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heniareth · 2 years ago

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The Battle of Ostagar

Chapter 3: The Battle Begins

(Full chapter on AO3 or continued below)

Wordcount: 4046

WARNINGS:

general darkspawn hivemind weirdness

some body horror (screaming blood)

death, description of death

the horrors of war (anxiety-inducing)

canon-typical violence

Sulri returned a while after, walking straight towards them. She looked solemn and somber, as if bearing bad news. Astala saw her expression with a twinge of worry. Were they in big trouble?

Sulri tapped Khêd on the shoulder. Khêd didn’t look up and flipped her off. Sulri let out an exasperated huff, crouched down in front of him and started signing away. Khêd avoided looking at her, but Sulri was insistent Finally, something she said made Khêd pay attention. Sulri said something more. Khêd’s mouth was a tight line, but then he relaxed. Forcefully. Astala had no idea someone could be relaxed in such a tense way.

“Fine,” Khêd said, shrug casual and not. “Let’s hear it.”

Sulri gave him a sweet smile and positioned herself so that all three of them could see her. As she started talking, Khêd translated:

“The battle is looking bad. The strategy they will use is solid, but the king’s armies are severely outnumbered, and he refuses to retreat and wait for reinforcements from his uncle in Redcliffe. I tried to help him see reason, but it didn’t work. Tonight will likely end in a defeat for the king’s army.”

Astala felt the palms of her hands starting to sweat. She exchanged a glance with Ilanlas. Maybe they could still leave?

“Fortunately,” Khêd continued his translation, “we will be away from the battlefield- we will!?”

Sulri threw Khêd a scolding look, which he didn’t even acknowledge.

“I’ll throw my beard into the Ancestors’ graves, this is the best bit of news I’ve had in years. Hah!”

He jumped up and pumped his fist in the air. Sulri crossed her arms, evidently not impressed.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, salroka,” Khêd said in a mocking tone. “I’ve seen enough 'locks up close for a lifetime and a half.”

“You are a Grey Warden,” Ilanlas said. “You will see many more.”

“Do you all have to dim the lights?” Khêd said and sighed. “I’m happy about this, okay? Let me have that!”

Ilanlas raised his eyebrows, but shrugged and said nothing more. Khêd shook his head as he sat down.

“I am glad to see the Warden-Captain didn’t catch you,” Sulri continued and turned to Khêd. “Although he will probably suspect it was you.”

Khêd sighed. “Of course he would.”

“Who is the Warden-Captain?” Astala asked.

“Duncan’s right hand,” Khêd said. “Pale. Bald. Tall, but all of you sods are tall.”

Sulri signed something, which Khêd didn’t bother to or didn’t want to translate.

“He was with us down in the Deep Roads and was the one to take over when Duncan left,” Khêd continued.

“You don’t like him?” Astala asked.

Khêd’s only answer was a shrug.

“Alright...” Astala turned to Sulri. “How do you know Teyrn Loghain?”

Surli made a shooing motion with her hand and shook her head.

Now that was forthcoming.

Astala leaned back on her hands to look up at the sky. Despite the strong wind, the dark, oily clouds above were progressing slowly. They crawled along like slugs, blocking out the sun and casting the world into an ever growing shadow. She didn’t like this weather. She’d seen a lot of clouds and storms—living next to the Waking Sea did that—but nothing like this. It felt off. The wind had a thinness to it that made her shiver.

“Aren’t they weird?” she asked Ilanlas, pointing upwards.

Ilanlas looked up and stared at the dark mass above them for a while.

“They look like darkspawn blood feels,” he said.

“Oh, great,” Khêd said with a wary glance upwards. “Now the void above our heads is acting weird.”

Shortly afterwards all wardens started to gather around the tent with the large map. Khêd suggested they keep to the back of the group, so they would be as far away as possible from the Warden-Captain. They sat down, mercifully overshadowed by a few wardens standing slightly in front and to their left. Alistair was in the middle of the group, being wrangled around by a huge blond warden saying something about ale and celebrating. The other wardens around him laughed. The air was filled with the dull roaring of mutliple conversations happening all over the group. When Duncan stepped up to the map, which had been hung up so everybody could see it, silence immediately fell over the whole fifty wardens.

She could feel it clearly now. The blood in every body answered to Duncan’s presence and the Blight in his veins. Behind Duncan stood the Warden-Captain, and the other warden with the brown skin and the grey eyes.

Duncan explained tonight’s strategy in quick, precise terms. King Cailan, along with all Grey Wardens, would meet the darkspawn horde at the front of his armies in the gulf that cut the hill in two. The king’s armies would feign weakness—and hopefully they’d have to put effort into their feigning—and gradually retreat up the gulf. Once the darkspawn had been drawn in far enough, Teyrn Loghain would join the battle with the rest of the men, attacking the darkspawn from behind. So far, so good.

Duncan then went into detail explaining where specialized taskforces would be; the warden archers, for examples, of which there were twelve, and their mages, of which there was… one.

“If the Archdemon appears, I want everybody to focus on it,” Duncan said. “We are the only ones who can slay the beast. Even if the king himself is about to be overrun, or I am about to die, I do not care. You will focus on the Archdemon. Understood?”

A murmur of assent washed over the crowd.

“How will we get the Archdemon to land?” somebody asked.

Duncan nodded at the brown-skinned, silver-eyed warden next to him. “I leave this to Palla.”

The warden stepped forward and let their gaze sweep over the crowd. When they spoke, their voice was quiet, but carried far.

“In my time as a dragon hunter, we tried many things. Chains, big nets, magic. Best method? Cut their wings. Beasts can’t fly on broken wings.”

They looked over the crowd again, eyes wandering from face to face. When they landed on Astala, it felt as if someone was running the serrated edge of a rusty blade along her teeth.

“You’ve all seen the beast,” Palla continued. “You know what it looks like. As soon as it appears, Herán and his archers will scatter and aim at its wings. Mahieu, you and the Circle mages will also engage as long as it is within range. As will the soldiers manning the ballistae. We have some hope that the ombined efforts will injure it badly enough that it will be forced to land. From there, approach until you are within range and fire at will. Do not worry about the horde; they will want us others dead first.”

“With all due respect, if I may.” Onastas clambered to his feet from the middle of the crowd. “This is not a dragon hunt. This is a battle. Our placement on the field will see us surrounded and overrun within minutes.”

As soon as Khêd finished translating that bit, Sulri nodded emphatically.

“It’s also the position closest to the archdemon,” Palla answered with a shrug.

“You are correct, Onastas,” Duncan said. “Unfortunately, the king commands this army, and we are under orders to be front and center in this assault.”

“Well,” Onastas replied, “did the king ever say if all of us had to be at the front? Couldn’t we-?”

“I suspect I know where this is going, and your idea is appreciated,” Duncan said. “But I’m afraid we can’t loophole our way out of this. The teyrn already thinks us little better than Orlesian chevaliers. We cannot afford to even appear insubordinate.”

Onastas seemed to want to insist. In the end, however, he shrugged and sat back down.

“Remember,” Palla continued, “dragons are weakest along the throat and the belly. Once the Archdemon has been forced down, aim for those spots.”

“What about the neck?” another warden asked. “I once heard a chevalier tell he chopped a dragon’s head off with an axe.”

“That chevalier was lying,” Palla said flatly. “Regardless, do not climb onto the Archdemon unless it is no longer moving. And if anybody somehow manages to stab it in the neck, they better make peace with the fact that they just dealt the killing blow.”

Silence hushed over the group. Duncan stepped up again.

“Our newest recruits will not be with us on the battlefield,” he said. “They have been given the task of lighting the signal that will tell teyrn Loghain when to march. Alistair, you will go with them.”

“What!?” Alistair jumped up. “I won’t be in the battle?”

“It is an important task,” Duncan replied. “If the beacon is not lit, teyrn Loghain will not know when to charge.”

“So he needs, what, five Grey Wardens standing there holding the torch, just in case?” Alistair said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“If that is the only thing you can think of doing while you wait to light the signal, then yes,” Duncan said.

“But why can’t we be in the battle and just leave early?” Alistair pressed.

“No,” Duncan answered. “Once the darkspawn and the king’s armies have made contact, you will have one hour to enter the tower of Ishal and get to the top. Once we give you the signal, you will light the beacon. After that, you will stay with the teyrn’s men and guard the tower. If we need you, we will send word. This is by the king’s orders. Understood?”

“I…” Alistair hesitated, and then his shoulders slumped. “Yes, Duncan.”

“Good.”

“But,” Alistair added, lifting his head once more, “if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the remigold, I’m drawing the line.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Khêd mumbled.

Astala set out to say something when the sunlight, choked as it already was by the clouds, became pale and sharp. A shadow fell over the camp—no. Not a shadow. It was more like a scream, or a call, vibrating through her bones. Her head snapped left, as did the heads of all the other Wardens. Something was humming in her blood, words that were none, an order: and her blood pulled.

Then it was gone again.

Astala let out a shaky breath. Khêd had gone pale, Sulri had grown still. Ilanlas had his hand on the pommel of his dagger, knuckles white as fresh ash. The other wardens exchanged uneasy and, in a few cases, knowing glances.

“Well, we have all heard that,” Duncan said. “Let us prepare for battle. The darkspawn are marching.”

Everything went very fast after that. People finished putting on armor and checked their weapons one last time. Somebody helped her with the chain mail after she’d pulled the fear-soaked gambeson, to which she'd add her own fear now, over her head. The metal rings dragged on her shoulders, heavier than any crate she’d ever carried, and Astala needed a moment to find her footing. Immediately, the breastplate was fastened to her. Her heart was beating a harsh thump-thump-thump in its new metal case.

People were saying goodbye: an embrace, a pat on the shoulder. Promises to stay safe and meet for drinks after the battle. Forehead pressed against forehead, eyes closed. Somebody was kneeling in a corner, praying quietly. A tear-streaked face; a tightly gripped shield; a dog scratched behind the ears as if it were the last time; shouts and screams and steps, marching, running, thousands of footfalls. The mass of people would’ve swept her away if it hadn’t been for Sulri grabbing her belt before she wandered off.

Astala took a deep breath. She had a sword, stolen as it may be. She had a dagger, taken from a corpse killed with the stolen sword. Maker preserve her family; she wished she could say goodbye to them again.

“Are you ready?” Ilanlas asked.

Astala took another breath and let it go. Shaky. It didn’t stop shaking. She shook her head.

Ilanlas gave her back a tentative pat. “It will be alright.”

“We don’t know that,” Astala choked out.

“Who’s the old ball of cheer now,” Khêd said. He knocked his shoulder into her back and sent her stumbling forward a few steps. “Shake yourself out of it, duster. Not the time to lose your head.”

Astala swallowed and nodded and rubbed her thumb over the pommel of her sword. Up and down, up and down, up and down.

The Grey Wardens left. Helmets on, so that their faces were obscured, they marched. The mage was passing his staff from one hand to the other, but his face was grim. Alistair stood at the edge of the wardens’ encampment. He got his hair ruffled once or twice, a squeeze on the shoulder, a nod, a few words. Duncan handed him something, which he tucked away. When Duncan turned around, Alistair looked like he wanted to run after him. He stayed. The wardens left. Alistair’s shoulders looked heavy. The expression on his face was downright miserable.

The blue and grey and the proud griffon banner disappeared into the gorge that split the hill in two. The rest of the army, grey and golden, or red, or green, each after their leader’s color, followed behind.

She hadn’t sent money back to Denerim.

Alistair turned around, and looked at the four of them in the middle of this now deserted camp. Astala rubbed the pommel of her sword. Should she do something? Say something?

“Right.” Alistair cleared his throat. “Well. We might be able to find a good spot from which to watch so we know when to start moving.”

Sulri signed something, which Khêd translated: “Will you be leading us?”

“Yes.” Alistair stood up straighter. “You all know me by now, and I know the way you fight. Not that we’ll encounter much to fight anyways, but…” He trailed off, looking down towards the bend around which the Grey Wardens had disappeared. He sighed, shook his head and continued. “Anyways, let’s go round once and see if we can get everybody’s skillset down. Astala, sword and dagger.”

Astala nodded.

“You’ll be with me at the front, then.” Alistair said.

“Me too.” Khêd heaved a big sigh and strapped his shield to his arm. “Should’ve learned how to handle a crossbow. My eyesight isn’t even that bad.”

“I will stay back,” Ilanlas said while he strung his bow. “But, should you have need of knives, I will step up.”

“I don’t think we’ll need that,” Alsitairs said with a small smile. “Surli has us covered, right?”

Sulri nodded and demonstratively held up a dagger and an earthen jar with a tight lid on it.

“Right,” Alistair said again, much more firmly. “Let’s move.”

They positioned themselves as close to the bridge as they could. One of the giant ballistae was about twenty steps to their right. Three soldiers were manning it, talking quietly amongst themselves. Despite all of the soldiers leaving, the camp was by no means empty. Servants, elven and human, were still running around. The sad-looking mage with the Andrastian sunburst on his forehead stood there. The infirmary was still up and running. It would probably be filled to bursting once the battle here was done.

Below them, the king’s half of the army, the Circle mages and the Grey Wardens were taking up position. The clouds had closed above them. The sky and the gorge both were dark; only the glow of thousands of torches and the slight sheen they left on metal armor told them were the army was situated. The wind shifted slightly. Astala caught a whiff of incense. From the darkness below rose the Chant of Light. The Revered Mother and her Chantry sisters were down with the soldiers.

Was this how the Maker saw the world? Terrified people, singing up to him from the darkness.

A slightly sour smell was the only warning they got. Shortly after, rain started falling down on them.

“Your void is crying,” Khêd said, almost accusingly so, and lifted his shield over his head.

The rain fell heavier, splattering against the stone, their armor, and onto the battlefield below. Fighting in the mud had to be exhausting. Astala was glad she didn’t have to wear anything in front of her mouth and nose though.

“Elgar’nan, wie la gus, anaris’ven haminfor,” Ilanlas muttered quietly.

As if answering him, a sudden burst of lightning illuminated the sky and the gorge below them, flashing over the armor of the king’s army. The roll of thunder that followed was deep, but still far off. The wind kicked up and blew the rain into their faces. Astala sought refuge behind a stone pillar.

Ilanlas, face turned up towards the churning sky, quietly sang to himself.

Another strike of lightning, this one much closer. The thunder crashed into her ears with a loud bang followed by a rolling as if of tons of stone. Shouts rang out behind them. A couple of elves were running to the nearest shelter, ducking and shielding themselves from the rain. At the infirmary, somebody was tying down the tents’ canvases.

Why were these people still here?

“Elgar’nan, pa-ada, din’heema elgara, ar dar’ara. Ma’en nan el.”

A third strike of lightning left her seeing nothing but white for a moment, and the following thunder roared with vengeance above them. Then Alistair peered over the crumbling balustrade, and Ilanlas did too. A heartbeat later, Astala could feel it: itching, creeping through her veins like a hum, her blood was singing.

Torches, small pinpricks of light, appeared in the darkness of the Korcari Wilds.

The darkspawn approached silently dragging some sort of mist with them out of the swamp. The torches tinted it a flaming red. The howling wind carried their stench all the way up to them. In the gorge, a dog started barking, then another. Then the whole pack joined in. King Cailan’s army greeted the darkspawn with a fierce war cry. Swords banged against shields and thousands of voices rose towards the sky: defiant, challenging, ready for battle.

The voices thinned as more and more torches rolled in, like a slow-spreading wildfire.

Her blood screamed.

For a moment, both armies stood still, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Astala felt it before she heard it: from within the darkspawn ranks came a deep, hoarse bellow of an order. Shrieks picked up, growls and howls pierced the air. Underlying it all was that faint, whispered gibberish she kept hearing in the back of her head. The deep, throaty laugh hummed through her bones. She pressed closer to the stone pillar, made herself small. Like a black wave, the darkspawn army surged forward.

A faint call from below. Something pulled, made her stand up straight again. Duncan. Another call, followed by sharp whistling as arrows rose into the sky like snakes and plunged down into the black mass of the darkspawn. Astala felt the impact. More arrows followed. A fireball drew a smoking arc through the sky and exploded in a cacophony of shrieks, sending darkspawn flying. More followed.

The darkspawn pressed forward.

Another fireball—but this one flew wrong. It detonated in the middle of the king’s army. Those people were dead. She could hear their screams, saw their bodies being flung up into the air.

Alistair cursed loudly. “Void take those emissaries!”

Hounds were let loose against the ranks of the darkspawn. At another barked order, the king’s army pulled itself together. Among fire and arrows, another battle cry rose into the air. The army moved. They followed their hounds into the ranks of the darkspawn army. The dark tip of their spear were the Grey Wardens. Her heart thundered in her chest as if she was holding the beating hearts of all fifty of them. Another strike of lightning, thunder, a fireball struck a nearby ruin.

More and more, the screams of the wounded and dying mixed with the clash of metal and the tearing of flesh.

“They’ve clashed,” Alistair shouted over battle, wind and thunder. “Let’s move! Across the bridge and to the tower, go!”

They ran. The wind hit them like a wave in the storm. Her hands started to tingle; she wanted to draw her weapons. Not now. Not while running. The bridge was lined with archers, trebuchets, ballistae. They ran past them. Something zipped past her and she only recognized it as an arrow when the soldier in front of her fell backwards, feathered shaft sticking out of her face. Astala’s feet carried her over the corpse before she realized it was a corpse, and then she ran for her life. The chain mail dragged her down.

She only stopped when she was safe in the shadow of the crumbling archway on the other side of the bridge, panting and gasping and tasting blood at the back of her tongue. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt. Astala leaned against the column. In front of her lay the long road by which they’d arrived at Ostagar only yesterday. It was covered in mist, beaten by wind and rain. Screams and the sound of carnage echoed up behind her.

She left the column, stumbled further away from the bridge, braced herself against her tree and fought to keep her lunch down.

At first she thought the two people running towards her through mist and wind and rain were her companions. Then she realized they were coming from the wrong direction; the bridge was behind her, the people in front. Astala drew her blades, backed away from the tree. The first was upon her. With a scream, Astala lunged towards the dark figure.

The man yelped and threw himself to the ground. Astala blinked and recognized the robes of a mage. The man hastily crawled away from her.

“Sorry!” Astala stepped away. “Sorry, sorry!”

“Maker preserve us!” the man whimpered, but stopped crawling.

Astala got a better look at his face. He looked like he was about a decade older than her, was soaked with rain, and deadly pale. His weird, pointy cloth hat was hanging askew, covering one of his ears while leaving the other along with the whole side of his head exposed to the elements.

Behind him, another figure approached—another soldier. Judging by the armor, he wasn’t part of the king’s army, or of any noble’s house. He roughly yanked the mage up, then fixed Astala with slightly wild eyes.

“You’re Grey Wardens, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Astala said and lowered her blades.

A slight hum in her blood, steps behind her, and then a rain-drenched Ilanlas appeared next to her. Alistair and the dwarves followed quickly after. Ilanlas looked past the two men towards the rampart that led to the tower of Ishal.

“Captain Walton,” the soldier said, pointing at himself. “The tower’s been taken.”

“What’re you talking about, man? Taken how?” Alistair yelled over the wind.

“The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers. They’re everywhere!” Captain Walton threw a fearful glance back. “Most of my men are dead!”

“Well, we have to get in,” Alistair said and set in motion. “Come with us, we might be able to save some of yours.”

That seemed enough for the captain and the mage. The seven of them made their way up the ramparts.

“Three close by,” Ilanlas said as they ran. He began to drift away from the group, pulled an arrow out of his quiver and nocked it on his bowstring. “Some others further in.”

“Hurlocks and genlocks, and one alpha at the door,” Alistair added.

Astala felt it now too: one pull, faint, towards the battlefield. The other, sickening, towards the tower.

Alistair drew his sword and readied his shield. “Astala and Khêd, keep close. Let’s show these bastards.”

They rounded a corner. Screams greeted them. There were two soldiers, about to be overwhelmed by several darkspawn. Alistair roared and charged, Khêd hot on his heels, teeth bared, shield high. Astala followed closely. Silver streaked around her. She didn’t know if it was rain or more arrows.

---

TRANSLATIONS:

- “Elgar’nan, wie la gus, anaris’ven haminfor”: "Elgar'nan, wrath and thunder, strike our foes down." - “Elgar’nan, pa-ada, din’heema elgara, ar dar’ara. Ma’en nan el.”: "Elgar'nan, All-Father, Sun-Slayer, here I am. Let me have vengeance.

All bits and bobs of elvhen constructed with the help of Dalicious’ Elvhen Dictionary

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