The Battle of Ostagar

A moment, that is all you can spare to take stock of your forces and what has happened. You have, by a quick estimate, something around five thousand warriors in the courtyard. Of those, you will be leaving a fifth to man the walls and form a reserve, you will not make the mistake of leaving your fortress without a reserve again.

Mercifully, casualties were much lighter than they could have been. Three hundred, or thereabouts, lie dead, but they extracted a truly heavy toll on the darkspawn, not counting your own kills. More are wounded, maybe slightly more than the dead again, but many of those are mobile and will be left with the garrison.

Idly you consider lending your aid to the healers, what few there are, but you discount the thought quickly. Time is pressing and more will die than you can reasonably save with your skill. Striking out to the support tents on the other side of the bridge will get healers more swiftly and surely than any amount of your own talents

That leaves you with around four thousand warriors to work with. While you are briefly tempted to storm through the courtyard at speed to reach wherever the darkspawn are coming from, you quickly dismiss that as an option. It is best to fight section by section, rallying defenders as you go. It seems the most logical plan.

Between you and the fight in the other courtyard is a relatively small force holding the curtain wall that acts as a bridge. Beyond that you can hear the battle cries and clack of steel on steel, iron and wood.

There are tactics and strategies that can be used here, if you are willing to stretch your mind. Going around the side with a set of athletic troopers comes to mind. Examining the troops behind you, it quickly becomes apparent that doing so here is a non-option.

Partly it is that you do not know enough to pick the warriors who could do so, mostly it is that you do not think you have enough with the agility and skill to make doing so worthwhile. That means you are simply going to have to force the bridge.

This is going to be bloody.

"Those who do not have armour or weapons, arm yourselves and swiftly. Helms, shields and breastplates if you must prioritise. All who have slain more than five darkspawn this day, gather around." You order.

After a minute of quiet discussion, and lowering the requirements to three, you manage to organise a force of strong warriors to force the bridge. The plan is relatively simple, you will be the tip of the spear, then they will force the gap wider. After that, the rest will follow, filling in for those who fall.

It is a simple plan, and not one you are overly proud of, but the cries and screams are growing fiercer, so it is what you are going to go with. You take grim comfort from the fact that you will be in the position of maximal danger.

The shield wall forms behind you, a solid mass of steel and flesh, advancing slowly. You are maybe half a step ahead of them, a position you heard at least one warrior refer to as 'suicidal'. The amusement helps distract you from your nerves.

You are bouncing lightly on your feet, energy coursing through your body. You are eager to cross the bridge and begin carving your way through the enemy. Part of it is simply anticipation, the nerves of oncoming battle made worse by the extended inaction, part of it is your oath.

Most of it is a desperate need to alleviate the cries of loss and pain you can still hear.

Arrows fly overhead, one so low it almost clips the tip of your helm, thudding into the darkspawn. Mostly they find armour or shields, but you do see one or two find purchase. Naturally, the foul creatures are seemingly insensate to pain and do not fall save to a fatal shot. It is never that easy.

Eventually the darkspawn are in range for things to be thrown at them and the exchange begins in earnest. Idly you wish you had a shield as you bat aside the odd weapon and allow various stones and arrows to strike your helm and hauberk. That way you could actually be in the line instead of ahead of it.

Then the lines meet and your world becomes silver steel and black blood.

Spearheads are cloven apart and you physically drag your fist victim away from his fellows. It proves somewhat challenging to slay him with how dedicated the others are to killing you, but you manage. Then you shift yourself into the gap and begin to lay about you with your blade.

Strikes to the head, to arms, to weapons all see darkspawn falling dead or retreating. You seize the opportunity, your blade whirling about you in a circle that appears deceptively uncontrolled. As the many darkspawn, heedless of their own safety, who enter discover, it is expertly controlled. Into gaps where helms meet chainmail, into eyes and any exposed flesh your blade digs; staining flesh and ground dark red.

A light cloud of black smoke is beginning to form around you as you push deeper into their lines. The ogres, kept out of the front lines for reasons you do not understand, start to lumber towards you. The sun shines off your blade as you leap to meet them.

However, you are interrupted by a sudden slash from a large blade. While you manage to parry it, and the warriors behind you manage to prevent the darkspawn from overwhelming you, your return strike is also parried.

One of the taller darkspawn, armoured from head to toe and carrying an enormous two handed sword. Its eyes seem to glow from within the shadows of its visor and the large, and impractical, horns on the helmet make its head appear twice as large as it is.

"You. Are. The. Bright. One." It growls. "Show. Me. Your. Power."

His only answer is a redoubling of your attack.

You will admit, this darkspawn is a cut above the usual. It is hardly as skilled as you, but it has immense physical strength and just enough skill to make use of it. You must keep moving, as you cannot stand still and let it hit you, while at the same time, the heavy armour can slow your own attacks enough that you cannot get a lethal blow on it.

Meanwhile you are keenly aware of your forces desperately fighting the ogres.

In this situation you wrack your brain for answers and stumble upon one almost literally. The whirling, heavy strikes of the darkspawn are trying to drive you off the side of the wall, meanwhile they also reveal that the weight of the blade is dragging the monster off balance despite its immense strength.

There is a chance here.

Speech means intelligence so you make a show of being driven back and growing frustrated. The attacks increase in intensity, forsaking defence for all out assault, and the strikes grow wilder, less controlled. None of them manage to hit you, and the lip of the wall grows ever closer.

When you judge the distance sufficient, you meet a strike for the first time. You do not try to stop it, that is impossible, but you guide it to one side leaving the darkspawn stumbling. A kick to its ankle and a shove from your off hand sends it careening towards the wall.

Then a final strike to its back sends it toppling over the side to its death.

You rush back to the main part of the fighting, slaying an ogre and crying out to rally the flagging line. However, over the din of battle and the fact that most of the warriors have their attention firmly fixed on the monsters killing them.

Then, you have a moment of inspiration. The arrow that nearly hit you was likely caused by human inexperience with the height of the Eldar. Ogres and trolls are taller still. Ideally you would have the shieldwall fall back while this happens, but that is not something easy to do without a rout, so you do not riske it.

"Archers!" You roar over the din. "On my target!"

Fortunately, you tower over the humans in Ferelden's army and wear bright colours. It does not take long for the archers to find you, and their arrows begin to concentrate on the largest of the ogres. You can see why they would not choose the target initially, it is incredibly resistant to arrows. Most either stick in harmlessly or bounce off.

"Bring it down! Bring it down!" You command, not to the archers but to the warriors around you.

With the aid of the arrows distracting it, the great arms that served as both shield and club are raised slightly as the beast hesitates between its desire to slaughter and the instinct to protect its head. Into that gap pours spears and axes. Ferelden's tendency towards two handed weapons aiding in reaching the vulnerable areas.

Once the first ogre falls, you do not even need to tell the archers to move to the next. In fact, you think they actually manage to split their fire enough to do two.

Then, as suddenly as a rainstorm ending, you break through to hit the darkspawn from behind.

The army of Ferelden falls upon the darkspawn with the fury of people who have been stuck helpless for too long. Whether it was those too far back on the bridge or the many who staggered out of their tents to find themselves under attack, there are many warriors with ample reason to want the darkspawn dead.

For your part, you are at the front with the best of Ferelden's warriors. The task of your group is to seek out the ogres, and any of the more heavily armed darkspawn. It is difficult, demanding and thankless work. You tire yourself greatly and many of the warriors become casualties over the ten or twenty minutes of gruelling combat that follows.

Fortunately, you are both unexpected and, if the frantic blowing of signal horns is any indication, supported by the forces already here. Caught between the two attacks, the darkspawn cannot bring their full force to face you at any point.

Despite this they prove a relentless foe. Seemingly inured to fear and capable of eerie coordination no matter how chaotic the battle or how destroyed their command structure. The monsters fight as one until their formation is torn apart by the blades of Ferelden. Then they form small pockets of resistance and fight to the last.

"Sir." Paloma salutes as the fighting comes to an end. "It's good to see you."

"Now is not the time for formalities." You state tiredly. "What has transpired? How did the darkspawn enter?"

The woman shrugs. "No idea sir, they didn't come over the walls, I think someone said they came from that tower there."

You nod and move on with your questions "Are you in command here? Where is Xandar and Maeglin?"

She shakes her head. "I don't think anyone is, we all sort of acted on our own. Frankly, don't think we'd have been able to hold out much longer without you intervening. Xandar should be with the medics, trying to heal some people catching swamp fever. I haven't seen Maeglin"

You take a steadying breath, soon. "Prepare your forces, I will take stock of what we have, then we head for the medical station."

Paloma salutes again, and you head off to organise the continued attack

The casualties of the forces in the courtyard were incredibly heavy. Over half of them are injured in some capacity, a full third are dead. Added to the casualties you have take, another five hundred dead with maybe twice that number again injured, and you have not exactly come out ahead in this exchange.

Counting those injured but still able to fight, you would say you have effectively lost around five hundred

Then again, the darkspawn were slain to a monster, and at this point you have to wonder how many remain. Nearly six thousand have fallen at this point, for less than a thousand dead on your part, though if one counts those too injured to fight the numbers come closer.

You shake those dark thoughts off, you need to push on to the supplies and medical centre before you lose either of those things.

Organising the forces takes more time than you would like. The supplies station and healers' tent have gone concerningly silent. Despite that it takes time to integrate all the forces into yours. Mercifully nobody argues that you are in command. Three and a half thousand swords are an excellent deterrent to pointless debate in your experience.

The force besieging the supply and healing tents is tiny compared to the forces you have faced until now; you would be surprised if they comprise five hundreds in total. This time, they are not taken by surprise, but given they are outnumbered more than seven to one, you do not think it is a required advantage.

There are fewer foes of any quality here, no ogres for a start. Yet at the same time, Ferelden's best have taken the heaviest casualties, so you find yourself doing most of their job. Duelling commanders, high priority targets and the like. They are surprisingly dense in the horde when it is just you.

Roughly one in every ten to twelve is one of those taller, stronger versions. None so mighty as the one you faced on the bridge, and none speak, which makes you think that one was a further evolution, but they are still annoying in their frequency.

With a surrounded foe and your attention taken up by the combat, you find yourself without a chance to give much direction. Still, your skill in organising and delegating means that there is relatively little need to do so. Though this battle will hardly go down as a feat of great command, it will not be known as a military blunder either.

Given that the foe is outnumbered and surrounded, that is all it really needs.

The warriors of Ferelden press in, using their overwhelming numbers advantage. With no trolls or equivalents, weakened by the Persilima and their champions dealt with by you or those few of Ferelden's that still fight by your side, it is a slaughter. Frankly you wonder at the ease of the battle.

Then you reach the tents.

There are a few dead darkspawn, and far more dead humans. The tents themselves are swathed in thick branches. From the looks of them, they are both magical in nature and hewn at for some time. Several of them look nearly burst through.

Then there are the fallen.

"There's no more than fifty here." One of the local banns says quietly.

"Most of them walking wounded." You agree. "Why were there so few here?"

"I don't know." the Bann replies. "But I mean to find out."

"Tell me when you do and direct me to the individual responsible." You state evenly.

Because when you find them, they are a dead Man.

"Hark the tents!" You cry. "We are men of Ferelden, the darkspawn are dead and we have wounded in need of treatment! Lower the defences that we may enter."

"F, ferelden?" A soft voice asks from the other side. "Please help. The mage fainted and we can't, we can't get out!"

You glance at the Bann, then turn to the warriors. "Fetch axes, force an entry."

Axes make short work of the thinnest parts of the branch and the healers come out one by one. It is not ideal for dealing with the wounded or for fetching supplies, but that is not your concern right now.

You search desperately, looking for 'the mage' you find him before too long, collapsed in some Chantry Sister's arms. She is desperately praying and… attempting an exorcism? Xandar lies still and silent, face drawn and pale.

Your heart stops for a minute and you immediately reach out, searching for a pulse with all the speed you can muster. After several heart stopping minutes of trying, you find one, weak but steady. Next you extend your senses, searching to see if this is truly Xandar.

It is hard to tell while he is unconscious, especially with the weight of magic in the air, floating from outside the walls and hanging about the tent, but as far as you can tell there are no unusual concentrations here. Xandar should be fine.

"Sir." Paloma says at your elbow. "Where next?"

With a quiet sigh you give Xandar one last check and then you stand. Taking stock of the situation, you can hear the sound of Maeglin's voice crying out from somewhere in the keep, by the mages a giant spider is laying into the darkspawn who are trying to do… something magical or stop the mages from doing similar.

There are no signs of forced entry, no ladders, nothing that you can see that would let the darkspawn in. Assuming Merrill was not wrong that armies cannot be moved with teleportation that leaves one option, tunnels. The question is, do you head into the basement hoping to find and seal them with who knows how many darkspawn still in the keep or do you secure the rest of the area first.

Also, should you save the mages, or just hope the Ungwelientesen and the darkspawn happily take care of each other.

All the warriors of Ferelden are staring at you, awaiting your decision.

Sighing before a battle is poor practice, so you do not do so. You want to, but you do not.

"Come, we shall rescue the mages." You command, and the message starts to spread.

Logically it makes sense, you have the ability to stop whatever spell is being brewed, and long trained instincts assume that any work of the enemy's is should be destroyed. That it is unlikely to be particularly difficult only supports your decision.

Forming up to attack takes a few minutes. The wait is tense, watching the flashing lights of spells and feeling the brewing power in the air. You will grant that the spider is proving to be an able student of magic, its charges disrupting the spell quickly. In the distance you can see a small knot of Templar fighting to protect their charges and idly wonder why they are not intervening.

Then the line finally settles into place and you realise the time has come to intervene. The reserves are still mustering, but you will place your trust into their officers and begin now, lest the position be overwhelmed.

With a wave of your sword and a great cry you lead the forces at your command in a charge. You are not making great use of tactics here, primarily because there is relatively little need to and partly because speed is of the essence.

Mostly it is because you have a plan that relies on speed and the sudden shock of an assault.

Your understanding of magic is unusually keen by the standards of this land. Partly due to your studies, partly due to your ability to perceive it. Despite this, you consider yourself no more than a studied amateur at the craft. Though your standards are admittedly high in such things.

Still, when you sense the power swirling around the ritual, you realise this is a challenge like none you have faced yet. Perhaps opposing Solas, but that was a matter of skill rather than power. Here, there is so much magic swirling that you are perhaps overmatched in terms of raw might for the first time in a while.

Still, without fear you challenge the invisible, roiling chaos. The essence of change wrestles against your rigid conception of reality. The darkspawn are perhaps more broadly skilled, but in this specific contest you have the greater experience and knowledge. Despite this, something awakes in response to your intrusion.

A bitter, discordant song.

Yet, from deep within you a power rarely used stirs. The clarion call of trumpets echoes in your head and the thudding of feet on the dirt briefly takes on the characteristics of a drum beat. It is no song of power, but the very nature of the First Song briefly kindles to answer the Discord you face.

The battle cries of the warriors of Ferelden sound like the final note of the Ainulindale, and your will prevails.

Several things happen all at once. The Mages cry out in despair as their magic fails them, the power in the air snuffs out like a candle, and the darkspawn turn to face you with snarls on their face. The giant spider too collapses onto the ground, writhing and twitching unnaturally as black carapace becomes pale skin.

Then the warriors of Ferelden crash into the darkspawn.

It is not even a contest. Without their magic the mage darkspawn are merely regular darkspawn with lacking weaponry. There are some trolls and the more powerful variants to face, but you have long proved their greater. The warriors of Ferelden too are simply more skilled and experienced than the darkspawn, for all their eerie coordination and toughness.

Maybe fifteen minutes of whirling combat transpires. Vaguely you are aware of the Templars striking out to push the darkspawn back. A cry of 'Jenkins!' echoes briefly. However, your attention is more on your own battles and you know no more of what transpires there.

One troll, two, and a third fall. It is perhaps a little showy to run up an arm and propel yourself off its head to reach the next, but in your defence, it was the most efficient way to reach the second. You even manage to make the third one collapse on top of the large darkspawn that was trying to coordinate a defence. Or so you assume based on its actions.

Then the battle ends as suddenly as a sunshower. One moment you are fighting for your life, and the next you are looking around and seeing no foes standing, only allies. Ragged cheers start up slowly, as others come to the same realisation in their own time. For your part, you do not cheer.

"Healers!" You bellow

The warriors you brought with you are all but unscathed. One or two may have fallen, that is hard to be certain of without an unacceptable delay. More are injured naturally, and everyone is rather tired. Still, as far as violent melee combats go, this was quite sedate.

The same cannot be said for the Templars. Their forces, though they fought valiantly, have been mauled. Especially during the push out from their defensive position as they tried to reach the relief force. Of the fifty or so Templars present at Ostagar, there is not a single one who has escaped injury. Fully half their number lie dead.

As for the mages, no one seems quite sure. The ones you speak too all point to Senior Enchanter Wynne. She proves more difficult to find. She is not with the healers, nor is she taking stock of her mages. Eventually, fear gnawing at you, you check the dead.

She is there, and mercifully alive. She kneels on the floor cradling the head of one of the fallen Templar… Is that Knight-Capatain Shepherd? Standing next to her, looking tired and deeply apologetic, is Jenkins. His armour is battered and you suspect he is bleeding internally from the way he is standing.

"I'm, oh Maker, Wynne, I didn't." He stutters. "I didn't mean to…"

Wynne does not speak, she does not wail, but grief is written large in every part of her frame. Jenkin's words are only intensifying the tension and you suspect that without intervention an explosion of rage is inevitable.

Deciding to intervene you call out. "Templar Jenkins, get yourself to the healers."

The Templar turns to face you, pupils wide in a pale face. "You? What are you… I mean…"

Gently you speak again. "Templar Jenkins, you are in shock and bleeding. You need to get to the healers as soon as possible."

Jenkins continues to hesitate, when Wynne speaks. "Jenkins. Go."

The Templar wanders off in the direction of the healers. For a moment you remain silent, allowing Wynne a moment to grieve. The woman says nothing to you, merely stroking the fallen Templar.

"Senior Enchanter Wynne." You state after several minutes. "You are needed."

The old woman turns her gaze up to you, eyes narrowed in anger. "Can I not have ten minutes of peace? Jane's body isn't even cold yet, and you demand I come do whatever it is you need?"

"I am sympathetic to your grief." You reply. "Well do I know how it feels. As though your heart has been carved out, and all joy has fled beyond memory or hope of return."

"Then leave me be." Wynne says, turning her gaze back to the fallen Templar.

"Senior Enchanter Wynne." You repeat. "You are needed."

"Are you deaf?" The woman snaps at you. "Go away!"

"As we speak, the mages in your care mill about." You observe neutrally. "They are scared, lost and in need of leadership. They are not warriors, and the sight of battle has shaken them. They look for you, they need you."

"What about me?" Wynne hisses. "Maybe I need time to recover from shock."

You squat down and speak softly. "You are their leader. You have a duty to them."

Wynne flinches, and her hands clench on the face of her fallen comrade.

"Tell me, would she be pleased to hear that you neglected that duty?" You ask without accusation. "Would she rather you stay here?"

Silent tears fall onto the cold face of Knight-Captain Shepherd. Wynne's shoulders shake, and for a moment you fear you have lost her to grief.

Then, suddenly, she raises her head and her eyes are dry, if red. She forces herself to stand up, and visibly dusts off the dirt from her kneeling. She sniffs once, then whirls on her heel and starts to storm off.

"I need to know how many mages survived." You call after her, rising to your feet also. "How many will be able to support our assault on the keep."

Wynne pauses and responds without turning back. "I assure you, not a single mage was harmed. As for how many can aid you, as many as are available and no more."

Then she walks away. For a moment you move to follow, then you hesitate. Perhaps it is irrational, given how many of the fallen you have left on the field without a thought, but it seems rude to simply leave the Knight-Captain without a word.

"Nai hiruvalyë sérë, Arahesto Mavar[1]." You whisper into the wind.

Then you too depart with a swirl of your cloak. You have a tower to storm, and tunnels to close, assuming that spell had not been some form of teleportation.

[1] May you find rest, Noble-Captain Shepherd