OK, so one day turned into 4. Stupid real life, anyway! So sorry for the delays, everyone! Thank you all so much for reading!
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Chapter SixThe foot soldiers of the crown marched swiftly along the North Road, swords and shields glimmering under the hot summer sun. The Wardens marched with them, and here and there among the armored ranks Alistair could see the distinctive griffon armor of Simon and his recruits. They walked without pause, stopping only to make a brief camp when the moon had fully risen and Alistair's own fatigue finally lanced through the swirling mire of his thoughts, forcing him to rest.
He could not help but be troubled. Worried thoughts and theories echoed in his head, clamoring like the beat of a dozen blacksmith's hammers, until he closed his eyes against headache and questions both. In the five years she had held the stone, First Enchanter Petra had unearthed no new clues about its origin, nor any means of harnessing the latent power that so obviously resided in the stone itself. There seemed to be no way, she had told him after months of questions and tests, to use the stone to do even the most simple of tasks. "It is completely incompatible with a mage's power," Petra had said finally, looking just as disappointed as Alistair had felt. "It might as well be a lump of clay for all the good it does us."
And yet it's drawn them here to the Tower, like a magnet. In the years since the Blight, the darkspawn had never pressed inland as far as Lake Calenhad. Even the attack on Vigil's Keep had, he realized afterwards, been a skirmish, a wild surge which could have been quickly routed, had they had better warning. But, he reminded himself for the hundredth time since the army had begun the march to the Tower, it had been a skirmish to retrieve the stone. Somewhere, somehow, the darkspawn knew something the Wardens did not.
As though he could sense the weight on his friend's mind, Oghren pointedly presided over the crown squadron's cooking, forcing Alistair to down at least a plateful of the dwarf's ale and lamb stew, before supplementing the dish with one of his own potent flasks of homebrew.
"They won't get far. The mages will grind those sodding dusters into the Stone before we even have a chance to get our blades wet."
"Indeed," Simon nodded as he and the senior Wardens joined the king's campfire, "you worry too much, my friend."
Alistair smiled grimly at his companions, knowing that the expression did not reach his eyes.
"We should get moving before first light," he said softly, gazing into the fire, before finally forcing his eyes to close.
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The sun was setting as the North Road finally merged with the ancient Imperial Highway, and the sharp spire of the Circle Tower pulled into view. The army quickened its pace, bolstered by a following wind which wiped the sweat from their brows and even elicited a few smiles among Simon, Oghren, and the lieutenants of the crown squadron. But then the wind shifted, whirling around them until it met their travel-stained faces, and their smiles faded.
Screams carried on the breezes like the songs of sirens. Explosions, the wordless shouts of the darkspawn, and the clash of metal and stone filled the air. And beneath the tumult, the wind carried something else - the rank stench of the taint, and the piercing, metallic smell of blood.
Alistair grimaced, hearing his own voice give the command to charge like an echo in a dream.
"For Ferelden!"
Swords brandished like the teeth of an angry mabari, the Wardens and crown soldiers surged forward, racing toward the Tower.
As they neared Lake Calenhad, Alistair's breath caught in his throat. For a moment it looked as though the waters of the lake had risen to envelop the houses and buildings of the Tower docks. The hills were black with a seething mass of darkspawn, their ranks rippling in a sick mirror image of the lake beyond the Tower.
The mages were already fighting. Arcs of light and energy surged from the Tower windows, as bolts of fire and ice rained down upon the gathered hordes below. In front of the Tower gates, a line of mages and templars stood fast, the air around them hazy with energy as the mages cast fireballs and lightening against the tide.
The darkspawn recoiled as the crown's army surged toward them, for a moment rushing haphazardly into the crackling spells of the mages, or headlong against the swords of the king's soldiers, before turning to gather before a large structure in the center of the battlefield.
They had brought a catapult with them, a massive spidery black mechanism loaded with stones, pitch and fire. As the army drew closer the darkspawn fired, launching a seething fireball at the Tower. The missile crashed against the stone, cracking the spire and sending a shower of debris into the waters below.
"To the catapult! Cut it down!" Alistair yelled. Toe to toe with Oghren, he waded through the battlefield, knocking the creatures back with his shield, or cutting them down where they stood. The dwarf spun and pivoted beside him, cleaving limbs and beheading those genlocks too slow to duck or parry. Behind them, the crown archers shot volley after volley into the darkspawn ranks, arrows clattering around them like a dark and bloody rain.
But for every genlock he felled, it seemed to Alistair that another ran forward to take its place. Darkspawn roiled around the catapult, driving back the crown soldiers with the sheer mass of their bodies. From behind the ranks of genlocks and hurlocks came the snarling, tainted spells of the darkspawn emissaries, their dark magic warping the ground at their feet, and scorching the very air, until Warden and soldier fell before them, burning and bloody. Next to the emissaries stood a hulking pair of ogres, rapidly preparing the catapult for another shot. The crown's soldiers wouldn't get there in time.
Another missile hurtled through the air to crash against the Tower, and this time, the spire snapped, and the entire pinnacle of the Circle Tower leaned, faltered, and fell.
Maker's blood. There are people up there.Mages, their brilliant robes clearly visible amidst the smoldering bones of the spire, were falling from the sky, dropping like stones from the Tower. Their screams added to the cacophony of grinding stone and breaking earth, and for one frozen moment, Alistair stood, sword numb in his hand. Then the spire hit the water with a crash of stone and salt spray and the cries of the dying. The Tower was broken.
Anger possessed him.
"Oghren!" Without waiting to see if the dwarf was following him, Alistair ran forward, blindly cutting through the ranks of hurlocks and genlocks to reach the ogres and the catapult they guarded. A pair of emissaries stood before him, tainted magic blossoming from their hands like a diseased flower. Instinctively, he called forth a blast of energy, stunning the darkspawn and sending them reeling backward, their spells broken. He ran past their bleeding bodies until he reached the first ogre, a scream upon his lips.
The creature turned at his cry, meeting his bellow with a roar of its own. Dodging beneath the ogre's massive arms, he slashed at the creature's neck, closing his eyes against the spatter of blood, before battering his shield against its chest.
The ogre slid backward with the force of his blows, crashing against the catapult with a grunt. Then it braced itself and leapt forward, slashing at Alistair with its great hands.
Maker, but the beast was strong. The massive arms hammered against his shield like a mad gong, until his ears rang. Alistair raised his shield to block another blow, and felt his left arm snap as the ogre smashed its fist against him. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he raised his sword, hacking at the great purple arm. His blade skittered across the creature's gauntlet before burying itself in the flesh of the ogre's shoulder. Pivoting, Alistair recovered the blade, recoiled, and sprang, piercing the creature's heart.
He landed heavily on top of the ogre as the beast fell, falling on his crushed arm. His fight had carried him away from Oghren and the crown's squadron, and a quick look around him revealed no friendly faces. Grunting with pain, he slid his broken arm from the shield, and stood with his back to the catapult, waiting for the next enemy to show itself.
The frenzy of battle was unabated. Crown soldiers and darkspawn surged around the catapult, and the air was filled with the screams of the fighting and the dying.
A familiar bellow sounded from the other side of the catapult. The other ogre was advancing around the siege engine, tearing off parts of the contraption as it went. It met his gaze with a bellow that shook the earth, showing massive yellow fangs. Swallowing blood and bile, Alistair met its challenge with a war cry, stepping forward, sword ready to strike.
Then a new sound filled the air, rising over the tumult of battle like a sea wind. It was a cry, not furious and frenzied like that of an ogre, but deep, strong, and mournful, and for a moment it seemed that every being on the battlefield, whether elf, dwarf, man or darkspawn stopped to hear it. The sound sent a chill along Alistair's spine, and he wondered grimly what new enemy could be advancing that made even a rampaging ogre stop in its tracks.
But no enemy came. A single line of mounted soldiers was charging down the hillside, cutting down the darkspawn as they came. Cavalry? But he had sent Bann Teagan with the Denerim horsemen to fight at the Brecilian border, and anyway, the muted green armor these riders wore was in no shade of any regiment of the crown. A closer look, and he saw that they were not horsemen at all. They were elves – riding the great halla beasts of legend.
The Dalish.
He stood his ground, meeting the ogre as it charged, pivoting and turning to avoid the creature's blows on his wounded arm. He dodged and rolled, slashing out with his blade as he turned, trying to land as many blows as he could, while staying clear of the ogre's grasp. It was useless. With a fist like an anvil, the beast beat at him, knocking the sword from his good hand as with its other arm it lifted him from his feet, gripping him so tightly he saw stars.
Uselessly, he pummeled against it with his fist, turning in the creature's grasp, trying to find an opening. The massive hand tightened against him, and he felt a sudden, searing pain in his chest.
Just like Cailan. He almost wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, but there was no breath in his lungs. He waited, immobilized, for the death blow, feeling nothing but the rush of blood in his temples and the pain which threatened to engulf him.
Then a bloody blade protruded from the ogre’s chest and the beast’s grip slackened. Unable to break his fall Alistair tumbled to the earth, landing hard on the stony ground. His vision was darkening, and as if from everywhere he heard the drumming of hooves. Faintly, he realized that he was now lying under the protective body of a halla which stepped nimbly over him, its antlers lowered like a strange, spiky shield protecting him from the darkspawn.
Someone leapt down from the halla, and he heard swift footsteps racing toward the bellowing ogre. With eyes clouded by blood he saw a blurry figure leap through the air toward it, blades flashing with a strange light. Then the pain overcame him and Alistair saw nothing.
Modifié par bloodtallow, 09 mars 2010 - 02:48 .
Poor Alistair!
the Dalish. Keep it coming!!
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