There was so much she wanted to do, and be, and have, and her future seemed no longer than a rope's length.
I should have written Fergus a letter! Why didn't I write to him?
If she allowed herself to think like this, she might as well let go of the rope right now. Hissing a breath through her teeth, she pulled hard and walked up the wall to the next ledge. Another throw of the grappling hook, and she would be on the last stage of the climb.
Anders, fluttering back and forth desperately, was in a pitiable state. Morrigan might complacently perch on the edge, hidden by the wall at the top of the staircase. He found it impossible to be so calm. At the top of the tower, they had found the little ornate structure that housed the access to the staircase, and had discreetly barricaded the door, so that no darkspawn could burst out to defend the Archdemon. It was not much of a barricade: mostly ornamental urns full of dead flowers, but it was enough.
He longed to encourage his friends, but knew that swooping past them was more like to startle them. Ostap must have heard Bustrum's death cry. He was struggling on the slick wall, burdened by Tara, and anguished over the loss of his friend. Riordan was gritting his teeth, his elbow no doubt hurting him. Brosca was having trouble getting a secure grip on her rope now, and had slid down several feet. Then there was Alistair, his face bloody. Anders considered taking human form on a ledge and healing some injuries, but the storm and the situation frightened him. Then, too, suddenly being healed might also startle people. Zevran saw him go past, and flashed a fierce grin his way. He, at least, looked unhurt, and not in the least disheartened, even if very, very wet.
When they reach the top. When they reach the top, I'll be waiting. I'll cast a general healing on each one as they reach the top.
Loghain had no idea what had happened in the Cathedral, until a dwarven officer came to pass on the reports of some survivors from the Legion of the Dead. He had flinched away from the shock wave, like everyone else, and then, in dull horror, had seen the little figures tumbling from the tower. Bronwyn had not fallen, but what was she going through?
The dwarf, with pride and grief, told him that Paragon Astrid had led her people into the Cathedral and blown up the nest. Apparently, something had gone wrong and most of her party had been killed by the blast.
"My condolences," Loghain said. His face was stone. He hadn't told the bloody dwarf princess to go in there. The nest could have waited. Should have waited.
His head was turned in the direction of the bloody Archdemon, but his gaze was directed to the left, watching the little figure in dark red armor as it neared the top of the tower. What was the matter with the other bloody Wardens? Why did Bronwyn have to do everything herself?
You there, Carver Hawke! Look lively! And you, Brosca! Get yourselves up there and make sure Bronwyn doesn't have to die to save you all!
The darkspawn, at the Archdemon's command, deserted the city wall entirely, rushing south to the Cathedral compound. Their first obstacle came in the form of two angry, vicious wyverns that pounced on the first wave, scattering them, poisoning them, and ripping them apart.
Velanna, by now totally absorbed in her wyvern guise, could not have shifted back to elven form had she tried. It never occurred to her to do so. Instead, she charged into the darkspawn ranks and reduced them to chaos. Leopold, not to be outdone by the female, bounded along, crushing darkspawn a half-dozen at a blow.
Perhaps they ultimately made a very great difference, for the darkspawn were numerous. Had the full number of these reinforcements hit the north gate of the compound, they might well have overrun the defenses. As it was, the darkspawn were decimated, and they were forced to defend themselves, the archers taking up positions behind the melee fighters.
The last of the hurlock Generals rushed the wyverns, whirling his axe. With a half-intelligible shout, he buried the blade deep in Leopold's spine. The wyvern's ear-piercing shriek temporarily halted Velanna's rampage, but seeing her fellow creature's mortal wound, she renewed her attack with even greater savagery. She charged, knocking the General down. Then she caught his head in her jaws and bit down hard. The indigestible head, with its heavy helmet, was spat out at the darkspawn surrounding her.
More and more darkspawn poured into the street, trying to get past the wyvern and do the Archdemon's will. Velanna fought with all the power of a magical beast. Dozens went down to her poison, her fangs, her claws. They tried to swarm over her, but she leaped up to a statue, shaking them off, and then pounced, again and again, heedless of wounds, a stranger to fear.
All the northern Wardens outside the walls saw the bright flash of the explosion at the Cathedral reflected against the clouds: it shone with the eerie pale blue of lyrium. The roar came a few seconds later.
Athis wiped the rain from her face and looked at Pentaghast. He shook his head.
"That was no lightning strike."
"In the lore... when the Archdemon dies... they say there's a brilliant light... You don't think..."
The Tevinter lookout on the mound shrieked out the news.
"The darkspawn are withdrawing! They've left the walls! They're not at the gate towers!"
As one, the Wardens started running, running for the Gate of the Moon. A blow like a thousand fists struck the gate. They squealed horribly in response, massive hinges straining, bars made brittle.
"Wait!" shouted Elabagalus, his voice magically magnified. "Stand back!"
The terrible fist of arcane energy struck the gate again, fueled by blood and lyrium. The gates sagged, and then there was a tremendous snap! and they slammed back. The Wardens began pouring through, bellowing in triumph.
Fenris was here to fight, and so he fought. He had known Qunari in his days of wandering: knew and respected them. With Carver off trying to climb the tower, and Jowan wringing his hands as he waited below, Fenris decided it was time for action. Thus it was that he was in the bloodbath at the north gate of the Cathedral compound, holding off the darkspawn reinforcements. He stood, shoulder to shoulder with the defenders, and hacked away at the darkspawn. The golems and Qunari were big enough to resist attempts to push them back.
The army was in a perilous position. By this single-minded pursuit of the Archdemon, they had knowingly cut themselves off from support or retreat. Fenris presumed that was Loghain's strategy, at least. The Archdemon could always create another horde, sack another city, build another nest. Without the Archdemon, the darkspawn would be dangerous monsters, but no more than that: unable to to unite in massed attacks, unable to plan. Those on the surface did not have the wits to flee to the Deep Roads, and would have to be hunted down and annihilated. So much Fenris had learned from his Grey Warden friends.
So it was the Archdemon or nothing. The allies were staking everything on killing the dragon early and ending this Blight more quickly than any before. In exchange, they were in great danger now. No doubt more darkspawn had swept around and were poised to attack the south entry to the compound.
The Qunari leader, Sten, was an admirable fellow. Fenris did not claim to know him well, but the Qunari was a traveled and intelligent man, and had a far greater breath of vision than most of his race. And he was a tremendous warrior. He stood tall, lopping off a genlock's head and sweeping a hurlock's feet out from under him, while issuing commands in a calm, resonant voice that carried over the noise of battle.
Fenris hacked down a shriek that lunged at him. Blood splashed out, staining his armor. Fenris knew to keep his mouth closed when fighting darkspawn. He wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his arm and kept on fighting.
The Archdemon screamed from its command post atop the tower, and a band of genlock archers gathered behind the melee. When the Archdemon screamed again, they loosed their arrows in a volley at Sten.
The golem fighting at the north gate, Rune, saw the volley coming, and instantly put itself in front of Sten. The arrows harmlessly rattled off the dense metal. Sten was rather startled at the golem's action, but the creature was there to protect them, after all.
"Come," he ordered Rune. "You...and you four," he gestured at Fenris and three of his Qunari, "will advance with me and deal with the archers."
She was a rope's length from the top. Bronwyn clung to the ledge, ornamented with scenes of Andraste's battles, and swung the grappling hook. To make sure she was not going to hit anyone else, she was forced to look down and about her.
Zevran was just a little below and to the the right of her. He saw her and edged away to give her room to swing her rope. He mouthed some words at her, but she was too far away to make them out clearly. She thought he was saying, "Wait for me!"
Brosca was also to her left, beyond Zevran and a little higher, hauling herself up sturdily with her dwarven upper body strength. She was totally focused on climbing, and Bronwyn did not try to catch her attention.
Riordan was not far below her. He had evidently been taking the climb in shorter increments, and something was wrong with his left arm. Ostap, to her left, was carrying on doggedly. Tara's face was white and scared. Bronwyn wished that Tara had learned a bird form, but the elf had a fear of heights, and birds were apparently alien to her magic. Bronwyn felt a wave of affection for Tara's loyalty in following her up here, not knowing how she was to get down.
For that matter, how are any of us getting down, with the darkspawn on the staircase? One by one, I suppose. Or... there's always the quicker way, right over the edge.
Her stomach knotted at the thought.
Stop it. You're here to do your duty, not to whine. A Cousland always does her duty.
With the noise of the rain, the thunder, and the Archdemon's furious screams, she could not hear her grappling hook land. She tugged at the rope, and it seemed to hold firmly. She tugged harder, and hoped that the Archdemon had not seen it. For the sound of it, it was still at the front of the tower, looking down on the battle below. Loghain was no doubt doing his damnedest to rivet the Archdemon's attention there.
She looked up, and a flutter of black wings settled by the hook. The raven peered down at her, not daring even to squawk an encouragement. Surely if the hook were laid wrong, Anders would indicate it in some way. There was nothing else for it, so she swung out again, arms aching, and began slowing walking up the carved stones. A sculptured Andraste held her sword high, pointing the way to the victory.
The last bit was the hardest, and Bronwyn struggled to get a hand up over the wet stones at the top, A hand, and then the other, and then a leg, and she slid over the crenelation, nearly onto her face. Lightning struck the White Spire, a short distance away, and stone fell from the ruin. It made a tremendous distraction, which helped Bronwyn as she slunk away to the overdecorated structure that sheltered the top of the staircase. There was enough of a wall to hide in the shadows. She left her grappling hook in place. Riordan and others could use her rope to climb instead of having to swing their own up.
Bronwyn was more worried about Tara and Ostap. She crept further over, looking for them. Beside her, the shadows stirred, and Morrigan's yellow eyes gleamed at her from the darkness. The witch gave her an amused smile, which Bronwyn returned. Good. Someone's nerves were still all they should be. It kindled a spark of hope that this crazy plan would work.
The Archdemon was getting restless. Something had drawn its attention further to the north. It was flapping its wings. Any moment it might take off and all the climbing would be in vain.
Brosca slid over the wall, and Bronwyn beckoned her over. The little dwarf's eye's lit up, and she slipped silently back to the wall where Bronwyn and Morrigan were waiting. Anders settled by them and transformed. Energy instantly shot through Bronwyn's veins. Anders shot a spell at Brosca, and got a grin and a whispered, "Thanks!"
Bronwyn leaned over the wall again. Not everyone was there. Perhaps Sigrun had given up and gone down, but where was Bustrum? She mouthed the name at Anders, who shook his head grimly, and raised his hand to show the number of the lost. Bronwyn ground her jaw, feeling vengeful.
Zevran was next, and then, in short order, Riordan. Anders pulled him completely behind the stairwell wall, so the light from the healing spell would not show. Ostap was getting close to the top.
She huddled close with her comrades, and whispered on a thread of breath. "As soon as Tara is up here, we've got to attack. When I give the signal—" She raised her hand and lowered it quickly, to show them "—I want you to hit the Archdemon with the most powerful freezing spells you can. Hold it in place, and we'll jump on it and get our anchors in. We can't wait for anyone else."
Riordan whispered back, equally softly, "We must shred the creature's wings. It cannot be allowed to escape."
"All right. You go for the wings. Zevran, help him. There's no way a wing wound could be considered lethal."
Riordan raised his brows, not pleased at Bronwyn's lack of discretion. She whispered, "Everyone knows that only a Warden can kill an Archdemon! It's no secret! Anyway, I'll go for the brain. Here's Ostap. Let's get Tara off his back."
Tara was trembling with stress as they pulled her over the wall. Zevran took her in his arms and a gave her a kiss and a whispered endearment. Anders gave her a restorative potion to guzzle down. Ostap sighed with relief, and managed to climb over on his own. Quickly, Bronwyn whispered the plan to them. The Archdemon was restless and alarmed. Bronwyn might have panicked had she known that it was preparing to launch itself off the wall and attack the Grey Warden who were pouring through the bottleneck at the Gate of the Moon.
Instead, Bronwyn took a deep breath, dismissing all thoughts from her mind other than those that concerned fighting and killing the Archdemon. It was too late for regrets. Nor could she wait for Alistair and Leliana and the others, laboring up the tower. She slipped the spear-anchor from its sheath on her back, crept forward a few paces, crouched, and raised her arm. Beside her, Riordan, Zevran, Brosca, and Ostap waited, tense as leashed hounds.
She dropped her arm and sprang forward. Behind her, three powerful mages cast a freezing spell on the Archdemon, just as its wings were lifting for the first mighty downstroke that would carry it far away.
The frost on the rain-slickened scales turned the dragon's surface to ice. Bronwyn tried to vault onto the huge back, and slipped away. Riordan jammed his anchor directly into the Archdemon's side and triggered the spring. The prongs shot out and plunged deep into muscle.
"Thanks!" chirped Brosca, darting in between the two humans. She bounded onto the anchor and swung herself up, catching at the dangling strap of the anchor that Bustrum had left in the creature during the battle at the Place Reville. She hauled herself onto the Archdemon's back. Slipping and sliding, she moved along the creature's spine, choosing a good spot to plunge in her own anchor. Bronwyn burst out laughing. Riordan swore vividly.
Zevran was amused himself. "Ha!" He plunged in his own anchor, higher than Riordan's, giving a safer way up to the dragon's back. "Con permesso, my Queen," he said, giving Bronwyn a boost. Bronwyn threw a smile back at him, and was surprised at how sad he looked. Riordan was up immediately after, diving for the wing joint that Niall had damaged earlier. Zevran thrust up at the same target from below, his dagger slimy with the Wardens' most lethal poisons.
Being a bigger man, Ostap was a little slower than Riordan, but was still able to make it to the dragon's back and deploy his anchor before the spell faded, and the dragon, not quite sure what had just happened, was suddenly conscious of a knifing pain in its left wing. It screamed out in surprise, and turned its head completely around, trying to see what was happening on its blind side.
It screamed again, horrified, when it suddenly realized how it had been tricked.
With a violent shudder, it tried to shake off the puny mortals that were crawling over its divine flesh. It lashed out with the huge tail, smashing the tower wall, sending stones tumbling that crushed darkspawn and soldiers alike. Zevran's dagger was stuck in its joint, and as the assassin attempted to pull it free, he was struck by a front leg, and nearly sent over the side of the tower. Tara shrieked, running to him, casting a life-draining curse at the Archdemon's hideous head. She caught Zevran by an ankle, and pulled him back from the brink.
Anders tried a freezing spell that caught Ostap along with the dragon. Morrigan, more cool-headed, lay down a paralysis glyph, which while elegant, delayed the dragon only briefly. It was enough time for Riordan to buckle his strap and brace himself against the left wing. Bronwyn vaulted past Brosca, despite the dwarf's protests, and clambered higher on the bony neck ridge, gripping it with her thighs as she would a horse. Ostap had gone for the right wing and wrapped the strap around his left arm. Brosca clung to two of the anchors, tying the straps together as the wings came down, and the Archdemon leaped from the top of the Cathedral tower.
Tara and Zevran held each other fast, both glad to be alive, but anguished at this latest development. Tara whirled, and shouted at Anders and Morrigan.
"What's the matter with you? Go after them! Go after them!" She rushed at them, waving her arms, and shooed them away like chickens. Indignant, Morrigan took to the skies, screeing at Tara, who gestured back at her in the rudest possible way. Anders was aloft a second later, with an uneasy look back at Tara. Both birds took off after the Archdemon, which was flying slowly and unsteadily, both its wings injured.
At that moment, Alistair was over the top, his face covered with blood, looking about him in bewilderment. He was followed a moment later by Darach, by Quinn, and then by Carver. Minjonet and Leliana had some way to go. Others were still only two-thirds to the top.
"Where's the Archdemon?" Alistair demanded, as if it would suddenly reveal itself behind an ornamental vase.
"Gone," Zevran told him. "And our lady with it. Riordan, Brosca and Ostap are with her, and Morrigan and Anders are flying behind."
Alistair took a threatening step forward, fist cocked to punch the assassin.
"Alistair! Don't" Tara cried. "It's not our fault! They've gone and left us!"
A furious, frustrated tremor, and then Alistair exploded.
"Right! I've just about had enough of this!"
Tara jumped back, wide-eyed. She had never seen Alistair lose his temper before.
He wasn't done.
"I'm going to kill some darkspawn. Lots of darkspawn. You can stay here if you want. I don't care."
With that, he turned smartly on his heel, and headed to the door, shoving the urns and Blighted flowers of the barricade aside. He drew his sword, and headed for the top of the spiral staircase.
It seemed the only thing left do. Without a word, the rest followed him.
Bronwyn watched the teeming courtyard below drift away like a passing vision. The noise of battle was muffled by the tremendous downstrokes of the Archdemon's wings. It dipped its head, and Bronwyn's stomach lurched. She clung to the neck ridge, almost panicking. The swarms of warriors and archers, the flashes of the mages' spells were tiny and far away. In the midst of them was a little figure in shining silverite armor that had paused, looking up at her. Loghain was watching her fly away.
That's right. I promised him we'd see one another again. I didn't think it would be like this. Not like this. I imagine he'll think I've been terribly stupid, after all. And poor Scout!
Look! There was Sten at the compound gate with a golem. His men were putting up a good fight. Bronwyn hoped he'd find his precious Tome. And farther away, she could see over the very city walls. Warriors were pouring in through the north gate, and they were not darkspawn! They must be Hector Pentaghast and the rest. What a pity she would never have the chance to give the First Warden a piece of her mind. Useless twit.
The Archdemon shrieked, faltering. Bronwyn saw that Riordan had torn a great hole in its wing with his spear. The Archdemon swooped and struggled, trying to shake them off. It swerved, bellowing, and headed east, toward the harbor and out to sea.
The rain had almost stopped. A light drizzle misted the sky around the dragon. Dark waves glittered below, where the lights of Isabela's little fleet shone faintly. The dragon dropped down, almost skimming the surface of the water.
The flight smoothed a little and Bronwyn buckled the strap of her anchor to her belt, and then used the loop to safely slip up higher on the neck. The Archdemon hated that, and twisted its neck, trying to snap at her. She was too close to the head. Instead, it saw Ostap, who was trying to gain enough purchase to take another swing at the right wing joint. With a roar, the Archdemon bit at him, and a fang tore through his anchor strap. The big Avvar tumbled into the water with a wild shout.
Triumphant, the Archdemon lifted its head and soared up at a sliver of moon visible through the breaking clouds. It flapped its injured wings, trying to gain altitude, its flight nearly vertical. Brosca's grip on her straps began to slip.
"Boss!" Brosca called. "Boss!"
Brosca's round little face was white in the dim moonlight, and it suddenly grew smaller and smaller, as she fell away toward the waiting sea.
"Brosca!" Bronwyn's cry was lost in the rushing wind. Now only Riordan and she were left.
No... not so. She saw a flutter of wings to her left, and the pale feathers on the underside of a hawk's wing caught the moonlight. To her right was a raven, farther away, wary of the Archdemon's good eye. At least there would be witnesses.
She slipped further up the long neck, nearly tipping over, and found close to the head. She could grab at the horns to steady herself, and slipped over another bony spine. The Archdemon shook its head, enraged, and then screamed, as Riordan managed to stab at the base of its wing, striking a nerve.
Its flight was unsteady now, and it banked sharply, heading back to land, not risking itself to the sea. Bronwyn's stomach lurched again, violently, and she turned her head and was sick, losing her poor last meal from the Place Reville. It was unspeakably vile. She had no idea if Riordan was still with her or not, but it must be all he could do not to fall. She wiped her mouth with the back of her gauntlet, and tasted Archdemon ichor. It was even worse than the vomit.
They straightened out once more, and passed over the plain to the north of the city. Bronwyn glanced at it, impressed. Someone had done a great deal of siege-work here. It was quite the sight. She remembered the vision in which the kingdoms of the earth had been spread out before her. Now she seemed to see that same vision with her living eyes, but truly the only kingdom that mattered was the kingdom within: the strength she could wield to master her fear and do her duty. She slipped forward over the last ridge and pulled her spear, her dragon-killer, from its sheath on her back.
A sob broke from her, thinking of all she must leave. She pressed the tip of the spear to the exact spot at the back of the brain, and sobbed again, her throat burning.
"Goodbye!" she cried. "Goodbye!"
And then she thrust the spear home with all her strength.
Thanks to my reviewers: Nemrut, Ie-maru, Candle in the Night, Chiara Crawford, Mike3207, AD Lewis, KnightOfHolyLight, Phygmalion, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, imperial queen, Melysande, Lucy's Echos, Tirion I, sizuka2, BandGeekNinja, JackOfBladesX, Guest, darksky01, Death Knight's Crowbar, karinfan123, reality deviant, jenna53, Guile, jnybot, amanda weber, Cheshire, Jodel, MsBarrows, dragonmactir, Zute, mille libri, IneedAHaircut, animeman12, and Robbie the Phoenix.