Chapter 14 - A Light in the Dark

Arual frowned at Alistair's back as they trudged through the tower. Perhaps it would have been better if she had kept her concerns about the teyrn to herself. Alistair clearly didn't think they had any bearing on their mission. But then, what did a Grey Warden care for the machinations of Ferelden royalty? Their creed required them to remain neutral in the affairs of Thedas' nations. Why should this be any different?

But if the teyrn organized all this, what good will lighting the beacon do? Loghain will just quit the field, and then—

Arual's eyes widened as she realized what would happen. It wouldn't just be Loghain's men who saw the beacon. Every soldier on the field would see it; Loghain would have no choice but to join the battle with his men or be exposed as a traitor.

Could this have been Alistair's plan all along? Or was it coincidence, and he simply another soldier following orders?

Arual wondered.

A sudden signal from Alistair brought her back to the task at hand. He held a fist in the air as he peered around a corner. Arual had no military training to speak of, but the gesture and the grotesque tingling she felt made his meaning perfectly clear.

Stop. Darkspawn.

"They've set up a blockade," Alistair whispered. He shifted so Arual could take his place and view the situation for herself.

Before them stretched a corridor. Massive windows to either side revealed a landscape of wind and rain that raged above the battlefield. Distantly, Arual could hear the clash of metal against metal, the cries of death and fury. At the other end of the hall was a short staircase leading to an arched doorway and their goal—the final floor of the tower. The beacon.

At the base of the stairs, however, was a grip of darkspawn, each of them well-armed and well-armored, and each nastier looking than the last. In front of them, however was a pair of ballistae, loaded and aimed toward the battle bellow.

Arual's eyes widened as the spotted a pair of snarling genlocks just beyond one of the ballistae, each with a bandolier of ceramic orbs crossing their bodies. Unless she missed her guess, those balls likely contained some kind of incendiary or explosive. Likely stolen.

Cheaters, she thought with a scowl.

But if that was the game they wanted to play…

She turned to Alistair, failing to hide the grin streaking across her face.

"I have an idea," she whispered and indicated for him to follow her. Alistair whirled, brows knit together.

"Wait, is it a bad idea?" he asked in a strained whisper.

***

"I was wrong," Alistair said when Arual had finished explaining her plan, "this isn't a bad idea. It's a terrible idea."

"It is not," Arual scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"Is terrible not a strong enough word for you? How about awful? Horrible? The Chantry Sisters were big on adjectives. I know a lot of them."

Arual allowed her weight to fall onto her back leg and crossed her arms over her chest. 

"Do you have a better idea?" she asked, frowning.

Alistair opened his mouth as though to say something, but all that came out was a groan. He let his face fall into an open palm, and gave a muffled, "No."

He heaved an exasperated sigh and pulled his cowl low over his head as if covering his eyes could shield his frustration from her. After a moment, he sighed again, more resigned this time, and straightened.

"For the record, if anyone asks, I was against this plan from the start."

"Your concerns have been noted and are now being ignored."

"That's all I ask."

Bran padded up to Arual, then, returning from the game of fetch she'd sent him on. Arual accepted the short bow and single arrow that Bran had managed to scrounge for her, both now slimy with the taint and dog slobber.

"Good boy!" she praised, scratching the mabari behind the ear. She straightened and offered Alistair a grin.

"Shall we?"

"Maker preserve us…" Alistair whinged. He shook his head, but followed after her.

When the Wardens returned, they found things much as they had left them, almost as if the darkspawn where merely chess pieces waiting to be moved by some great unseen hand.

Arual needed no such guidance. She moved slowly into position, lining herself up with the genlocks and their bandoliers. Bran crouched beside her, muscles rippling beneath a short russet fur, hackles raised as he readied himself for a fight. She glanced at Alistair who, much like Bran, was poised for action. His face was set in a mask of determination. He may not like it, but Arual was coming to learn that once the man set himself on a path, he would not shy away from it. He nodded once. Arual nodded back.

She allowed herself a breath to steel her nerves. She notched her arrow.

This really was a terrible idea.

They would only have one shot at this. If she missed…

No. She couldn't allow herself to think about that—couldn't allow herself to falter.

She drew back…took aim…and fired!

The bolt whizzed through the air and disappeared from sight as the corridor erupted in sound and light. The bomb Arual had struck with her arrow set off another, and then another, the cacophony reverberating off the stone.

"Now!" Arual screamed over the din, though she needn't have bothered. Alistair was already in motion, sprinting across the narrow hall and sliding into place behind one of the ballista. He pulled the trigger unceremoniously, and sent the tree-sized bolt flying.

It crashed through the mass of darkspawn, through the fire and flames, and crashed violently into the double doors that separated the corridor from the final floor of the tower and the beacon.

The Junior Wardens wasted no time in waiting to see if any darkspawn remained in the corridor. 

"Bran, to me!" Arual cried and she, Alistair, and Brand surged forward as one. They burst onto the final landing, breathless and harried. They were running out of time. Arual didn't dare to wonder what it would mean if they had already missed the signal.

Their footsteps came to a stuttering halt as they realized they were not alone on the landing.

The bodies of soldiers and darkspawn alike littered the floor, some of them long dead, and hunched over one was a hulking figure with its back to them. The crunching and squelching sounds of loud, mannerless eating filled the chamber as whatever this thing was feasted.

Muscles bulged grotesquely along its form, flesh tinged blue and black and purple, veins standing out along what must have been arms and legs like cords of rope. The hulking mass twitched, turning to face whatever had disturbed its meal with a guttural sound. Twin horns sprouted from it's head, twisting like deformed tree trunks stained black by lightning. It's face, it if could be called a face, was slick with gore. It's milky white eyes locked onto the Wardens and narrowed in unadulterated hate.

"An ogre?" Arual breathed in disbelief. Her stomach turned to water. She was too afraid to move. 

The ghost of a swear left Alistair's lips, barely audible above a whisper.

As though in response, the ogre bellowed furiously, displaying rows of razor sharp teeth, flinging blood and spittle across the room.

Arual, Alistair, and Bran began a fight for their lives.

The ogre charged forward, swinging its meaty fists down at the Grey Wardens. Arual rolled to the side, barely avoiding the strike. The force of the beast's attack flung stone and dirt through the air as if my a hurricane. Arual was able to find her footing, but the debris threatened to blind her. She held up her shield, taking what little cover she could.

"Alistair!" she called before a fit of coughing racked her body.

"I'm all right," he called from across the room. Arual saw he'd come up in a readied stance, eyes trained on the creature. His cowl was down then, thrown back from the force of the attack and the effort to dodge. It was strange to think, but at this distance, she thought she could make out a pair of slightly pointed ears.

"We need to flank it!" Alistair shouted, bringing her attention back to the fight.

"Ah! Right," Arual cried back in acknowledgement. Beside her, Bran barked once as if doing the same. 

The ogre rounded on Arual, glaring as if it had become aware that none of them would be an easy kill. Arual gulped audibly.

The creature ran at her, faster than its size should have allowed, a living siege weapon with swiping talons. Any one of its attacks could have taken her head off! Moving more on instinct than certainty, Arual ducked under the first swipe and rolled forward to avoid the second, slashing at the monster's legs as she passed beneath it. Her blade cut clean through the ogre's thick blue hide, black ichor spitting from the wound.

With a roar that seemed more rage than pain, the ogre twisted to try and grab Arual. She rolled again, barely avoiding the creature. Dust and debris flew into her eyes, making them water, but she kept her gaze trained on the beast.

Bran barked a war call, leaping onto one of the ogre's impossibly large claws and biting down with a force like a bear trap. The ogre roared again and shook it's arm. Bran held fast, but the ogre reached up with its other hand and yanked him off as one might an insect.

Arual screamed as the ogre flung the warhound bodily across the room. Bran landed with a meaty smack and a sharp whine of pain against the far wall. Thoughtlessly, Arual turned and sprinted to him, calling for her beloved animal.

Behind her, the ogre let out an ear-splitting bellow and brought its fists (one now bloodied) down onto the stone with such incredible force that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the tower. Arual lost her footing. Her ears rang from the sound, the world spinning around her as she fell to her knees. She shook her head, trying to clear it, only to find that the blue giant was suddenly atop her.

It snatched her up in its meaty grip, easily hoisting her aloft. Arual's arms were locked to her side, along with her sword. She struggled to get free, but the creature only squeezed harder until her armor dug painfully into her flesh and she screamed. 

When she opened her eyes, she found herself face-to-face with the beast. She could see every ridge on its twisted horns, every vein on its bluish face, the bulge of its milky white eyes.

The ogre's face twisted with malice, and it made a deep, ululating sound that Arual realized was laughter. It grinned wickedly, the rotten carrion stench of its breath filling her nostrils.

I'm going to die, Arual realized with stark and certain horror.

Her stomach turned to water. She clamped her eyes shut, too afraid to face the inevitable.

Suddenly, the thing roared again, louder this time, and arched it's back. Arual tumbled to the ground, landing hard on the stone floor. She wheezed as the breath escaped her lungs in a rush and for a moment she couldn't breathe. She gasped and sputtered, unable to move as the ogre slowly backed away. Blood dribbled lazily from one shoulder. It reached for it's wounded shoulder with the opposite claw, turning with the effort, and Arual could see Alistair, sword buried to the hilt in the monster's hide, hanging from the beast like some kind of ornamentation.

The beast thrashed, trying to get at Alistair, but the Junior Warden hefted himself up by his blade, and managed to plant a foot on the ogre's shoulder blade, and wrenched his sword free. The ogre roared again, the sound shuddering the walls around them. Blood arched away from the wound as Alistair leapt backwards. He fell into a tumble to catch himself, and came up on one knee, sword and shield at the ready. The ogre rounded on him.

"That's right big, blue, and ugly," he snarled, baring his teeth. "Come and get me!"

The ogre roared up at her in response, bringing both its fists down onto the floor. The ground shook from the impact, and at first Arual couldn't fathom what the monster was doing. Then she realized as the beast dug its massive talons into the stone. With a great, wrenching groan, the ogre ripped up a large piece of masonry from the floor. Arual watched the color drain from Alistair's face as she struggled to her hands and knees. With a bellow of effort, the creature heaved the masonry boulder at the man.

"Alistair!" Arual cried as the boulder shattered into a cloud of dust and stone. Shattered bits flew in every direction, one large enough to crush Arual's head landing not a foot away.

As the dust settled, she could see Alistair staggering to his feet. Blood was leaking from a gash along his hairline, coating one side of his face with gore. He leaned heavily against the wall, fighting to stay on his feet.

The ogre began to lumber toward him. Arual pulled herself to her feet. He leg burned with agony. She ignored it. The ogre got to Alistair first. The Warden brought his sword to bear, shield lost in his most recent escape from death. The ogre roared in victory.

Arual reached the ogre from behind and drove her blade up and into the creature's back. The keen steel sliced through flesh, muscle, and bone. Arual pushed with all her might, screaming with the effort, plunging the sword even deeper.

A gush of cold ichor erupted from the wound, splattering on Arual's hands and face. The creature squealed in torment, arching its back and clutching at the air with taloned fingers. It struggled in vain to reach for the impaling weapon, twisting frantically, but to no avail. Arual tried to hold on, but the hilt was slick with blood and she lost her grip.

The back of the ogre's hand slammed into her with a force like a bolt of lightning. It took Arual a full second to realize that she was in the air, and two more to reconnect with the ground. Her head struck the stone, turning her vision white with pain.

The ogre arched its back even further, screeching as it tried to get to the source of its anguish. Arual could see the tip of her blade still jutting from the monster's lower back. With a roar of his own, Alistair pushed off from the wall, swinging first one way with his sword and then the other in great horizontal slashes that caught the ogre across the stomach. The thing staggered backwards, groaning in agony but heedless of the guts that began to slip out from beneath it's severed flesh.

With another cry, Alistair leapt, running up the creature as if scaling a steep hill, and plunged his sword into the thing's chest. It toppled, crashing to the ground with a sound like thunder. Alistair held fast to the hilt of his blade, riding the thing all the way down. The tip of Arual's blade shone through the front of the creature now, driven fully through it from the impact.

The ogre reached for Alistair one last time, both hands coming up as if to grab him, but Alistair was the faster. He braced his foot against the ogre's sternum and yanked his blade free, only to bury it in one of the creature's bulbous milky eyes.

He twisted the blade The ogre shuddered, and went still.

Panting, shaking, Alistair collapsed to his knees atop the monster, his grip on his sword the only thing keeping him upright.

There was a ringing sound coming from somewhere. Arual realized too late that it was her own head. It throbbed dully. She couldn't move.

"Alistair," she called, her mouth clumsy with his name. Weakly, he turned to look at her over his shoulder, eyes glassy with an adrenaline crash.

"The…beacon…"

A flash of recognition sparked behind Alistair's eyes. Their mission was not yet finished. Sluggishly, he slid off the ogre and stumbled to his feet. Against one wall was a grand fireplace that may have been used to heat the space in peacetime. Now, it served a different purpose. Alistair's hands trembled as he piled wood and kindling into the pit, sprinkling the herbs that would turn the smoke white to signal Loghain and his soldiers. His fingers were clumsy and shaking as he drew a tinderbox from a pouch on his belt. His breathing was ragged as he struck one match, then another, and another until finally, swearing as he drew the twig across the igniting point, he managed to keep one lit long enough to reach the kindling.

Placing the match, he stoked the flames to life, blowing gently on the embers to help them catch. Soon, flames licked up the dry wood. Alistair fell back, muttering something that was half a curse, half a prayer.

***

The land and sky were a torrent of rain and fire, blood and thunder. The din of the battle below matched only by the squall of the heavens so that all present found themselves trapped in a well of chaos with only one way out: victory.

Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of Riverdane and father to the queen of Thedas, surveyed the battle below from his position atop the ridge and scowled.

The rain had long ago soaked through his cloak and found its way into the cracks of his armor so that he stood cold and wet and fuming as he watched the battle below. The ebb and flow of violence was mesmerizing even to the seasoned veteran, but it was impossible to miss the signal from atop the Tower of Ishal. 

Great plumes of white smoke drifted up toward the raging storm and were lost among the tempest. It was the signal he and the troops behind him had been waiting for—troops who were as wet and cold as he was, troops who had been standing alongside him on the ridge waiting to join the battle that raged below.

"Sound the retreat," Loghain growled to his lieutenant.

Ser Cauthrien rounded on him, brows pinched in confusion, certain she had misheard him. Over the sounds of battle, it was possible, but there was no mistaking the certainty in her lord's countenance.

"But…what about the king?" she blurted. "Should we not—"

Loghain grabbed her roughly by the arm, just above the elbow, as one might a child who had done wrong. Ser Cauthrien's voice faltered, her argument dying in her mouth.

"Do as I command," Loghain growled again, voice harsh as though scolding her.

Ser Cauthrien hesitated. Quitting the field would mean certain death for the soldiers below—for the king—but she was helpless to disobey the teyrn, a man to whom she owed everything, least of all her very life. Her eyes fell shut in quiet resolve, and she wrenched her arm free of her lord's grasp.

When she opened them again, she found Loghain watching her with a lingering, sour look. She nodded to him, and he turned to face the battle, leaving her to the dark business he'd set her on.

Ser Cauthrien turned away, stepping toward the awaiting troops.

Maker forgive me, she prayed.

"Pull out!" she called out loud enough for everyone to hear and gave the signal. "All of you, let's move!"

Like Cauthrien, a few of the troops hesitated, confused, but not a one of them failed to follow orders.

Loghain could feel the errant stares at his back as the soldiers, confusion and doubt in each set of eyes that bore into him. They had no way of knowing what was truly at stake. Like Cailin, they were too trusting of Orlais. Too few of them had lived to see the horrors of an Orlais-occupied Ferelden. But Loghain knew.

And he would ensure it would never happen again.

Duncan swung his sword in a vicious arc, rendering a genlock's head from its shoulders, and sending the still snarling head into the air. At his back, King Cailin parried a blow from a charging hurlock, driving his blade through an opening in the thing's armor and into what counted for its blackened heart. He brought an armored foot up and kicked the dead thing away and into a group of it's comrades, sending them sprawling.

But, Maker, there was no end to them.

For every darkspawn the Grey Warden or the King, or any of his innumerable troops cut down, it seemed that there were at least two ready to take its place.

And then Duncan heard the whispers. The Calling. The fate of all Grey Wardens who did not perish on the field of battle. The Old Gods who whispered to the darkspawn now began to whisper to him through the taint he had taken into himself at his Joining. 

"So, it is that time already," he murmured to himself.

A thunderous roar behind Duncan made him turn, blades at the ready. An ogre had Cailin in his grip, talons digging into the king's gilded armor as if it were made of parchment. Cailin raised his enchanted longsword, ready to drive the thing into the beast's jagged maw, but the ogre squeezed. Blood erupted from punctures all along the king's flank as the ogre's talons bit into the soft human flesh.

Cailin did not even have time to cry out before the light left his eyes.

The ogre, bored with his prey, tossed the body aside as it if were nothing more than a nuisance. Cailin's form came to rest at Duncan's feet. Blood and gore spattered the king from golden head to gilded toe. His one blue eyes were grey and lifeless as they stared up at the sky.

Duncan's knees buckled, bringing him to kneel at the king's—no, at the son of a man he once called friend's—side. He placed a hand over Cailin's chest. The man was beyond even healing magic now, for there was nothing that could bring back the dead.

Duncan followed the corpse's vacant gaze to the Tower of Ishal, where his newest recruits waited to join him on the field. White smoke billowed out from the spire's chimney, signaling Loghain's soldiers to join the battle. But they were nowhere to be seen. The reinforcements King Cailin had been counting on, the push the Grey Wardens had needed to stem the tide long enough to put an end to the coming Blight, were gone.

***

"Alistair…"

It was Arual's voice, reaching out to him across the darkness. When had he closed his eyes? With an effort, Alistair opened his eyes. His head swam and his eyes fought to focus on the scene before him. Arual lay sprawled on the stone mere feet away, her warhound curled into a ball against the nearest wall. She did not move.

"Are you still there?" she asked, her voice a soft whimper.

"I'm here," he assured her, though his own speech was slurred with bloodloss and fatigue.

"I…I can't see you."

Alistair had never thought it could be this difficult to move. Every inch of his body protested as he forced himself forward on his belly, his head, his back, his shoulders and parts of himself that didn't bear mentioning screamed out as he forced himself to crawl toward the woman.

Still she did not move. Even at a distance, Alistair could see her eyes roaming the ceiling above her, searching for something he could only guess at. At last, he made it to her side, and her eyes found his. Bloodshot and rheumy, and yet hauntingly lovely. Blue, like the sea.

"I don't want to die alone," she confided, voice wet with tears.

"I'm here," he told her again. He fell back onto his backside, shifting his weight so he could take her hand between two of his. "I'm here. You're not alone."

But Alistair knew better than most that death was a lonely act. In his twenty years, he had seen more death than most men three times his age. War had a funny way of doing that to a person.

"Did…we do it?" Arual asked, the pale column of her throat working as she tried to swallow a mouthful of blood and spittle.

"Yes," he told her. 

"Good."

She closed her eyes. Tears cut streaks through the gore covering her face, but her expression was…peaceful. In another life, she might only have been sleeping.

"I'm sorry I doubted you," she whispered. "About Loghain and the tower."

A startled laugh escaped him. Of all the things she could have been concerned with in that moment, she chose this!

"That's all right," he said. "Happens all the time."

The ghost of a smile stretched her mouth for half a second.

"Funny," she mumbled, lips sluggish, the word a slurred sound.

"Nah, you haven't even heard the good stuff yet," he said, patting the back of her hand. "I do I great routine all about ponies. You'd love it."

For a moment, she looked about to say something, but all she was able to conjure were more silent tears.

Thoughtlessly, Alistair cupped her face with one hand, still holding onto her hand with the other. Her hand was heavy in his own, and yet impossibly delicate. With one calloused thumb he wiped at her tears. They had known each other all of a day, and yet Arual had been kinder to him than most.

He smiled knowingly. Duncan had made a good choice.

"Fergus…" Arual mumbled, barely more than a whisper, and was still.

Beaten, bruised, bloodied, bleary, and some fifth adjective probably starting with B, Alistair slumped forward. He'd lasted long enough to give his fellow Warden what meager peace he could offer. It was more than most Warden's got. And now, truly spent, he lay beside her on the stone, one hand still clasped around hers.

***

In the days to come, what few survivors there were of the battle at Ostagar would tell tales of a great shadow that swept over the battlefield, massive wings darker than the storm that raged above.

Some feared it was the Archdemon rearing it's ugly head, circling the ruins of Ostagar in mocking victory before landing on the Tower of Ishal. A few would go on to claim they saw the creature fly away with something heavy in its claws.