The Halla Reborn
Chapter 78
This has been sitting, waiting for more to be added since the last time I updated the story (I know – horrible, right?). I'm uploading it – short as it is – to try and motivate myself to continue. It's not lack of desire, but more lack of time, energy and the horrible presence of a Severe Writer's Block Monster. Once I can get beyond The Redcliffe Debacle (as I like to call it), I'm certain the rest will flow to the end as it should.
Thanks, as always, for reading. You're all terrific for sticking around so long: Wyl, Shakespira, csorciere, Legionary Prime – and all of those to continue to follow and favorite – THANK YOU!
Bare treetops spiked sharply into the black, roiling sky, skeletal fingertips piercing into the seemingly endless void. Sharp elven eyes turned upwards, narrowing slightly, before refocusing below, watching as the near ghost-like shapes of the Chasind warriors skirted below as the elves skipped tree to tree.
They had left their more feral companions behind, Surefoot bristling slightly as his Wolves stood guard, just within the boundaries of the trees that still edged along the King's Highway. Displeased the former cursed warriors may be, but both the elven and human bands felt gratified and secure knowing the diligent Wolves watched their backs, securing retreat should it be necessary.
Now, before them, lay Redcliffe, spread along the shores of the large lake. Eerily silent and still, save for the lapping of gentle waves upon the rocky beach and wooden wharves. The smell of decay and death – a scent that had become far too familiar these recent months – mingled with the salty spray, permeated the air, threatening to take firm and permanent root within their nasal passages as it had within their memories. As if on cue, the watching elf sniffled, blowing firmly through one nostril seeking to displace the odor of pestilence.
Failing, the elf stretched forward - bow securely upon his back, quiver of arrows firmly belted over one hip – and pulled upon one outreaching branch, pulling his lithe form up and over to the next tree as feet silently found purchase on one narrow limb.
The closer he moved toward the village's square, the more eerie and disturbing the village's silence became.
Below, the Chasind faltered – no, came to an organized halt. The largest of the forms stepped from the shadows, revealing itself to be the young leader of the Wilders, Tecumseh. Dark eyes scanned the ground, following the well-worn road the led into the small community. He knelt down, tracing the scuffs and skids embedded deep within the dirt, a knowing frown forming upon the warrior's broad face. Nodding once, he rose gracefully to his feet, eyes fixed forward and then slightly eastward, toward the direction of the castle. With one final glance northward, the huge warrior stepped once more into the surrounding shadows, blending into the wavering sheets of light and darkness effortlessly.
Only the sharp eyes of a trained Dalish scout could follow after the stealthy forms, shadowing the human warriors' movements from above, aware of the other half-dozen elves following in their wake, ever closer to the village of Redcliffe.
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Something was wrong, he knew it. Although barely out of cubhood, chosen more for his fleet of foot than experience, Surefoot was certain that his instincts were correct. Sniffing the fouled air, the slender male raised his tawny head, sharp yellow eyes fixed eastward toward Redcliffe.
Overhead, the blackened, roiling skies flickered in anger, yet remained eerily silent. As one, his fellow Wolves watched silently as their young leader stepped onto the road, heads raised as well to sniff and taste at the air as did the one standing in the open. A dozen pair of eyes fixed eastward as did the Alpha's.
A heavy, dark petulance filled their senses, darkening eyesight and filling their lungs, instinct warring with reason for the barest of moments. A soft growl rose in a dozen chests, a near silent rage against the evil that threatened everything they held dear. As one, each of the former werewolves took a hesitant step forward, toward the east, toward the direction their allies had gone, to the village of Redcliffe. Brows furrowed with annoyance and confusion as they glared eastward.
Foreboding filled each breast, and the growls became near whines as they tasted the doom that surrounded and encompassed them.
No, that's not right. Heads swiveled as one at Surefoot's thought, back westward, the way they had come, boundless in their energy, determination following each step as hardened shadows, deep and unbreakable and dark as cut onyx.
"Sharpeyes," Surefoot called out to one of their group, a taller male his own age. The youth stepped forward, eyes a darker gold than the others, moving with wild grace to his leader's side.
Surefoot fell silent as his gaze once more settled eastward. Instinct alone told him and his fellows that something was amiss. Their senses – still as honed as when they lived as beasts – confirmed what their instincts could only warn them of.
And yet, their allies would be in need of them. Hence…
"Race as quickly as you can, back to Denerim," the Alpha instructed, answering snuffles confirming his decision. "They must be warned…"
Without awaiting further instruction, the young Wolf turned swiftly, trotting into the trees, his lithe form vanishing amidst tainted brush and slivered shadows, answering instinct and senses, reason and heart. Aware without turning that his fellows emerged from the wood, trotting away to warn and assist those they were certain were now walking into a trap.
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Instinct alone had dictated their course of action. The air itself was bewildering, the scent of death mixing with the saltiness of the waters from nearby Lake Calenhad sharp, hanging fetid and stale in the still air. The eerie silence – broken only by the waves upon shell strewn and rocky shores – sent chills of alertness and anticipation along the spines of the warriors, now fanning out into the center of the seemingly deserted village.
Hands clenched the hilts of blades, fingers realigning as the human warriors scanned the area, feet taking cautions steps, as though expecting the very ground to explode beneath them. Tecumseh, standing in the very center of the village square, raised his dark head, narrowed black eyes scanning the near horizon, lifting to the rooftops and the elves the swarmed over. A familiar, slight form rose to stand upright upon one slanted rooftop, bow held easily in one slender hand. Blond head turned, dark eyes focused upon the human leader below. Frowning, Tecumseh raised one pawlike hand, signaling his men to him.
As the elf began to turn, a piercing shriek cut through the air. Turning as one, elven and human warriors focused their attention to where Redcliffe Castle stood, stark and looming against the cliffs that gave the village its name. Elf and human leaders turned to one another, eyes meeting briefly before each raised their hands, wordlessly directing their warriors to the castle.
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Pure golden eyes widened as the very human shriek rebounded through the woods, carrying easily upon the stillness of the air to his ears. His racing footsteps faltered briefly and he risked a glance over one broad shoulder, back to where his packmates were.
That briefest of moments of distraction nearly cost the young Wolf. The jagged blade whistled through the air, testimony to the strength guiding the strike. Yelping, the young Wolf threw himself back, feet skidding forward as the Hurlock's blade narrowly missed the young man's throat. Eyes wide with fear and the realization of how close to death he had come, the youth bent back further, swinging his hips as he then ducked down, beneath the vicious assault.
Bending at one knee, the young warrior allowed his body to drop, swinging in a half circle, to come up behind the darkspawn. A low grumble resounded, questioningly, as Sharpeyes straightened, drawing his own blade as he rose, to plunge it into the Hurlock's broad, boiled armor covered back, easily slicing through the toughened hide. A shriek rose from the creature's throat as it sought to turn and face it's foe, but only a grunt and a slash to its neck, this time from the dagger he pulled free of its hip sheath, answered as the young Wolf viciously gave his silverite bladed sword a twist, plunging it further into the twisted form of the darkspawn. Black ichor erupted from a ruptured vein, spraying the youth as he ripped his blade free, dancing back as the Hurlock turned, blade slashing blindly as it's life's blood poured from the gaping wounds. Cursing the beast, the youth slashed a final time, catching the creature across the throat. He wasted no further time to watch it's descent to the moss and leaf covered ground, but spun about to continue his race back toward the city, this time, keeping his eyes, ears and instincts focused forward, rather than back to where his pack mates met their own challenge.
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Tawny heads rose, feet continued on their trek, as the shriek echoed through the twisted trees of the surrounding wood. Teeth grinding, Surefoot forced himself forward, not daring to even glance back toward the direction where he had sent the sole youth. Ahead…he repeated to himself…ahead would stand their fellows of the wood and wilds. Ahead…is where their strength was needed.
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Ancient stone - moss covered, sun faded and wind roughened – overlooked the blood drenched courtyard. The bodies of dozens of Redcliffe knights lay upon the cold ground, unseeing eyes opened and staring at the horde of darkspawn the swarmed the grounds, making their way toward the group of knights, still holding fast and firm at the base of the wide staircase leading to the entrance of the grand castle.
Beneath the weight of his helmet, the gray eyes of Ser Perth narrowed as he took in the horde approaching their line. A forced chuckle resounded beside him and he allowed a bare glance toward the knight who stood beside him.
"Bet you wish you had remained in Denerim, eh, Dorian?" Ser Thomason remarked dryly as his hands clenched around the hilt of his sword, his own dark eyes watching their approaching enemy, feet braced firmly to the earth, as though grounding himself, to prevent either premature charge or, worse still, a step back.
His answering chuckle was forced. "And leave you here to have all the fun?" Thomason snorted at that, turning back to the foe. "Glad to be by your side, my friend."
Truth, Perth had been surprised when Arl Eamon had abruptly ordered him back to Redcliffe. He had gone to Denerim to lead the Arl's army against the darkspawn. To be relieved of said duty and returned to the castle had been a surprise, and an unwelcome one at that.
However, despite facing his death, he did thank the Maker. He would rather fight at the sides of his men here at home, and die beside them, then learn later of their demise. He would accompany them, fight beside them…and die with them if necessary.
"Steady men!" Perth's voice rang out – firm and determined, none of his fear reflecting in the tones. His fellow knights – fewer than two dozen – rattled swords against shields and tightened their grips, preparing to meet the onslaught and give those within the castle more time.
With luck, Perth and his men would decimate the horde to a number the warriors within could handle, giving the villagers more time to make their escape through the castle's labyrinthine tunnel system.
Around him, his knights gathered their courage. Without a glance around, Ser Perth raised an arm. "Steady men!" he shouted, his voice rising above the cackling of the approaching darkspawn. Tension rose about him, battle readiness enveloping each men as they held steady, ready to charge at their commander's commander.
"Steady," Perth's voice remained steady as he watched the approach.
Feet scuffled behind and around him; he could hear – so clearly – voices in prayer to the Maker. Offering up his own silent prayer, the knight dropped his arm with a shout of "Charge!"
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Tecumseh frowned, pausing in his race toward the castle. Before, around, beside and above him, humans and elves paused as voices – human voices – rose into the air, the sounding of a charge obvious to even the most inexperienced of the less than two dozen warriors that made their way toward the ancient structure.
A glance upwards, to the trees, and dark human eyes met the almond shaped orbs of the blond elven warrior that had shadowed the human leader. No other acknowledgement was needed as the pair wordlessly led their warriors forward, toward the ringing sounds and shouts that indicated battle had been entered ahead.
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Sharp ears perked as, ahead, the sounds of battle rose, swept from the direction of Castle Redcliffe to the village on the wind stream. Snorting loudly, the young Alpha was even more convinced of the need of their strong arms, vindicated for his decision to leave the King's Highway. Without pause or verbal acknowledgment, the youth merely quickened his already rapid pace, the soft footfalls of his fellows directly behind.
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Metal sliced through leather as blade pierced the seams of armor. Piercing shrieks of dying darkspawn mingled with the agonized cries of hurt and dying men. Fresh blood mingled with old upon the blood-soaked ground.
Cursing, Perth pulled free his greatsword from the body of a particularly difficult Hurlock, turning to take in the carnage. More than half his fellows lay upon the ground, most never to rise again. And while they had decimated the small army of darkspawn they faced, and he could clearly see the end of them, the knight wondered if his remaining men had the strength, will and heart to defeat what remained of their foe.
Another prayer, fervently whispered to the Maker, fell from his lips as he rushed forward, tackling a gunlock as it knocked Thomason to the ground.
Kicking the gunlock to the side, the knight plunged his blade deeply into the prone body, then turned and offered a hand to his friend. Grimacing, the other knight took the proffered hand, pulling himself from the ground along with his sword and shield.
Gasping harshly against the sharp pain in his ribs, Thomason glanced around the battlefield. "Still glad you're here?" he asked of his friend, turning to stare directly into Perth's blood smeared face.
Offering his friend a sickly smile, he reached over and delivered one hard pat to an armored shouldered. "You wouldn't still be here if I wasn't," he reminded the other, watching as that grimace deepened to a wince.
"Yeah, thanks for that," Thomason muttered as the pair turned to rejoin the battle.
Beneath their feet, the earth rumbled. Turning, they spied a huge ogre barreling into battle, it's momentum knocking several of its compatriot darkspawn from their feet and crushing one that had the misfortune of falling directly in its path. Fixing its hard, dead stare toward where the human warriors were, it let out a bestial roar, raising its great horned hear as it prepared for a charge.
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Arrows ripped through leather and flesh, piercing bone and striking against metal and wood to deflect into the crowd. Genlocks and Hurlocks alike fell before the swarm of missiles that flew into their midst.
As the elves did their work, taking down the weaker foes from the tree tops, the Chasind warriors plunged into the darkspawn ranks, swords, clubs and axes felling the evil creatures as though mere chaff. As they cut down their foes, making their bloody way to where their knightly counterparts fought, a chant rose up, thundering across the tops of the darkspawn heads, to the ears of the tiring knights.
A cheer – weak from lack of breath from a dozen throats – rose up to greet the chanting Chasind, letting them know they heard and knew they were no longer alone.
Tecumseh's greatsword slashed through the body of a Hurlock, almost cleaving it in two. Turning, raising his battle sword to meet another foe, the leader of the human warriors spotted the charge of the ogre. Drawing air into his great lungs, the Chasind warrior answered the roar of the giant darkspawn with a challenge of his own. His challenge had reached the creature's ears, for it turned away from the armored humans before it, and started charging toward the large human, batting aside its smaller darkspawn counterparts in its blood frenzy.
With a battle-maddened grin upon his dark face, Tecumseh rushed forward to meet the great beast head-on.
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The smell of blood and death, sweat and turned up earth assailed the nostrils of the former werewolves. Deep within wide chests rumbles began as the former beasts raced ahead. As they neared the battlefield – the former well-kept courtyard of Castle Redcliffe – the rumblings within their breasts rose to growls and roars. As Tecumseh met the ogre in battle, as the elves felled the darkspawn stragglers, the Wolves rushed forward, blades slashing out, felling any foe unfortunate to be in their path. Before them, haggard, bloody, dead and dying were men the former denizens of the Brecilian Forest had come to call friend and comrade. Despite their origins, these were men whom they considered pack mates. Fury fueled and empowered them as the Wolves tore into the darkspawn, using blade, tooth and claw.
Energized by the sight of the three groups of warriors, Perth reorganized his men, spurning them forward to assist the Chasind warrior in taking down the ogre.