Victory at Ostagar
Victory does not mean you are free to rest, no matter how much people beg to. The darkspawn could be laying a trap and you do not want to stand down until the sun is higher in the sky.
"One hour." You promise the soldiers. "One hour until we are certain. None may sleep until then."
The healers have rushed up the walls without orders and the mages seem determined to spend all their mana on healing. Perhaps you could countermand them, but frankly you think there is little need to. It means that nobody from the last wave dies, which salves your conscience greatly.
After organising a force to hold the centre and preparing to withdraw to the tower if it should be necessary, you begin the grim work of counting the dead. The healers have done much of the work for you already, and lower level officers count the living to ensure the numbers are accurate.
Why the healers insist on harrying you into one of their tents to be examined while you do so is a mystery to you. The fact that Maeglin finds it funny does not help at all.
Of the seven and a half thousand you began the battle with, four and three quarters remain. That is nearly forty percent casualties. It is a grim toll, far too high for your tastes. Of those who remain, two and a half thousand are injured.
How many will be maimed for life and whether any will fall to darkspawn corruption in days ahead is unclear. The mages say they are confident that most if not all can be saved with magic, and apparently there are potions that do it for them? You are sceptical but not a skilled enough healer to be sure.
Counting the fallen darkspawn is a very different prospect. They lie scattered all about the walls, atop them and even down in the valley. It will be hours until a count is ready, but Maeglin has a guess.
"Easily half of them." He says with certainty. "I counted near a hundred thousand to begin with, if we have slain less than fifty, I will be amazed."
"Their fanaticism proved useful in that regard." You say around the old woman who is trying to make you drink something red. "I do not think any of them stopped without fatal wound."
An hour passes in exhausted watchfulness. It is a silent time, tense and nervous. There is an energy in the air, of those who desperately hope that their trial has passed, but afraid that very hope will worsen the sting should it prove vain.
For your part, you only spend the last ten minutes atop the wall among the others. They seemed surprised when you came out of the healer's tent and returned, but you care not. The only reason you even went there was that it was the fastest way to get them to tell you the casualty figures. You are uninjured.
The sun rises higher. Now even the humans can clearly see to the forest, and notice the lack of darkspawn. The hour is not fully passed, when the first cheers begin to ring out. Perhaps you should stop them, but you do not.
Wary of false hope but believing that this is the best time for the darkspawn to strike, you watch. When nothing happens, you do not stop the first to leave their posts. Still no attack comes, and still you wait.
In the end, you are the last to leave the walls.
As you descend the stairs, your thoughts are on what is to come. There will need to be watches placed, in case the foe returns. Perhaps you should recall the garrison stationed at the supply post or call those from the tower.
Slowly, you come to realise that the cheers and cries are becoming a chant.
You look up from your thoughts to see swords and axes and staves and fists raised towards you.
"Russandol! Russandol the tall!" They chant.
Maeglin, just below you, smirks. Clearly, this is at least partly his doing.
Fast as a striking snake your hand lashes out and grabs Maeglin by the cloak clasp. Without much effort you pull him up until he stands beside you. The cheers start to die down, whether in confusion or distaste for Maeglin. Then, with quick bounds you head down to pull up Bann Evlynne.
At that point people seem to have gotten the idea, the cheers start to redouble and the other commanders start to make their ways towards the wall. For your part you push on, letting Maeglin enjoy his moment in the spotlight.
Bann Offrey, Captain Jymes, Bann Evlynne, Maeglin, whatever his name was from the eastern wall all stand at the top of the stairs as the troops chant their names. Still you do not stop. Wynne, Jenkins, the old woman who leads the healers, even Solas. You pull them all up to the stairs and raise your hand.
It takes some time for people to fall silent, not least because everyone is dreading a long speech. Yet, fall silent they do.
"This victory belongs not to me alone." You say, voice booming from the walls. "It belongs to those who aided me, and to all who fought, guarded or healed. It was not the actions of one, but of all. The dawn has come! For Ferelden!"
"FERELDEN!" Roar back the warriors.
"FERELDEN!" You roar.
"FERELDEN!" They cry.
Then everyone staggers off to bed. It is perhaps not quite so glorious as the songs will say, but you have a sleeping potion Solas gave you and an engagement with a bed.
You would rather that than an ending worthy of a song.
The Hound King
To say that things had gone poorly would be something of an understatement. Cailan had thought that leaving early in the day would give them plenty of time to find out where the darkspawn were and what to do about them. However, that had ended with them being, well, ambushed.
In hindsight, maybe he should have waited for that scouting mission to finish.
The ambush hadn't even been particularly clever. Either the darkspawn didn't need to breathe or they just had some way of doing so underwater, because they'd been lurking in the deeper pools of water. When his small force was on the narrow spit between two of said pools, they suddenly sprang out, catching them off guard.
"To the king! Rally to the king!" Tim had yelled, as the sudden attack suddenly sent everything into chaos.
Cailan's world briefly became nothing but the shining arc of his sword, the muffled sounds of combat, and the darkspawn in front of him. However, after a surprisingly short time, his guards had managed to force the darkspawn back and away from him long enough to take in what was happening.
The good news was that the army his father had built was proving its worth. Even without direction and taken by surprise, the individual warriors were acquitting themselves well and rapidly forming small formations independently. Further, it seemed that their equipment was a substantial cut above the foe's.
Probably because darkspawn gear wasn't worth much even before it was submerged in water.
"With me!" The king cries. "We need to unite our forces!"
"It's too dangerous!" Replies Tim, who has the unfortunate dual honour of commanding the king's bodyguard and having the strangest name in all Ferelden.
"If I do not rally my men, who will?" Asks Cailan, already moving towards the nearest darkspawn.
Tim, wisely, does not argue, but gathers up the rest of the king's guards and does what he can to support the attack. Cailan, naturally, leads from the front, to Tim's distress. To his delight he finds the whole affair… easy.
A Genlock is cloven in two, armour giving way easily beneath Ferelden steel. Another is bisected with its bow in its hands. Cailan laughs wildly, as he pushes ever deeper into the darkspawn lines, hair blowing majestically (in his opinion) in the rush of his charge.
"Careful, your majesty." Tim beseeches him. "Don't get too far ahead of us."
"You worry too much, Tim." Cailan replies, laughing. "See, we are carving through them without difficulty."
Tim does not look reassured, but true to the king's prediction, they sweep through the darkspawn with little to no problem. The army manages to link up with itself and soon they are making a push out of the encirclement.
Perhaps this is the point where things could have gone badly, but by sheer good luck, there is a shallow marsh they can withdraw through. It is hardly pleasant, and anyone who is knocked over is as likely to drown in their armour as be rescued. Further, the darkspawn have not let up their pursuit.
Still, they begin to make their way out.
"Well, it could be worse." Cailan says, impaling a hurlock on his sword.
"With all due respect your majesty." Tim replies. "Please stop taunting the Maker. I am all for sanctification, but I'd rather live to enjoy it."
The king laughs, as he and his men began to fall back through the marshland. Breaking the ambush had been a challenge but it has now been done. The young king is riding high both on victory, and the fact that he was right. This plan is terrible.
Sadly his men do not share his euphoria, but that is fine. He is their king, and he will rally them and strike back for Ostagar. Then he can hit the darkspawn with the full force of his armies.
First though, he needed to pull away from the darkspawn chasing him.
Then, suddenly, as the sun reached about midday, they just… stopped. The darkspawn suddenly stopped following them and attacking them.
"See, they flee in fear of us!" Cailan cries.
There are some ragged cheers, but by and large most seem more grateful that the fighting has stopped. With some advice from the more experienced officers Cailan, begrudgingly, leads them to a solid hill. There they create a fortified camp and rest and tend to their wounded. Scouting parties are sent out to see if the way back to Ostagar is clear.
They make it back without further combat. Three quarters of the force extracted unharmed, seven hundred and fifty men, plus wounded.
An Old Dog at Bay
Loghaine Mac Tir had not lived this long by being a fool. He knew this plan was risky, but in truth it appealed to him. Sudden rapid strikes on a slower, more powerful foe was a tactic that played to Ferelden's strengths, and his as well. It reminded him of the days he and his men fought Orlais.
That was the main reason he'd supported it, regardless that of how his idiot son in law thought it was to spite and undermine him.
When would that boy learn that he only wanted what was best, for the kingdom, for his family and for himself too. No, the young fool was too stubborn, too stuck in his dreams of glory and romance.
The Teyrn sighed through his nose and pulled his thoughts away from the rumours. Cailan was not in secret communication with the Empress of Orlais. He wouldn't betray Anora that way, or Ferelden.
Not Maric's boy. Surely.
With a growl, Loghaine shook off those thoughts. Rumours were just that, whether they were true or not could wait for now. The Blight… well, it was something that required focus, for now. Whether or not he really believed everything said about it, he had at least decided that he should see it before he made any decisions.
"Loghaine." Howe said, grumpily. "We need to do something about the Couslands."
The Teyrn sighs, this being far from the first time Howe has brought this up. "For the last time, not yet. There are too many unknowns at this point to…"
A black feathered arrow kills one of Howe's guards. There is a guttural snarling and suddenly the woods are full of darkspawn.
"Form up!" Loghaine growls. "Sound the rally! We need to organise a response!"
The next arrow takes his signaller in the eye.
Suffice it to say that this situation has gone, as Maric would say, completely cocked up.
Loghaine barely has time to process what is happening, because the enemy has sent several of those large darkspawn at him personally. Orcs? No, that was something else.
The Teyrn is not a coward, but he recognises fights that are simply not worth taking. However, despite his best efforts, he's not seeing a lot of other options. The whole force is right up against one of those deep pools on one side, and the forest is on the other. Ahead are the… Giants? The big ones, and behind are, well, his own men.
With a snarl, he draws his sword.
"Everyone, keep moving forward!" He yells. "If we stop, we'll be surrounded, keep going forward!"
His guards surge forward, and the warriors behind follow the banner on, as best they can. He is simultaneously proud of their discipline and furious at the situation they find themselves in. Going forward may be the only choice, but it is not a good choice. Even as he charges forward, he can tell that people are being forced to stop and turn to fight off the ambush.
Casualties will be heavy.
Then his attention is pulled to the monsters before him. Cauthrien has her greatsword buried in one of their arms, so he moves to cover her. The beast seems all but impervious to pain, and devastating blows are but scratches to it. Still, his guards are the best in Ferelden, and he has not lived this long by being easy to kill.
Together, they manage to bring down the first, then the second. Everything seems to be going well, until Loghaine makes a mistake.
It isn't a major one, in most situations it would be so minor nobody would notice. He is out of position for a dodge, which means he has to take a blow on his shield. It isn't the first time and it shouldn't be the last.
However, his foe is the size of a tree and wielding one as a club.
There is a disorienting sensation of tumbling, and a strange rising and falling in his stomach. Then he hits the ground.
To his credit, he manages to stabilise enough that he lands on his feet. Unfortunately, a weight of steel and muscle thrown who even knows how high into the air coming down on a leg.
A sickening snap echoes through the forest.
Loghaine screams in pain, as much from surprise as anything else, and also because however tough he is, pain is pain. About him, soldiers rush to his defence, dying to secure him, several people start talking about pulling back or acting in some way to save him.
They are stopped by a gruff voice. "Don't worry about me. Keep going."
"But sir…" Someone begins.
Loghaine struggles to his feet, leg dragging uselessly and painfully behind him, leaning on his sword as a crutch. "Someone carry me, we need to get to that hill. Do not stop for anyone."
"Sir…" Cauthrien says.
"No one, Sir Cauthrien." Loghaine snaps.
Loghaine is in a foul mood. Worse than usual. His leg ached and contrary to his hopes, the darkspawn seem to sense his weakness.
"We can't stay here!" Cauthrien yells over the din of combat. "We'll be overrun!"
His small force, what was left of it anyway, has drawn themselves into a shield wall on the hill. Less than half of his original force remained. Once more the Teyrn cursed himself.
"We'll need to try and stage a breakout!" He replies. "Pass the word!"
Cauthrien salutes, and Loghaine hope that he wasn't leading his men into further danger as he turned his eyes to the swamp to the east. Less than half of his force remains and he is, quite simply, running out of options. This is, once again, not a good plan, just the best option he has available.
The breakout goes well. A number of brave volunteers hold the shield wall while he masses where the line is thinnest. A sudden strike into the darkspawn surrounding the swamp secures the path out.
It is in the collapsing back to cover that gap that things start to go wrong.
For the first time Loghaine realises that there must be someone, or something, in command. Obvious in hindsight, but in his defence, he was distracted by the ambush and the broken leg. Because the commander realises what he's done and focuses his heaviest forces into a single counterattack.
It breaks through the thinned line and throws the whole affair into chaos. The swamp is not a good place for Ferelden to fight and in the confusion, many choose to stand and fight where they are rather than run into the thick mud and deceptive water.
Loghaine is in the thick of this. Despite his broken leg, he does all he can to try and rally people to himself, to form a solid line and to restore order. Where Howe is mystifies him.
"Arl Howe is a snake! I would trust him as far as I can throw him, armed and armoured!"
Only now, as ruin is all about him and he calls commands that go either unheard or unheeded, he feels what Nelyafinwë had warned him of. He is alone. He has no one who is willing to support him, no one who will defend his life above him. None save the soldiers at his side.
It matters little. He does what he can. If nothing else, he can die with his men.
Sir Cauthrien would not call herself the greatest knight in Ferelden. She is good, she makes no bone about it, but she would not consider herself the best.
However, on this day, for just a moment, she is.
What possesses her she does not know, but her sword reaps a terrible toll upon the darkspawn. Soon, it seems they have decided to pull back rather than face her. She does not stop though, her eyes fixed upon the banner of her lord. Still it waves above the battle, still he calls for order.
'Please.' She begs the Maker. 'Let me reach him, let me save him. I don't care if I die, please.'
On she goes as the banner wavers, as it dips. She reaches the crest of the hill as it falls.
She dives into the press of hacking slashing stabbing monsters. She lays about her with her blade like a god of old. Whether blows against her hit armour or flesh she neither knows nor cares.
Loghaine lies on the ground, injured, but still alive. Sir Cauthrien hauls him upon her back and runs into the swamp.
Eventually, survivors of this battle will slowly filter back to Ostagar. They will carry news of the fallen. Banns Wynn, Manegold, Bittershelf and many others of the Gwaren Teyrnin died. Most, if not all, in either the ambush or the stand at this hill. If any died in the retreat, no one admits it.
Not Arl Howe, nor his men. They do not return, nor can anyone confirm if he died. Days later they will find the battlefield all but absent of bodies. Of the near thousand men that died that day, perhaps a hundred bodies are found. If Arl Howe was ever among them remains a mystery.
Wolves and Wreathes
Fergus feels like maybe he shouldn't have volunteered to take up scouting. He knew someone needed to do it, and it was better than hanging around either the king or HIM. If he was going to start earning some glory and establishing his power bloc, it needed to be now.
Still, it has only just occurred to him that he knows nothing about scouting.
"Now, I was talkin' to Velkind's lot. They ain't from around here, but they know a fair bit about the terrain, so clean the gunk out of yar ears so I can explain some safety things to you." The old man Fiona's teacher volunteered growls.
The mabari by his side barks his own threat to pay attention.
With one ear Fergus listens to descriptions of 'quicksand' 'quick mud' and something called 'slow water', but most of his attention is on Fiona. She's, well, she's been weirdly intense since her last meeting with her teacher and he's worried.
"Not now." His sister reprimands him. "Pay attention. If you die, I'm storming the Black City to get you back."
He must be getting easy to read in his old age.
The swamp is a miserable place. There are insects everywhere, getting under armour, and if he thought itches were bad before, try an itch under a vambrace. The ground is wet, even on the 'dry' ground it's more like a thin layer of mud.
More than once, he ends up slipping and falling. Fiona usually catches him, and sometimes he catches her. It says something that neither of them tease the other about it. They're both too miserable.
He'd always kind of assumed swamps were open, but there are so many trees about. There's the dead ones that are traps waiting to happen, and clusters of others that grow up even from within the swamps. That's not getting into the reeds and thorny bushes and did he mention the insects?
"Hold up." The old man who joined them hisses.
"What is it?" Fiona asked.
Fergus is not happy about how much credence she gives him, just because he's friends with her teacher. Between this and the strange new intensity she has, he's starting to serious worry that the elf is doing something to her.
Idly, he fingers his sword. She's all the family he has left, and he promised everyone he'd look after her during the Blight. Maybe he should have words with that Nelyafinwë.
The dog the old man had with him starts to growl.
"Darkspawn." He speaks. "Ahead of us."
Fiona whips her head around, as though seeing their surroundings for the first time. "Quick! Into the undergrowth!"
"Who exactly is in command here?" Fergus grumbles as the whole group crashed through shallow water and dense scrub.
If he thought it was miserable going before, this is infinitely worse. Many times they have to stop, crouching in waist deep water the colour of mud. At best it is slow, miserable wading through shallow water, at worst they crawl through mud, under thorny bushes.
Fergus is distracted from his internal complaining by yet another alarm sound from the mabari.
"That's the fourth time." He mutters to himself.
"Yeah." The old man mumbles. "I really thought we'd've been around them by now."
"Perhaps they've thrown up a screen." Fergus speculates quietly. "They're setting up a siege of Ostagar. It's the best way into Ferelden after all."
The mabari chuffs in agreement, and paws at the old man. He grimaces and spends some time in thought. Then with a decisive nod, he starts looking around.
"We need to get up high." He says quietly. "Get eyes on what's happenin'."
It takes them a long time to find a way to somewhere high up. They end up scrambling up a tree which is growing out of a rock of all things. Or through a rock, whatever, he'd never listened to his Botany tutors.
When they reach the top, they can only stare in mute horror.
"I've never seen so many people in one place." The old man mutters. "Ya teyrness get a count on them?"
Fergus shakes his head, swallowing. The darkspawn wend through the trees like a river on a map. Tiny streams of black dots converging into a single vast mass that winds past trees and over hills.
"There's more of them than there were at Ostagar." Fiona whispers. "More than the whole of Denerim maybe."
"We have to warn them!" Fergus hisses.
"That ain't goin' to be easy." The old man grimaces. "They're between us and the fort, we'd have to take a wide loop around, cross down Ferncot way and work back across."
"We have to try!" Fiona hisses fiercely.
The old man just nods. "It's goin' to be messy."
It is.
In the end, they do not make it in time to warn the fortress. They keep needing to move further and further east in order to dodge the Blight. Without the old man they'd have gotten lost or drowned. He himself is thanking the Maker, verbally, that he talked to some Chasind about the area.
On the way they meet up with a woman carrying Teyrn Loghaine over her back. It is tempting, oh so tempting, to leave her there to die. Fiona is looking like she's about two steps away from doing it herself.
Then the old man speaks.
"The kid'd never forgive ya lady." He says quietly. "Plus, I'm no noble, but isn't it better if he owes you?"
When the scout party arrived at dawn, Teyrn Loghaine had a splinted leg and was leaning heavily on Fergus Cousland as he limped through the gates. Sir Cauthrien was being carried between Fiona and the old man.
Both were, miraculously, alive.
A Song in the Deep Roads
"Alright." Merrill says, hands on her hips. "I'm not going any further until someone explains what we're doing."
They'd snuck away from Ostagar in the early light of morning on a secret mission. However, instead of going further into the Wilds, instead they'd taken a number of bizarre turns, until they reached a tunnel. They went down said tunnel until they reached the Deep Roads.
"Good. You weren't wanted in the first place." Avernus sniffs.
The dark skinned leader, Duncan, she thinks his name is, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Avernus, please, this is hard enough without antagonising our allies."
"Bah. It's always the same with these people. Just get out of our way and let us do our job." The mage grumbles.
"I'd like to know what we're doing too." The dwarf woman says. "I understood maybe a third of what the crazy human said."
Duncan nods slowly. "Very well, in summary; we think we have created a method of luring the Archdemon onto the surface."
Merrill stares in complete and total surprise. Her mind races as she tries to piece together how that would work, surely it can't.
"What's an Archdemon when it's at home?" Asks the dwarf woman.
"Well, lady Aeducan." Duncan explains. "An Archdemon is…"
"Oh my goodness!" Merrill explodes. "How does that work; I remember you mentioning how the Taint can be excited by there's nothing about how it communicates. Do you use the same principles? Oh, oh, do you use it's own corruptive properties to turn whatever control mechanisms it uses to control it? Or…"
"Stone." Lady Aeducan groans. "There's two of them now."
Duncan coughs awkwardly as Merrill continues to babble theories in her excitement. "Perhaps I will explain later."
"Wait a minute?" Avernus interrupts. "You read my book?"
"Yes." Merril exclaims. "It was fascinating, highly immoral obviously, but the research was just so interesting. I used your work to create a spell to purge the Blight."
Avernus pauses for a moment in thought, then asks. "How does it work?"
As the elf continues to babble at about a mile a minute, in words that Bravia Aeducan is only thirty percent sure are real, she can only sigh. At least Alistair is looking as lost and confused as she feels.
The two mages would probably have been quicker setting up the first test if they hadn't been so busy admiring each other's egos. However, eventually they set up a simple fenced in area with what looks like a stick inside of it.
"That's it?" Duncan asks.
"No." Merrill, surprisingly, replies. "The stick is essentially acting like a highly specialised staff and allowing us to cast the spell without being in the pen. That way we can remove ourselves from the experiment."
"Which I am in the act of doing as we speak, so everyone stop talking!" Avernus snaps.
They wait in silence for nearly a minute, then slowly darkspawn start arriving. They walk up to the walls and then into the pen.
"They're using the gate." Merrill hisses excitedly. "Did we tell them to do that? Surely they should be coming in over the walls, just trying to get in as soon as possible?"
"Honestly, this has succeeded beyond my wildest expectations." Avernus muses.
"We need to see how far the effect spreads." Merrill gushes. "Perhaps we could lead several groups using one and then try another to see how many turn aside?"
"Too many variables." Avernus shakes his head. "We need to control for the possibility that they will maintain focus. Then we need to see if we can focus the effect on a specific kind, and only then will we be able to extend that out to the Archdemon."
"Sweet stone." Bravia groans. "This is so boring!"
Alistair laughs, the traitor.
Merrill thinks about it for a bit and decides that they should probably narrow it down to kinds. She starts messing with the signal of the 'darklure' as Avernus dubs it. Theoretically, the darkspawn should stay penned regardless, maybe leaving at worst so it should be safe.
However, as she is messing around with the signal, suddenly every single darkspawn eye turns to the lure.
"What?" She begins.
"Dammit." Avernus curses. "The Archdemon's here."
"What do you mean the Archdemon is here?" Merrill squeaks.
"And how could you tell?" Asks Duncan.
"Not physically, but its attention." Avernus explains. "I have long observed that darkspawn, even under the influence of the Blight, have two states of operating. Primarily they operate on a sort of 'subconscious' directive, however the Archdemon can at will assume a form of direct control over its minions…"
"Guys." Alistair says.
"You're avoiding the question. How did you know it was the archdemon?" Duncan presses.
"Duncan!" Alistair says, more urgently.
"Please, as though it is not obvious how." Avernus sneers. "Surely, we are both aware of why you were so eager to see my sentence stayed. A Warden several centuries old must have seemed like a Maker sent gift."
"Incoming!" Bravia yells, dragging the elf behind her.
The darkspawn leap at them.
Fighting the numbers they are facing is not feasible, so the wardens mount a fighting retreat out of the tunnels.
"Why are there so many!" Alistair snarls in frustration.
"The lure would have increased the number of roaming darkspawn." Avernus replies calmly, vaporising several using Merrill's spell. "This is a rather excellent extension on my work incidentally."
"You didn't mention that was a possibility!" Duncan yells.
"Of course not. If I had, you would not have allowed the experiment." Avernus explains in a tone more suited to children.
"Focus on surviving!" Bravia yells. "If we survive, we can kill the arrogant prick later!"
The Grey Wardens are incredibly potent foes to the darkspawn. Falling back and outnumbered they take a heavy toll for relatively light losses. By the time they make it to the surface, the Archdemon has clearly decided that further pursuit is not worth the effort.
For a few moments everyone simply waits, expecting a trick.
Eventually, Duncan speaks. "We are going back to Ostagar. If we double time, we should make it back before tomorrow evening. Keep your… keep alert. I will be speaking to Avernus about what information should and should not be shared with the Commander."
They end up marching through what's left of the night, which isn't fun but is better than being killed in their sleep.