"Commander, the streets are full of the rioters! Reports indicate the whole siege-line is besieged by them!" Though not panicking, there was something distinctly unnerving about the way the rioters had appeared. Just a day ago, there had been nothing, but today it seemed like the entire city had left their homes, or what was left of them, to roar their hatred at the Templars. The fact that every single one was armed didn't escape Cullen either. "They're also getting more agitated by the moment!"
He wasn't shouting in fright, or in desperation, he was simply shouting to make himself heard over the din of chanting.
"Death to Meredith! Death to Meredith! Death to Meredith!"
"Death to Templars! Death to Templars! Death to Templars!"
It was unnerving though. Cullen shot a glance to the right, where a three rank deep line of templars, swords and shields at the ready, kept a horde of angry and dirty faces back. The people were brandishing all from clubs to knives and swords, yet despite their numbers, they didn't quite dare make good on their threats, all too aware of how fragile they were compared to the heavily armoured templars facing them. Maker, this is bad.
Next to him, Meredith had her back to the protesters, her gaze fixed on the Circle Tower within the siege lines, or rather, the gaping hole at its base where a myriad of people were apparently readying for an attack. Her voice, lost in the roar, was a low mutter. "They're all under his sway... every single one...have to...kill..."
Cullen, frowning in confusion, leaned closer. "Commander!? What are you talking about!? We need to deal with this situation!"
"Only Hawke matters, they're only plebs, harmless." Meredith growled back, shooting him a glare. "Get ready, Captain, the final battle is at hand. Let Hawke play his card, we'll crush him with all our might or die trying." She glanced past him and at the twenty elite templars she'd assembled, mounted on caparisoned steeds, lances held high. "You'll lead the counter-attack that blunts the sally, then head back here, understood?"
"Death to Meredith! Death to Meredith! Death to Meredith!"
"Death to Templars! Death to Templars! Death to Templars!"
"And what of the city walls!? There's been a beacon lit, they're under attack!" Cullen stared at the woman. Are you that fixated? The whole city is rebelling and we're losing what little control we have as we wait!
"Don't let him distract you. Maker, man, don't you see his strategy!? We must not let him weaken us here, not now when he's trying to flee!" Meredith turned back to glare at the distance Tower and its inhabitants. "He won't get away!"
Cullen, all too well remembering Carver's pale head, placed on a plate like the challenge it was, served directly to Meredith, shivered. "I don't think he's planning to escape..."
Meredith stood still for a moment, then turned her head, looking at him with a curious look.
Then the ground shook
All heads turned towards Circle Tower, the chanting dying out as everyone stared at the massive cloud of dust billowing out from the middle of the Circle Tower.
What in the...
With a groan of stone against stone, the top half of the Tower started to swing like a tree in the wind, then slide sideways, towards them.
...Maker's...
Then, something caught it at the base, jolting it to a stop...but only there, the top still moved, felling the whole Tower like a tree. Towards them.
...name?
As one, the Templars at the palisades facing the city took a step back, then another one...and then they threw themselves left and right with frightened cries.
Meredith turned, eyes wide as she met Cullen's stare...and then the Tower smashed into the ground. Only the tip of the Tower reached the siege lines, but it was enough as with godlike force it smashed the palisades and sharpened stakes facing the Tower into splinters. Some templars, too slow to get away, didn't even get to cry out as they were simply buried and flattened under an avalanche of stones. Others, while escaping the main bulk of stones, still had rogue pieces that had come off the main structure smash into them. The force of the impacts crushed breastplates and helmets alike, killing and maiming indiscriminately.
Still, the losses were few, the real damage was the complete chaos. The numerous templars picked to protect the breach in the wall were all scattered, shocked, some running, others paralysed, some simply lost, walking shadows in the cloud of dust shrouding the area in a grey mist.
For a moment, the silence following the impact was deafening.
Then, beyond the dust, from what remained of the Tower, a roar, full of defiance and animalistic rage, rose high, sending a shiver of dread down Cullen's spine. That is not the shout of people intending to flee...
A moment later, another roar greeted the first, a louder one, raised by so many voices so as to make the air shimmer with the force of it. A roar taken up by the citizens of Kirkwall, every single one of them.
A cry made Cullen and Meredith turn, watching three templars facing the rioters go down before they, even knew they'd been attacked. The rest, raising their shields and turning back towards the crowds, lunged, pushing the initial rush back. Their blood-slick swords thrust and cut, sending a dozen of the unarmoured people to the ground in moments as they, pushed forth by the crowd, had nowhere to go to escape or even parry.
All around, the din of combat was suddenly filling the air, and Cullen knew every part of the siege-line had come under assault by the citizens. Shaking off the horror of it, Cullen only managed a single coherent thought of what that meant. The losses will be horrific for them, but they'll pin all our troops down as Hawke...Maker...
He turned, watching, as shapes began to appear in the haze, dark shapes, running shapes, charging shapes.
At the head, a familiar one, blindly ploughing forward, smashing a confused templar's face in with a swinging shield, his roar full of rage and hate. "Meredith!"
Behind, a yellow light grew, and then shot out, over the heads of the templars desperately gathering to form a unified front...and into the backs of those holding back the mass of civilians.
With a whoosh, the fire expanded like it had been buffeted by the wind...and over a dozen templars, too preoccupied with fighting the civilians to even notice the attack until it was too late...were turned into human torches. Screaming, writhing, they twisted and ran...and then the line of confused templars, already wavering from the onslaught of the civilians, buckled and broke.
Like a flood pushing through a broken dam, the horde of civilians rushed in, hacking and slashing like mad at anything they reached. And the templars, suddenly on their own, were assailed by multiple foes.
There, a templar feinted his foe, making her lower her blade for a parry, only for his thrust to cut her neck open...and then fell on his stomach, a fat man atop him, hatchet striking down over and over, turning the helmet and skull of the templar into mush.
Five feet away, a templar spun, blocking a club with his shield while gutting the user, the following thrust going through the sternum of a charging man...and sticking there as a swarm of elven women rushed in, knives flashing.
Further off, two templars fought back to back, killing foe after foe...and then a soldier in chainmail tackled one of them, knocking her back and driving her ever backwards with a flurry of blows...leaving the other templar to get his spine shattered by a sledge.
Slowly, Cullen turned his stare back to Meredith, watching her go pale...and then turn towards him. Her tone was bereft of the usual cold, but it wasn't afraid either, not warm or stressed. It was calm, dull. "Take your cavalry and make for the first gate you can reach, escape and don't stop until you find the Divine. Tell her what has happened."
Cullen, mouth working silently for a moment, managed to shake his head in shock. "Commander, I..."
"Go!" The woman shoved him back, her face unreadable...and then she turned and drew her blade, stalking towards the combat with long strides.
For a long moment, he just stared at the woman as she marched away. She looked determined, having shed all doubts, strategies and responsibilities, she almost looked...content. Content enough to walk to her death.
Cullen, feeling a string of shame, turned though, gripping the reins of the horse a wide-eyed templar offered to his horse...and swung himself into the saddle. "You heard the Commander, we're leaving!" Mentally, he was already drawing a map of Kirkwall, trying to find the best route through the combat that would lay before him. "Follow me!"
With a snap of the reins, Cullen set off, his templars following him, lances lowered as they rose straight for a street full of people.
Screaming at the top of his lungs, he drew their attention...and relief flooded him as frightened people scattered in all directions. Some were too slow and were smashed down by the powerful horses, others, trying to strike at the passing horsemen, were pierced by lances that slew them outright.
And then the group was through, now drawn blades slashing at the people still trying to escape and attack at the same time. Looking forward, down the road, face grim, Cullen couldn't help but note what a long gauntlet of death he was about to ride...
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"Captain!"
Looking up from the warning, Donnic, sick to his stomach, tried to ignore the dead bodies littering the ground around the gatehouse. He had hoped the Templars would surrender, that the outnumbered sentries would see sense...instead they had fought on bitterly, crying out defiance and claims of the guards being controlled by blood-magic.
A few had been captured at the end, but most lay dead, alongside far too many of his guardsmen, people who had believed his words about protecting the people one last time, of serving Kirkwall, of duty.
It had been a mistake, listening, doing what he in his gut believed wrong. Trying to save lives by taking them was all too foolish a notion, and now the proof of his foolishness lay in the mud, in pools of their own blood.
Damn Isabela, damn Varric, damn Hawke...
Still, done was done, now all there was was to ensure no more of his people died. As such, Donnic's gaze moved to the guard that had spoken up. The man's left arm was in a sling, but his good one was pointing a spear ahead without wavering. "Templars!"
Donnic's face fell. He'd almost hoped for it to be civilians running for the gate, for if it had been, then he would at least have done something good in giving them a way out of the city, he would have been protecting them from the templars...instead of closing templars into a trap, as morally a grey deed as could be found.
"Form ranks!" Exhausted, but disciplined, two dozen guardsmen heeded his call and formed a two rank deep line, spears levelled and shields raised. Ahead only three templars were coming for them, though mounted, it was clear they would stand no chance. In fact, even as they approached, they were slowing into a canter, then a trot, slowing down before finally stopping. Donnic, seeking the faces, found his own open in shock. "Cullen!?"
The man looked grim, gaze scanning the dead templars still strewn around the gate, then the guards arrayed against him. Though grim, there was little hostility, only a weariness, almost as if he'd given up. The men at his side were faring far more poorly. The man on the left was clutching a deep wound across his stomach, and judging by the hint of intestines under his hand, would die the moment he dismounted. The man on the right, meanwhile, was riding a horse covered in bleeding cuts and, the man himself riding with a knife sticking out of his thigh, seemingly forgotten.
"Dear Maker..." Donnic found himself breathing, taking a step past the line of guardsmen. "What's...is..."
"I don't think the Maker has anything to do with this, Captain." Cullen replied, watching the other warrior with surprising calm for someone outnumbered and cornered. He looked...calm, waiting to see if he was going to die or not with eerie ease.
"I...suppose not." Donnic held the man's gaze, watched his acceptance of his imminent death...and found himself averting his eyes. Damn Hawke, that's it, I'm done, no more killing. "Open the gate."
"Se-Serah?" A guardsman stuttered, confused.
"Open the gate and stand down, let them through." Donnic gestured vaguely at the gate...and the guardsmen reluctantly split their line, two running up to the gate to heave it open. Ignoring them, he looked back to Cullen, the Templar still looking at him with an eerie calm. "Do what you feel is right, templar, I'm done with this city." The words were meant to be grim, but came out with a tired sigh instead.
Turning his head, Cullen looked back, towards the screaming and battling, when he looked back, his face was sad."I think we all are."
A final nod, and the man urged his mount into a trot, the two others quietly following, heading out the gate and away from Kirkwall.
Looking after the man, Donnic shook his head. "Maker go with you."
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Roaring incoherently, Garrett let it all loose.
All the years of anger.
All the years of frustration.
All the pain.
All the fear.
All the guilt.
All the sadness.
A Templar pulled back at the roar, eyes wide under her helmet...and Garrett sent the woman's sword flying with a swing of his own blade, the return blow smashing through visor, eyes and bone with a wet crunch.
She fell, nearly pulling Garrett's blade with her before he tore it free in a flood of blood. Another templar, a large man, roared back as appeared out of the dust and brought his great axe down on Garrett. Dropping onto one knee, Garrett let the blow impact with his raised shield as his sword scythed out in a backhand blow, cutting deep into the back of his foe's knee. The man cried out, fell on his back, and then Garrett was atop him, the rim of his shield coming down under the templar's helmet, crushing his adam's apple.
Rising, Garrett roared out again, in triumph, in hatred, in a want for blood.
A Templar, thin and young, cried out more in fear than anything and rushed at Garrett...who met the charge. Shield to shield, they crashed into one another, the impact sending the smaller man backwards, loose helmet falling off his head. Before he could recover, Garrett's high cut turned into a feint and a low a low thrust, catching his foe in the hip. There was a grunt, the chainmail stopped the blow, but the impact still drove the foe to his knee...and Garrett's next blow was a vicious swing from over the shoulder.
The young templar toppled, his head spraying blood all over Garrett's breastplate as it was sent flying.
Garrett roared again, hands held high...and turned in time to see something large thunder at him, as well as a flashing streak of silver.
For a moment, darkness took him.
Then he was shaking his head, ears ringing as he coughed, breathing in the dust from the ground he lay on. Rolling onto his stomach, he got onto all fours and looked up, watching a templar on a large brown horse turn his mount, sword raised for another pass at the noble...
Then a crossbow bolt buried itself deep into his armpit, making the sword fall from limp fingers. The rider hunched over, then fell to the left, his foot catching in the stirrup as his frightened horse bolted, dragging the corpse with it.
Using his sword for leverage, Garrett rose, eyes searching now that the red mist had lifted.
He could see the Templar's killer. Varric had taken position up on one of the wooden towers the templars had built, and now the new user was using it to deadly effect to pick off the unsuspecting templars below caught up in the battle for their lives.
Below, Isabela had taken up position, the woman seemingly dancing, moving like water around the templars seeing the danger of the dwarf and trying to reach the Tower, cutting them down with quick thrusts of her long daggers.
Both wore faces that might as well have been masks, grim and resolute, intent on getting the deed over and done with.
Everywhere else, emotions ranged from terror to rage. Templars and civilians and mages and soldiers and nobles all locked in a deadly butchery as neither side was in a position to ask nor grant mercy. There was no order, no battle-lines, only a chaotic melee as the Templar lines broke and the other side didn't even try to keep a formation.
There, a soldier and a templar duelled, two handers swinging left and right in a deadly dance...only for the templar to fall onto his side, a thickset woman clambering atop him, meat-cleaver madly hacking at his armour until the soldier brought down a more decisive blow, severing the templar's leg at the knee.
Over by the Circle Tower's wall, a templar had positioned herself atop a boulder, her shield dropped, but the spear in her hands was thrusting left and right at a writhing mass of civilians trying to get to her. Her thrusts were quick and precise though, the spear felling four of her foes in quick succession. One man tried to climb atop the boulder, only for her armoured boot to catch him in the teeth as she continued killing.
Atop a wooden tower, a pair of templar archers drew and shot their bows as quick as they could at the mass of unarmoured civilians trying to press into a buckling group of templars. Then a fireball struck the tower, making one templar topple over the railing as the other shrieked, body wreathed in fire as the entire tower was suddenly aflame.
By a tent, a noble, plate armour shining with polish, ducked under two spear-thrusts by a pair of templars, then brought his mace to bear, caving in a helmet before his foes could recover before barrelling into the survivor, grappling hands and legs driving the foe onto his back before the noble reached for his dagger...
Further off, a troop of templars had managed to form a fighting circle, the man in the centre shouting encouragement as the embattled templars cut down the mass coming at them, like a rock in a writhing sea. Beyond, a group of soldiers were gathering, forming an improvised wedge to smash the templar formation...and then a pair of fireballs, followed by a trio of lightning bolts and wind of ice swept in among the templars.
Caught in their frenzy, the people didn't shy away from the thing they'd been taught to fear, instead, the civilians rushed in. A felling-axe cut short the flailing of a burning templar. A club shattered the skull of a frozen templar. A falchion severed the head of a legless templar. A knife was pushed through the vision-slit of the templar leader as he knelt, paralysed and rendered helpless by the electricity coursing through him.
Everywhere, the Templars, members of the mightiest force of Kirkwall, were dying.
Broken, leaderless, alone and outnumbered, they died.
Garrett was winning.
"Champion!" Whoever roared the warning saved his life, for when Garrett turned, shield raised, it barely stopped the blow that would otherwise had split his skull in two.
Behind the shield, snarling at him like an animal, Meredith stood. Her dark armour, dented and dusted, had lost its lustre. The greatsword in her hands had not a scratch on it though, the dragonbone blade Garrett had gifted her proof against any blow, the already dark blade shimmered, black with blood.
Black with the blood of his Carver, of Maric, of his child.
Snarling back, Garrett pushed out with his shield, driving Meredith back. Then he rushed after, swinging wildly at her exposed face, only to have her lean back and out of reach, her longer blade coming up from his lower right, under his sword-arm, gouging a line across his breastplate.
Undaunted, he pursued, his thrust aimed at her chest deflected by a two-handed parry that turned into an overhand swing, only for it to slide off his raised shield as Garrett continued to advance.
It wasn't a red mist of rage gripping him now, it was black, cold, hard...and unrelenting.
He didn't stop, he didn't run, he advanced one step at a time, shield raised, sword thrusting, always thrusting, like a scorpion's stinger, it lashed out without pause or mercy.
There were no feints, no tricks, the blows simply aimed for what was closest at the time. Her face, her arms, her leg, her torso.
Meredith, forced back by the onslaught, parried again and again, deflecting and sidestepping, she let the blows skim off armour or hit air. Her eyes hard, holding Garrett's gaze as he glared back.
Smouldering rage meeting icy hate.
Then Meredith kicked out, momentarily stopping Garrett's onslaught as he took the blow to his shield...and then she was advancing, her longer sword thrusting and slashing, cutting and hacking.
Garrett, crouching low as he backed away, let the blows rain over his shield. When they were too low to block, he jumped over it, when too high, he ducked. Behind his shield, looking just over the rim, his eyes narrowed as sweat stung him, almost blinding him.
Then Meredith slashed a downward cut...and Garrett lunged.
Shield raised high leaping forward, he blocked Meredith's blow, her cross-guard loudly thumping into his shield even as his sword thrust out at Meredith's dented breastplate.
She twisted and let go of the blade with her left hand, the arm coming down to catch Garrett's blade between her torso and arm, her hand gripping him by the elbow, her sword-arm hooking around his shield...and then she twisted.
Garrett, feeling his centre of gravity shift, forced himself to move with the motion, to roll with the fall rather than to struggle against it...and was in moments on his feet, having switched places with Meredith.
He was starting to fume, the smoulder in his gaze turning into a blazing fire as he glared at the object of all that he hated in the world.
At the other end, the woman's icy glare had turned into disgust, as if she was looking down at some wretched insect barely worth squashing...
With a roar, Garrett hurtled forward...and saw the light of triumph in Meredith's gaze a moment too late.
She twisted clockwise at his charge, against his thrusting blade, stepping into his right side, one hand holding the grip of her sword, the other her blade, she caught Garrett's blade between her body and weapon...and twisted further.
With a gasp, Garrett staggered on, the blade wrenched out of his hands.
Turning, he raised his shield and reached for his side. His longsword might be gone, but his arming sword...
With a crash, Meredith smashed into his shield with her whole body, hooked her cross-guard over the right side of his rim...and twisted clockwise again, the movement causing his shield to move to the left, to open...
A slash, and the grip to the shield was cut by the dragonbone sword, the impact sending the shield itself flying.
Garrett, growling in anger, moved closer, gripping the woman's blade with his hands...and then her elbow shot up, smashing into his visor.
No!
With a crunch, Garrett fell onto his back, vision swimming even as he fumbled with his belt, trying to draw the blade stuck between himself and the ground.
Meredith advanced...and then half a dozen men were upon her. Dressed in filthy rags, their faces gaunt, they were none the less full of power and rage as they bowled into the woman, short-swords, hatchets and knives flashing, drawing blood.
Yes, kill her!
Meredith gasped, then twisted, moving with decisive turns to make the blows skim off her armour. She stomped her foot down behind that of the man grabbing her sword twisting, she bowled him over before grabbing her blade with one hand as the other held onto the grip. Shortened, the long blade was now a danger to the men crowding around her, but the first didn't even realise it before she with a twist made his thrust slide off her armour while her own blade made his intestines pour out over his feet.
No!
Twisting the other way, her shortened blade jabbed straight into the chest of a man that had his hatchet raised to hack into the back of her head. Instead he fell, limp and eyes wide in surprise. Her arm shot up, blocking a knife from striking her face before her elbow shot into the offending man's face, shattering it into a bloody pulp when the edge of her plate caught his eye socket.
Die, die, die, damn you!
Two leaped onto her back, grabbing at her arms as the last rose from his earlier fall, axe raised...and then dropping as Meredith's foot caught him in the jugular. Twisting, she threw one man off her, dropped her sword and drawing her dagger she stabbed back under her still pinned arm, making the man still holding her fall, clutching his stomach.
No!
Grunting, the woman crouched fast, picked up her sword and rose with it held high.
Why won't you die!?
Screaming, the remaining man, now on one knee, raised his blade in a parry.
The dragonbone smashed through the steel, then through a skull, neck, chest and pelvis.
In an explosion of blood, the man was split in half.
Meredith, growling in annoyance, moved to free her sword...
And then Garrett smashed into her, blade forgotten, skills and tactics and sense forgotten, he bowled her over.
Die, die, die!
Straddling her chest, he knocked aside an attempt to grip him...and then slammed his gauntleted fist into Meredith's face. She stared at him, dazed, then coldly, icy glare unflinching.
Why won't you die!?
Again, he punched down, blood spurting from Meredith's mouth as the blow broke bone.
Again, she glared back, uncompromising, unbending.
Die! Die! Die!
He punched, punched again, and again, and again. Blood, gristle, teeth, bits of bone, it was everywhere, spurting, spraying across the ground.
And still, she glared up at him with those cold eyes of hers.
DIE! DIE! DIE!
Then the eyes were no more, turning into grey mush and blood.
Gasping for air, swaying, dizzy, Garrett looked down at what remained. The woman's head was now no more than the stump of her neck and pieces of her shattered skull, the rest lay strewn across her body
Raising his gaze, Garrett could see the battle was still being fought, but by now it was shifting more and more in his favour as the templars were slaughtered alone or in pairs, none being shown mercy or respite.
It was turning into a massacre.
Maker, what have I done?
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Thanks to Abydos Jackson, for managing more than I ever could (including me).