Notes:
Woah, boy, this chapter is long! The Inquisition finally reaches Adamant and stabbing ensues. In fact, this chapter is about 90% stabbing and 10% people complaining about how tired they are from all the stabbing.
The battering ram smashes against Adamant's towering wooden door. It shakes, the oak planks straining against the iron studs, but holds. The Inquisition soldiers try again, heaving the great, steal-capped ram back before letting it slam into the door with another sonorous thud. A canopy protects the battering ram from the Wardens' assault above, and the Inquisition soldiers' shields are held aloft to protect them from the seemingly endless barrage of arrows and rocks, yet the Inquisition's numbers are dwindling as Warden projectiles pierce through armour and flesh.
Standing behind the siege weapon, Eleri raises her bow and unleashes a volley into the row of Wardens lining the parapet above the gate. There's a chorus of shrieks as each arrow finds its mark, then the lifeless Wardens flop over the crenelated walls, falling bonelessly to the ground like ragdolls. Bron can hear the sickening crunch as their bodies hit stone, can hear the sound of Inquisition arrows flying as another volley is released into the gatehouse, and then the distinctive, louder thunk of Varric's crossbow.
Bron's frustrated, thrumming with unspent energy. Lacking any ability with a ranged weapon, she's forced to wait, forced to stand impotently behind the battering ram until it's her turn to charge the enemy. It's not that she wants to charge – far from it. Bron wants more than anything to just… turn around and run. The battle is so much… louder than she ever would have anticipated. The screams of the dying, the scrape of metal on metal, the roar of blistering fire, a great cacophony of senses that Bron wants to quiet.
But the waiting is the worst. She feels weak, powerless amongst the chaos.
Her only comfort is Alistair's looming presence beside her, familiar and strong. Noticing her discomfort, he steps closer.
"Just stay by my side," he shouts, pitching his voice so that it carries over the racket.
She nods to show her understanding, though she's not sure he can see it. His eyes are focused on the battering ram and the tall wooden gate ahead. He's waiting for his moment, like the well-trained soldier that he is.
Suddenly there's a pop following by a long cracking as the ram splinters wood and bends metal. Almost there, Bron thinks. The ram is hefted back once more before slamming into the door. Then twice and a third time. At the fourth mighty swing of the battering ram, the planks of the great gate at last come shattering forward and there's a strange lull, a momentary stillness, before someone gives a rallying cry and the Inquisition troops surge forward.
Eleri moves with her troops, her companions following close behind her, and Bron waits only a second to look at Alistair's determined expression before charging into the fray. The wrecked door now hangs limply from its hinges and the soldiers run hastily into the narrow courtyard directly behind the gateway, shields at the ready to defend themselves against the Wardens inevitably awaiting them.
As soon as they've cleared the gateway, Eleri, Varric, Solas and a smattering of Inquisition archers take strategic positions at one end of the courtyard, using their ranged weapons to pick off the Wardens from a distance. Cassandra, Alistair and Bron charge with the rest of the Inquisition soldiers directly toward the enemy line, weapons held aloft and ready to engage.
With strong, confident thrusts, Bron cuts into the Warden lines, her rapier finding soft, yielding flesh between the silverite plates of Warden armour. There's a rhythm to it, a timpani of metal on metal as the two sides clash. She'd been expecting the courtyard to be filled with mages, demons even, but this front line seems to consist mainly of warriors. It's easier than she'd anticipated, felling the Warden warriors one-by-one, and she feels almost guilty for feeling relief.
A Warden warrior charges forward with dual daggers scything the air in tight circles. Timing her attack carefully, Bron thrusts her rapier upwards, catching both daggers mid-slice. She pushes back with all her might but her strength is nothing compared to the heft of the Warden and he does not budge. With a feral cry, she kicks him in the knee. It's not an elegant move, certainly not sportsmanlike, but good form seems unimportant now. The Warden doubles over in pain and Bron slashes her rapier across the unfortunate man's neck. A curtain of blood sprays from the wound, gruesome in its exuberance, before the aimless corpse drops idly to the ground.
There's no time to mourn the man who was once Warden, who once served duty and sacrifice and now, unwittingly, serves Corypheus, because as one body falls, another appears to fill its place, with weapon drawn and expression fierce. The noise is deafening, reverberating off the walls in the narrow courtyard until all that can be heard is steel hitting steel and the pitiable cries of the dying.
Bron is surprised at how quickly the Inquisition troops clear the first courtyard. It leaves her uneasy, like there's some sort of catch, some sort of trap they are yet to spring.
"The Inquisition is through, fall back!" she hears someone cry but she can't tell where the shout is coming from or to where the Wardens are retreating.
Standing in the centre of the courtyard, breath heaving and mind reeling, Bron watches gormlessly as a continuous stream of Inquisition soldiers hurry through the broken door of the fortress and establish themselves at strategic positions next to the entrance. Now that the Inquisition has this first foothold within the fortress, there is no intention to lose it.
She's brought out of her stupor when she feels a gentle weight on her shoulder. When she turns she sees Alistair's grime-covered face, a concerned frown pulling at his features. Are you all right?
She gives a weak smile and a shrug of her shoulders. As good as can be expected.
Over Alistair's shoulder, Bron can see Commander Cullen as he runs into the courtyard at the head of a unit of soldiers, heading straight to Eleri.
"All right, Inquisitor," he says when he's reached her side, "you have your way in. Best make use of it. My troops will keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can. "
"As long as we can?" Eleri queries with an arched brow, "that's… comforting."
"There's too much resistance on the walls. Our men on the ladders can't get a foothold," he explains.
Hearing his words, Bron looks up at the high walls that line the courtyard. She can just make out figures among the sea of flailing, writhing limbs above. There are Inquisition troops, yes, their distinctive green distinguishing them from the Wardens' blue – but there appears to be far more demons than humans on the walls, their mangled bodies and flaming limbs writhing and surging grotesquely. It's a dispiriting sight.
"Hawke has gone to the battlements to assist but…" Cullen stops, looks thoughtfully across the assembled soldiers as if calculating their odds of survival. From the small shake of his head, Bron assumes his calculations have come up short. "If you can clear out the enemies on the battlements, we'll be able to cover your advance."
Eleri nods in understanding and then smiles, not sweetly or warmly, but with a kind of steely determination that is wholly at odds with Cullen's far more somber expression. There is still fear in her eyes, and Bron does not fail to see the tiny tremble in her arms, but despite her terror, the Inquisitor is resolved to put on a strong front.
"To the walls," Eleri calls to her companions, pushing as much authority as she possibly can into her normally soft voice, "we must support our comrades on the battlements."
There's a ripple of cheers before Eleri leads a unit of soldiers up a nearby flight of stairs toward the battlements. Cullen watches her go for a few lingering moments before leading his own units of soldiers forward to take the base of the fortress courtyard by courtyard. Bron feels sorry for him; it must be hard watching someone you love charge into battle, knowing that there's nothing you can do to protect them.
At least Alistair is nearby, and Bron watches him from the corner of her eyes as she follows the Inquisition soldiers up toward the battlements. Alistair may be far more at ease on the battlefield than her but that does not mean that he will not need her.
Slowly, methodically, Eleri's troops work their way into the Fortress, proceeding ever higher to the battlements. It doesn't take long for them to find a natural rhythm – Cassandra, Alistair and Bron storming forward with the Inquisition's soldiers while Eleri, Varric and Solas hang back to support. It's an effective strategy and Bron is relieved that their losses so far are few.
That relief quickly vanishes when they reach the battlements.
Bodies pile the floor, the stones smeared with blood and viscera, while mage-fire and demons splinter the air. There's a strange taste at the back of Bron's throat, something sharp and stringent and wholly unnatural, and Bron's limited experience with mages leaves her wondering whether magic is supposed to taste like that.
Occasionally a ladder will appear, smacking against the outside of the fortress's walls with a dull, metallic thunk, and Inquisition soldiers surge onto the battlements with a triumphant cry. Their triumph is quickly quashed as they're met by an impenetrable barrier of Wardens and demons, their battle cries silenced by fire and ice.
The Inquisition needs to do something quick to reverse their fortunes.
"This is madness," Bron hears over the monstrous cacophony of battle, "we will not be sacrificed to this."
It is only then that she notices that not all of the Wardens are attacking the Inquisition soldiers. Warden warriors stand among the melee, pleading with their mage comrades in a desperate attempt to stop the blood sacrifices and abandon the demons. The Warden mages don't hear, already too succumbed to the Venatori's influence.
"Quick!" shouts Eleri as she leads her soldiers toward the fighting, "we must protect the Warden warriors as well as our own!"
Eleri and Varric unleash a volley of arrows across the battlements, drawing attention away from the rebelling Wardens and toward the Inquisition reinforcements.
Before Bron can worry about the demons and the barrage of magic now heading her way, Eleri's soldiers charge forward and Bron finds herself charging with them. The Warden warriors are helping – hacking and slashing at demon and mage alike – and while Bron appreciates their help, she's irritated to find the battlefield even more bewildering that it was before. It's hard trying to distinguish between the men in blue trying to kill her and the men in blue trying to help, particularly when her instincts are telling her to just stab whomever appears Warden-shaped.
When the first stretch of the battlements has been cleared of enemies, Eleri turns to the Warden warriors still standing, palms outreached to show that she means them no harm. "The Inquisition is here to stop Clarel," she explains, "not to kill Wardens. If you fall back, you won't be harmed."
"All right," one of the warriors replies, Bron assumes someone of authority based on the extra ornamentation on his armour, "my men will stay back; we want no part of this."
It's a relief. Bron wasn't particularly relishing the thought of having to kill more Wardens than absolutely necessary. And she knows it'll be a relief for Alistair too – a Warden warrior himself – to save as many Wardens as possible.
She turns to face him, sees the pleased smile somehow cutting through the grime and the gore smeared across his face. "Well said," he says, though he must know that Eleri won't be able to hear him over the noise of nearby fighting, "I knew some of the Wardens would listen to reason." She nods in response; he should know that someone agrees with him.
There's little time for rest and Eleri pushes her soldiers to continue onward, cutting through demons and Warden mages as they move. The Inquisition's troops show remarkable determination despite the demon horrors that face them at every turn, and Bron is impressed by their fighting skills. Commander Cullen has trained them well.
Eleri and her companions also fight well together, like the complimentary gears in a well-oiled machine. Cassandra surges forward to face the enemy directly while Eleri and Varric fire projectiles methodically across the night sky. Solas chants low and steady, using magic to slow the Wardens' approach and prevent them from overpowering the meager band of Inquisition soldiers. Alistair, tall and steady, stands his ground while bringing his long-sword down in straight, solid hits. Conversely, Bron never stands still, weaving through the wave of attackers, the narrow point of her rapier penetrating plate and chainmail alike. She strikes with precision, taking advantage of weak spots and constantly moving out of striking range to make up for her small stature.
They're making excellent progress along the battlements when suddenly there's a great conflagration of fire and Bron feels something drop in the pit of her stomach. Just ahead, Bron can see fireballs raining from the sky, pattering on the stone with sharp crashes of sound. Below, there are screams. Even at a distance, Bron can feel the oppressive heat of the flames wash over her skin, a singing sensation that makes her skin prickle.
It must be a Warden mage, more powerful than any other they have encountered. She grips her rapier tighter, uncertain what this thin lance of metal can do when faced with a person of such immeasurable power.
But then she sees – Hawke – standing on the battlements amidst a great sea of bodies while flames lick and wave across her palms. She's cleared the battlefield with one enormous burst of fire and death and Bron's not sure whether she's amazed or terrified. Either way, she's immensely glad that Hawke is on the Inquisition's side.
But Hawke has not killed all her opponents. One lone creature remains – a large, hefting demon which towers far, far above her. Thick cords of muscle strain under a skin of grey scales and a horned head stares down at Hawke with almost pitying amusement.
Pride Demon, Bron's brain informs her, a powerful creature she'd learned about during Chantry study as a child. They are the most powerful of all demons, twisting the wisdom and faith of man and corrupting it into something ruinous. Bron wishes she hadn't paid such close attention at school; she thinks in this situation that ignorance may be a blessing.
She squares her shoulders and shifts her weight to the pads of her feet, pivoting her sword in her hand to prepare for the imminent attack. To her side stands Alistair, still and sturdy, and she flashes him what she hopes is an encouraging smile. He frowns at her in return; she fears that her smile must look more manic than reassuring.
To her other side stands Cassandra and she throws her a smile as well; Cassandra only nods, although Bron finds Cassandra's determined stoicism strangely fortifying. She knows that Eleri and Varric are behind her, weapons drawn and ready to provide suppressive fire, and she can still see the balls of fire roaring in Hawke's hands.
She draws comfort and strength from the knowledge that her friends are close at hand.
The rumble comes quietly at first then crescendos into a mighty roar as the Pride Demon charges forward, crushing armour and bone beneath its clawed feet as it tramples across fallen bodies. Bron dodges to the side, ending in a clumsy roll that takes her out of the demon's immediate range. She can see Alistair and Cassandra standing their ground, long-swords slashing at spined limbs and shields held aloft defensively.
It's impressive, these two armoured figures standing sturdily against their far larger enemy but Bron knows that she cannot do likewise. She is no warrior, her leather armour offering only minimal protection, and she knows that the only way she can help is if she can dance behind the demon and find some sort of weak spot. Large, gnarled spikes extend from the demon's elbows and Bron knows that she'll have to time her movements properly if she doesn't want to end up impaled while reeling to the demon's back.
She's waiting for the right moment to lunge when a sudden warning pierces the air and Bron finds herself lurching unexpectedly to the left as a clawed hand hits her soundly in the stomach.
Fuck – that hurts.
She hits the stone floor of the battlements with a heavy thud, curses herself for having not paid better attention. There's a blossoming warmth at the back of her head and she's sure that she must be bleeding. When she opens her eyes her vision is blurred, only indistinct shapes waver against a dark sky. She blinks until the world begins to come into focus and immediately regrets it; all around her lie scores of broken bodies, limbs akimbo, gazes unwavering and empty. It's a macabre reminder of what will happen to her if she doesn't get back on her feet and defend herself – soon.
She pushes her bruised body from the blood-slicked stones while her eyes desperately scan the battlefield to see whether her friends are still standing. Cassandra and Alistair are facing the Pride Demon head-on while Hawke rains fire from above, which means that Bron's stomach is mercifully spared a second assault for now. Meanwhile Solas is holding back the arrival of lesser demons with wide sweeps of his staff and white arches of magic that make Bron's teeth tingle whenever they make contact. At the rear of the group, Eleri and Varric are urgently firing arrow after arrow. Eleri's rate of fire seems to be slowing and the trembling in her hands is beginning to affect her aim.
Bron gives her body another push; this must end soon.
Marshaling as much strength as possible, Bron runs back into the fray, jumping to the side to avoid another powerful blow of the Pride Demon's fist. As it swings its fist again, Alistair dives forward and jabs the monster in the armpit. The demon gives an anguished yell but appears unscathed as he swings again. Alistair is too slow, takes the fist squarely to his chest, and goes soaring through the air until he hits the crumbled remains of a wall and drops to the ground like a child's ill-favoured toy.
A scream pierces the air and it takes Bron a few moments to realise that it's hers. Alistair is slumped on the floor, limbs bent and face bloody, and Bron's not sure whether it's fear or sadness or panic that she feels at the sight of his prone form but all those emotions are brushed aside as they're replaced with a surging, burning anger.
Enough, she thinks, this demon will fucking pay for what it has done to her Alistair.
Bron runs, drops under the demon's outstretched arm, then leaps at the demon from behind, burying her rapier between its shoulder blades and holding on desperately as the demon rears and bucks in an attempt to dislodge her. The demon's thrashing causes Bron to fall but as she does, she drags her weapon down its skin, leaving a ragged gash all down its spine. The wound oozes, coating her hands and the front of her leathers in black blood, and permeating the air with a foul, stale stench.
She hits the ground with a jolt that steals the breath from her lungs. The pain is quickly forgotten though because on the other side of the battlefield Alistair is staggering to his feet and all Bron can feel is an overwhelming wave of relief. She needs to join him; they fight better when they're side-by-side.
Pulling herself from the ground once more, Bron feels a distinctive twinge in her chest – ah, a few bruised ribs. Taking a step forward, she crumples to the ground with an embarrassingly shrill shout of pain. A twisted ankle too then. She shakes her head, as if she can shake away the pain, and rolls her shoulders. It's less than ideal, her body bruised and strumming with pain, but then the Pride Demon is in a sorry state as well. They just need a few more good hits and the demon will fall. Then all they have to content with is the unending stampede of demons and deranged mages.
Is that all?
Bron feels the sudden peculiar compulsion to laugh but finds that she does not have the energy.
Alistair and Cassandra hack determinedly at the demon's legs, strafing aside intermittently to avoid the crushing weight of its powerful fists, but their blows seem to simply bounce off the demon's thick hide. Eleri and Varric's arrows seem similarly affected, causing only minimal damage when they thump against the demon's plated skin. If they are to end this, they need a new strategy.
Bron rushes forward, a newfound determination fuelling her steps even against the protests of her ankle. With a fierce roar, she climbs the demon's massive frame until they are face-to-face, then pushes her rapier down into the softer skin at the junction between neck and shoulder. The demon's mouth opens in a scream but no noise comes out. Instead blood, black like pitch, erupts upwards like a fountain and the mighty creature staggers precariously. Bron jumps off the demon's lumbering form, leaving her rapier sticking jauntily out of black-stained flesh.
Her legs crumple beneath her as she lands clumsily on the filthy flagstones but Bron manages to pull enough air into her lungs to shout, "Hawke! Use lightening! Aim for the neck!"
Hawke looks confused for a moment then sees the rapier still embedded in the demon's skin and nods in understanding. Raising her staff, she unleashes a piercing lance of electricity which barrels straight for Bron's rapier like a lightening rod. The metal blade sparks with power as the electricity surges down the rapier and into the demon's body.
There's a loud crackling sound as Hawke's lightening scorches the Pride Demon from within. The smell is foul, the choking aroma of burning sinew and skin. The demon's body jerks and spasms like a grotesque marionette until, finally, it stops and falls pendulously to the floor.
No one cheers when the demon falls still; there's no time – no time to rest, no time to breath. The Pride Demon may be defeated but the mages and their demons still remain, crowding the battlements, jockeying to attack.
Bron is tired. Bron is so fucking tired. And she just – she can't, she can't. Sprawled on her back atop the filthy stone, Bron commands her body to move but finds it unwilling. She can see the beady eyes of the approaching demons, hear the crackling magic of the Warden mages, but there's nothing she can do – no last reserve of strength she can draw on to carry on the fight. Bron is completely spent.
Oh Maker.
Suddenly a volley of arrows flies through the air and a throng of demons immediately hit the ground. From her position splayed on the floor, Bron can't really see what's happening but the first volley is followed by another and then another, until the air hums with continuous arrow fire. The demon hordes finally stop advancing, their numbers diminishing under the relentless assault while their mage support turns to retreat.
When she is finally able to twist her body and sit up, Bron is faced with a unit of Inquisition archers, longbows in hand. They must have made it up the ladders, or maybe they were sent by Cullen from the courtyards below. It doesn't really matter – all that matters is that they're here, the Wardens are routed, and she still lives.
Alistair stumbles to her side with hurried, graceless feet and falls heavily to his knees beside her.
"You all right?" he asks as he takes her hands in his. His armoured gauntlets pinch at her skin even through her leather gloves.
"Yes," she lies, "I am unharmed." Alistair doesn't need to know about the throbbing pain in her ribs, or the sharp stab in her ankle, and she hopes that her black hair is hiding the blood she can feel trickling from the wound at the back of her skull. Alistair has enough concerns on his mind right now; he doesn't need to waste time worrying about her wellbeing as well.
They are both unsteady as they pull each other to their feet, and though Bron's head is reeling when she's finally upright, she tries her best to hide it from Alistair. She smiles at him with forced ease and relishes in the small smile he gives her in return. It's only a tentative whisper of a smile – nothing like his usual, toothy grins – but it's there, and he's alive, and that's all Bron really needs right now.
He gives her elbow a friendly squeeze before turning to help the others, hurrying with extended arms to assist a prone Cassandra. Bron supposes she should be helpful too, maybe assist Eleri in retrieving arrows from the battlefield or help Hawke search the bodies littering the floor for Inquisition survivors. But she fears that if she attempts even one step she'll end up falling to the ground again and she needs just… just one moment to herself.
An Inquisition soldier hands her a vial of something and she's not sure what it is but it slides down her throat with a pleasant, soothing warmth. The sharp pain in her head remains but the ache in her ankle feels lessened. It's not a perfect fix but it'll do.
"So many have succumbed to Corypheus," Hawke says as she bends to check the pulse of a fallen Inquisition soldier. She frowns then straightens. "This is going to be… bloody."
"You did good, Hawke," Eleri says as she walks over to Hawke and places a companionable hand on her shoulder, "many more would have died were you not here fighting alongside us."
Hawke nods although she doesn't seem particularly soothed by Eleri's words of thanks.
From a short distance away, Bron can hear shouting, the distinct snapping of magic and the howling of inhuman voices. It's an unwelcome reminder that the battle is still not won.
"Hawke is right," Eleri says, now pitching her voice loud enough to carry over the battlements. She looks distinctly uncomfortable, her expression pinched and tense as all faces turn to look at her. "This battle is bloody. And it will get bloodier before the night is done. But if… when we win – when we've freed the Wardens from Corypheus – then we'll know that the blood of our comrades was not spilt in vain. I know you're tired. I know you hurt. But victory is within our grasp. It is time… it is time to end this."
A small cheer ripples through the assembled crowd. It's not much, most people too tired to show any genuine enthusiasm, but the fear seems lessened somehow. Instead of dread and horror, there's determination behind people's eyes, a new confidence in people's steps.
Eleri's speech is not the most inspiring rallying cry Bron has ever heard, and it's clear from Eleri's stiffness that she is not comfortable making these kinds of grand public addresses, but her words seem to have worked as intended and Bron is reminded once again of just why this woman was chosen to be Inquisitor.
"You'll need this," Alistair says from over her shoulder and when Bron turns she sees her rapier in his outstretched hand and an amused smile on his face. She's mocked him before for having lost his blade on the battlefield; he's probably enjoying this little role reversal. She takes the rapier from him eagerly, noting how the weapon gleams unexpectedly. He's wiped the blade clean, although some blood and gore still hangs persistently to the crevices of the hilt, and she feels an odd patter of affection at this little act of kindness. She twists her wrists, swinging with an exaggerated flourish. It's strangely comforting, the sturdy weight of her rapier back in her hand.
Eleri's right, she thinks, it is time to end this.
Alistair is tired. There's a gash on his temple where a demon got too close. His knee hurts from when he lunged away from a Warden attack and landed awkwardly. And his back – Maker, his back – is throbbing sharply from when the Pride Demon sent him flying through the air and crashing into a wall. It was a rookie mistake, getting too close to the demon's claws, and he doesn't have time for those now.
He clumsily prods at the wound on his head while trying to surreptitiously observe Bron. She seems to be in better shape than him, looks relatively unscathed. But then her fighting style is to strike and then quickly retreat, wheeling to unprotected backs and skirting around attacks. It's a less direct method of attack than his, it takes her longer to down a well-armoured enemy, but it keeps her safe.
Bron raises her head sharply when he hisses in pain, narrows her eyes at him in silent reprimand. Stop poking.
He raises his palms to her in what he hopes is a placating gesture, then opens his mouth to apologise when Solas interrupts.
"We must hurry," says Solas, "our troops cannot resist the demons for long."
It's an obvious statement and Alistair wants to say something snarky in return. But he's proud of himself when he manages to hold his tongue; snark won't make the next fight any easier (although it might make him feel better).
Eleri and her troops had stopped for only a brief moment, only long enough to pick the ground for arrows and swig back restoring potions, but Solas's words remind everyone of the urgency of their mission. Eleri gathers her troops around her, waits only long enough to check that everyone is ready, before leading them further along the battlements. There's no time to rest, not now, not while the Fortress still teams with a seemingly endless army of demons.
The Inquisition makes its way toward a building that looks like some sort of central Keep, its tall, straight walls jutting forebodingly into the darkened sky. Their progress is slow, only advancing along the battlements through relentless battle. Alistair may have been tired before but now he is exhausted.
Just before they reach the Keep, they encounter a group of Inquisition soldiers.
"How many demons are there?" Eleri asks as her head scans the area, nodding at the small assemblage of soldiers.
"Fewer thanks to you," he replies, "and Hawke – she saved a lot of lives on the battlements. Not all the Wardens have stood against us; several have come to our aid. Maker willing, we may be able to reason with Clarel."
She pulls a face, nose wrinkled and lips curled, at the soldier's invocation of the Maker. "Yes, Maker willing," she replies, quickly muttering the words like they taste foul on her tongue. And despite his strict Chantry upbringing, Alistair thinks he might agree with her irritation – if the Maker really does exist, he has clearly forsaken this place.
When they walk through a gateway into the central Keep of the fortress, they're met with a large, square courtyard filled with Wardens, though none seem to notice their arrival. A woman he assumes to be Clarel stands on a raised platform at the edge of the yard, arms outstretched to the assembled crowd.
"Wardens, we are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect," Clarel calls, her thick Orlesian accent giving her words a pleasantly lilting sound that seems totally out of odds with the battlefield.
A man hurries out of the shadows and grabs Clarel by the shoulders. Alistair immediately recognises him as the man from the ritual tower, Erimond. Clarel and Erimond bicker amongst themselves for a time, and although Alistair can't hear what they're saying, he can tell from their fervent gesticulating that it is not a harmonious conversation. It gives him some hope; if there is discord between them, perhaps it'll be easy to break Clarel away from the Venatori's thrall and bloodshed can be avoided.
Pushing aside Erimond, Clarel reaches out toward an elderly Warden who has stepped forward with a ceremonious bow. Alistair can't hear them but he knows what's coming next; he remembers vividly the horrifying sacrifices he witnessed at the ritual tower. Alistair and his Inquisition allies hurry forward – perhaps this time they will arrive in time to stop this madness.
Clarel pulls out a small dagger and slides it across the elderly Warden's throat. He falls to the ground in a shower of blood that spills and pools out of his body as if it is a living creature with a mind of its own.
Alistair knows that they are too late.
Suddenly Erimond cries out in distress and it's clear from his frantic pointing and waving that he's spotted the Inquisition's approach. "Stop them!" he screeches, "we must complete the ritual!"
"Clarel!" Eleri shouts, and Alistair is amazed that so much sound can come from such a tiny woman, "if you complete that ritual, you're doing exactly what Erimond wants, you're playing straight into the hands of the Venatori."
"I'm helping the Wardens fight the Blight!" barks Erimond with a sneering expression. Alistair really wants to punch him. "I'm keeping the world safe from darkspawn! Who wouldn't want that?! The ritual may require blood sacrifice – hate me for that if you must – but do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty."
"We make the sacrifices no one else will. Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them," Clarel adds for emphasis.
"And then your Tevinter ally binds the mages to Corypheus!" Alistair shouts.
"Corypheus?" Clarel asks uncertainly, clearly rattled by Alistair's words, "but he's dead."
Erimond mutters something in Clarel's ear, clearly trying to dissuade her from listening to anything other than Venatori lies. Clarel's face is its own battlefield, her confusion warring with her sense of duty. She rubs a gloved hand across her forehead, smearing grit and dirt across her skin.
Finally she nods, her narrowed eyes burning with a newfound determination. "Bring it through!" she calls, her decision made.
Alistair doesn't know what she means but he knows it's not good.
The Warden mages lift their arms and the courtyard is bathed in green. Red whorls of blood start rising from the scattered corpses of sacrificed Wardens, convalescing into a central orb which crackles and pops as it's energised by the mages' magic. There's a burst of light and the orb is replaced by a tear in the sky, a scar that cuts through Alistair's field of vision. There's something beyond the tear, something shifting, seething. Alistair has no idea what it is but he really, really doesn't want to find out.
"What is that?" he hears someone mutter from over his shoulder. He turns to see Hawke's stricken face, blood smeared across the bridge of her nose. He hadn't realised she'd followed them to the Keep.
"I have seen more than my share of Blood Magic!" Hawke calls out to the Wardens that are now facing the Inquisitor and her companions in a less than friendly manner, "It is never worth the cost," she spits.
Clarel seems unfazed, talking with Erimond as she prepares to complete the ritual.
The Wardens continue stalking toward the Inquisitor and her companions, raising their assorted weaponry as they prepare to attack, and Alistair feels a surging swell of panic. He really wants this to stop, really doesn't want to strike down any more of his Warden brothers. If only there was something he could do to bring an end to all of this death.
"Wait!" Alistair calls, then abruptly stops when he realises he doesn't actually know what else to say. He's never been the most eloquent public speaker, nor the most rousing, but he's desperate, and he's tired, and this is the last tactic he can think of. "You don't know me – but I'm one of you. I am a Warden. I devoted my life to sacrifice and duty. I fought against the darkspawn to protect Ferelden from the Blight. Like you, I've given my life to the Grey Wardens. The first time I put on the armour, I felt like I belonged, like I was part of something honorable, something with a purpose. I know how good that feels. How safe. But fighting and dying here today won't stop the Blights. If you want to stop the Blights, kill that bastard up there! His master is the living embodiment of its corruption!"
The Wardens pause, uncertain, and turn to face Clarel.
Erimond and Clarel are bickering once more on the platform. Alistair wishes he could hear them, wishes he could tell whether his words had got through to her.
Then Erimond steps forward and shouts, "my Master thought you might come here, Inquisitor! He sent me this to welcome you." He clacks his staff on the wooden floor of the platform. The noise seems to echo unnaturally, piercing the air.
Suddenly there's an unholy shriek, a harrowing scream that makes Alistair's skin crawl. He looks up to the clouded skies and sees a dark form shifting, diving and darting against the blackness. Two dark wings stretch overhead and a long, curved tail snaps against the sky.
Archdemon.
Alistair may never have seen one in person but he recognises it from his dreams. When he'd travelled Ferelden during the Blight, the image of the Archdemon had been his almost constant companion.
The Archdemon swoops low over the courtyard and Wardens and Inquisition soldiers alike are forced to scatter. Alistair grabs Bron and throws her to the ground, stumbling to his knees behind her to shield her body with his own. The beast's long talons scrape across the stone floor, sending up sparks amidst a terrible screeching sound.
When he looks up, he sees Clarel backing away from Erimond on the platform. Whatever camaraderie she felt for the man has clearly been lost – undoubtedly the moment he pulled forth an Archdemon. Clarel may not understand the depths of Erimond's evil, or the true intent of his plan – but she must realise now that any man who can summon an Archdemon is no friend of the Wardens.
Suddenly Clarel raises her staff and a swirling pulse of purple is sent hurtling into Erimond's back. He smacks to the ground, his staff skipping out of his grasp, and Alistair feels a tiny leap of satisfaction.
Erimond is on his back, Clarel looming over him with power dancing down her staff and across her hands. Erimond lifts one hand in pleading, perhaps attempting one final appeal to his former ally. From atop a nearby tower, the Archdemon watches with interest, body coiled with tension and ready to strike when necessary.
Whether it's Erimond's desperate pleas or the Archdemon's looming presence that persuades her, Clarel turns her magic away from the quivering Venatori and instead fires at the Archdemon.
The creature rears in distress before spitting a ball of red magic. Clarel leaps to the side, narrowly avoiding the flaming orb. The creature takes another deep breath before spitting red balls of magic all over the courtyard. They smash as they hit the stone floor, crackling like shards of glass, and unleashing waves of magic that skitter across the ground in webs of fire and lightening. The crowded courtyard is busy with panic as people dive and leap away from the devastating magic.
"Help the Inquisitor!" orders Clarel, and while it's a welcome command, Alistair wishes it hadn't come too late.
Erimond has staggered to his feet and scurries up a staircase that leads from the raised platform and deeper into the Keep. Clarel follows with her staff held in a white-knuckled grip and while Alistair would be happy to let her eviscerate him, Erimond may be the only person who can call off the Archdemon.
"We need to follow Clarel," Alistair calls and Eleri nods in response before gathering her companions around her and charging after Erimond and Clarel.
Behind them, demons are now surging through the gateway, tumbling from the battlements into the Keep's central courtyard. Alistair knows they can't protect their rear from the demons while staving off the Archdemon and stopping Erimond's escape, and is therefore relieved when the Wardens surge passed the Inquisition's people to confront the demons.
Good – the Wardens' last minute change of heart may yet save them.
Alistair follows Eleri as she runs up the staircase at the far end of the courtyard up to the raised platform where Clarel and Erimond had been attempting their ritual. At the back of the platform is another staircase and they continue running up to the parapets that top the Keep.
Alistair can hear the Archdemon as much as he can see it. There's a snap and a hiss at every beat of its enormous wings, a rumbling boom each time the creature growls. When the creature swoops down, Alistair ducks, angered at how ineffectual he feels with only a long-sword in hand. Eleri, Varric and Solas use whatever ranged attacks they can to beat the creature back but Alistair knows that they will not be enough.
Only a Warden can defeat an Archdemon.
His legs are burning by the time they reach the top of the Keep. When the Inquisition has found Clarel, she's in battle with Erimond.
Erimond is cowering with outspread arms as he staggers back while Clarel marches forward determinedly with her staff raised.
"You!" she screams, shaking with rage, "You've destroyed the Grey Wardens!"
He balls his fist and sends a shuddering orb of magic toward her. Without his staff there's little power to the attack and Clarel bats it away like it's nothing before sending her own surging pulse forward. It knocks him off his feet and he hits the floor with a sharp yell.
"You did that to yourself, you stupid bitch," Erimond retorts with a cackle, and Alistair can't believe he has the temerity to laugh. "All I did was dangle a little power before your eyes. And you couldn't wait to get your hands bloody."
She screams, unleashing another crack of energy that sends Erimond sliding across the stone floor of the parapet. When his body comes to a juddering halt, he curls up on himself, cradling his injured body and groaning in pain.
"You could have served a new god," Erimond moans, and Alistair is only just close enough to hear it. He keeps on running, even against the protest of his calves.
"I will never serve the Blight," Clarel retorts, raising her staff for one final attack.
Before she can release her finishing blow, there's a snap and a crunch and Clarel disappears from sight as the Archdemon's jaw consumes her. Blood spurts between jagged teeth, dangling limbs flailing spasmodically, and Eleri and her companions come to a sudden halt.
The Archdemon circles above the Keep, shaking Clarel back and forth in his enormous jaw before finally spitting her to the stone floor below. Alistair is amazed to see her body still moving, writhing in pain.
Eleri immediately starts to move forward, her instincts as a healer overpowering her self-preservation instincts. Alistair follows, his own instinct to protect this important figure overpowering the impulse to run from the Archdemon. But Eleri stops still in her tracks when the Archdemon lands on the parapet just behind Clarel's prone form, seemingly staring her down.
"In war, victory…" he thinks he can hear Clarel chanting.
The Archdemon steps forward, stalking toward Eleri, and though she starts to hurriedly backtrack, Alistair fears (knows) that she won't be able to get out of reach of the Archdemon's snapping teeth in time. The Archdemon is looming above her, so close, too close, and there's nothing he, or any of Eleri's companions, can do to pull her out.
When the Archdemon steps over Clarel's prone form there's suddenly a final burst of magical power, a ripping, sparkling of purple that consumes the Archdemon and the walls of the Keep. There's a mighty roar as Clarel's magic scorches over the Achdemon's scales and a loud crack as the stone floor starts to crumble below the beast's enormous feet.
The ancient Keep shakes, the floor of the parapet rolling like a wave, and Alistair, and everyone else, is thrown off their feet. Whether it's Clarel's magic or the trembling walls, the Archdemon is sent reeling from its feet and tumbling down the side of the Keep with a sharp, almost pitiable, wail.
Alistair supposes that he should applaud, cheer at the sight of the Archdemon falling from the Keep, but he can feel the parapet collapsing beneath him, the walls of the Keep giving way, and there's no time for cheering as he scrambles desperately to his feet. Eleri appears beside him, tugging him up with her tiny frame in a vain attempt to help him.
When he's finally clambered to his feet, he runs. He can see Eleri and her companions running alongside him, can feel the stone falling beneath his feet. It's an odd sensation, pushing down on the ground but feeling nothing pushing back.
Then suddenly there's no stone beneath him, no purchase when he runs. Instead he's falling, he's falling and the walls are crumbling around him, and the mighty stones of the Keep are plunging passed him. He can see Eleri at the corner of his eyes, and her companions a little further ahead. He twists and thrashes until he can see Bron. She's flailing as she drops, as if hoping to catch something that will stop her fall, but she must know that there's nothing that can save her now because her face is blank with wearied resignation. He stretches out his hand to reach for her, though he knows she's far too far away.
He wishes he could touch her one last time. Wishes he could say goodbye, say he loves her, say anything at all.
Hawke had warned him that something like this might happen. She'd warned him that the battle could go badly, warned him that he would regret not telling Bron how he felt when he'd had the chance. She'd said that he would face death with regret if he'd left the words unsaid. And while Hawke is probably right – there's luckily too little time for regret.
He's falling too fast.