Chapter Text
The bas wouldn’t stop coming.
For days, they had held the crossroads at the mountain pass, Fog Warriors pelting them with arrows from the north, what passed for Tevene warriors from the south and west. Whoever won and held this village, nameless and primitive despite its tactical significance, gained control of the entire eastern half of Seheron. They were already predominantly Qunlands. This victory would simply seal it.
But it would be hard won.
A victory all the sweeter, the Arishok thought to himself as he carved is way through the fray. Sataareth in hand, he rallied what soldiers he could to him. He would not suffer the enemy any longer than need be. A shield wall was formed, and they shoved their way deeper behind enemy lines. He felt the sticky warmth of blood across his face as basra fell to his axe. Broad, white teeth gleamed in the fire of the setting sun. Explosions of gaatlok sprayed clods of earth and gore into the air ahead of him. Only here in war was destruction such a pleasing force to behold.
He was born for this.
The forces should have pulled back at dusk. It was unwise to fight when you were as likely to hit ally as enemy, but fires both magical and mundane lit the field with the rage of a thousand suns. Sweat cut paths through the blood on his skin. Muscles burned from the continued effort, his body giving in to weariness even as his mind would not. He was Qunari. There was no room for weakness.
His back pressed up against that of another. Kithshok, his right hand. The younger kossith used both sword and shield as weapons, bludgeoning a foe to one side while removing the arm of another. In a fluid motion, that shield came up to block burning arrows from the Fog Warriors before arcing out to have one of its four corners bite into the pallid flesh of a Nevarran mercenary. The Arishok smiled grimly as he lashed out at his own opponents. Sword and axe swung in tandem to clear the rest of the area. It afforded them a space to breathe.
“Vashkata has the Fog Warriors pinned,” Kithshok panted, his sharp eyes darting about even as he addressed his commander. It was a fool who let himself be caught unawares. “What they fling at us is little more than a dying breath. Tevinter is pulling back into the forest barrier. They have not sounded retreat.”
The Arishok nodded. “Then they hope to catch us in a ruse. Have our men fall back to the village. We will force these bas to fight where we can see them.”
Kithshok gave a salute and barked orders to his karataam and any others within earshot. He shouted loudly enough for the enemy to hear them. The Arishok did likewise, moving back through the throng of still-fighting bodies until he was well within the confines of the low buildings and ruined fencing. A shield wall was erected as a barrier. The arrows eventually stopped raining down. When Vashkata and the others returned, the besieged occupants of the village began to creep out from under cover, curious and hoping that the battle was over and that their captors would be merciful.
The officers gathered about the mud of the town square, quickly and crudely drawing out the current battle formations. The Fog Warriors were no longer a threat, their main force routed and any stragglers killed or captured. The Tevene were spread thin along their front line. The trees masked them in the cloak of night, but the ashaad had paid close attention.
“They still have saarebas,” Vashkata reported, marking places on their makeshift map by throwing blood-soaked stones to the sodden ground. “Here to the southwest. They hide in a grove chanting their vile nonsense.” He spat off to the side in contempt. “We kill them, we win the field.”
“They are protected by living rock,” Arvaraad added, holding out a control rod for the Arishok to inspect. “We felled one of the giants, but there are a handful more. Our cannons run low on ammunition, and swords and spears do little. Not unless we can overwhelm them.”
There was silence as they waited for the Arishok to respond, the elder kossith’s great head and horns silhouetted against flame and smoke and deep, black sky. He turned the control rod over in his hands. It was a heavy metal plated in gold and laden with stones the basra considered precious. His brow lifted as he considered such a concept, the foolish decadence showing no sign of practicality. Yet this thing was known to bring stone to life and control it with minimal effort. Magic. Madness.
Kithshok cleared his throat. “Arishok? What do you propose?”
“Hissra, my son,” the Qunari war leader replied almost absently, passing the control rod back to Arvaraad. “They hope to deceive us with retreat and cloak themselves in the corruption of their saarebas. They hope we will fight these moving mountains, requiring so many of our number to fell that they would undoubtedly flank us. But the mind is superior to magic.” He looked from his officers and into the distance, eyes narrowing as if counting the hidden figures crouched beneath the trees. “Hissra. And have faith. For, I assure you, it is we that shall deceive them.”