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They would, of course, stumble upon one of the largest mercenary bands this side of the Anderfels who would, of course, not be sympathetic to the Inquisition. They were little more than bandits now, largely cut off from the paying houses in Orlais by the Inquisition's influence. Right now, their biggest claim to fame was that they were being slaughtered by a Seeker, a Grey Warden, a Tevinter mage, and the Herald of bloody Andraste herself.
The mercs were giving them a run for their money, though, pulling the advantage of the home field and familiar terrain. The team had opted to split up--Dorian and Blackwall coming in one camp entrance while Evelyn and Cass came in from the other--but the advantage of surprise had been lost for the two males when a scout they failed to murder quickly enough sprung a trap on them. The hilly trail was ragged enough as it was, further marred by their scuffling with the mercs on guard duty. Their error, however, lead to a trap being sprung that littered the path with heavy rocks and debris, blocking the way back and forcing the mage and warrior forward into a waiting group of enemies.
That break in the action had very nearly broken them both, the loud crashing of stone against stone against the uneven ground as the bandits they were fighting loosed a landslide onto their heads. He and the Warden had been forced forward, deeper into the camp...and straight into reinforcements. More reinforcements. Trevelyan and Cassandra were nowhere to be seen. Dorian hoped they'd had better luck as he fell back behind a broken bit of wall, panting and covered in dirt. They'd finished off the second wave not a handful of minutes after the first.
"I wonder if we have put a dent in their numbers." The breathlessness in the Tevinter's voice irritated him and he scrubbed filthy hands on pant legs that were no cleaner. "How many is that now?"
"Two dozen? More? I honestly don't know." Blackwall landed beside him, the metal of his breastplate as dented and damaged as the one Krem used when he and the Bull practiced. Heavily armored as he was he flopped somewhat gracelessly and dragged his helm off. The sound was ragged as he exhaled, dragging in more air than the last round of enemies had allowed, and ran a hand across his face, shoving sweat out of his eyes. Dorian was looking rather haphazard in comparison to his norm, too. Deep blue robes had been dyed pale by the grime of the battlefield, covered in fine dust and bloodsplatter from enemies that had gotten too close.
"I was rather hoping they taught rudimentary skills to all Warden recruits," Dorian lamented, flexing blood back into numb fingers. His staff lay shattered in a dozen feet to the right of them. Unfortunate thing, that, but better the weapon than his chest.
"Such as?"
"I don't know, basic arithmetic?" Blackwall's husky laugh made the mage smile despite himself. The sound of heavy footfalls advancing on them made that grin flicker, however. More mercenaries, advancing down the camp side of the path. Dorian gave an elegant huff. "Probability, perhaps? It would be useful, you know. You could give odds on the likelihood of her Inquisitorialness and the Lady Seeker returning before we've been strung up as a testament to our poor life choices?"
"Would the odds even matter at this point?" Blackwall whispered, sliding his helm back on. He brushed a glove over his shield--a quiet prayer, of a sort--before sliding it back onto his arm.
"The odds always matter, my pungent friend." The stomping of more aggressors echoed across the rocks, closing rather quickly. A preamble of driving drumbeats building to the cacophony of the main attraction. Dorian took a deep breath and let the pretentiousness taper off his thinking as well as his tone. "Plan of action, then. A terror spell--"
"-Can you even do that without your staff?" Dorian looked up at Blackwall through his lashes, a fierce smile slicing through the tightness pinching his face with strain.
"Worried about the spoiled princeling not holding up his end of the bargain, dear Warden?" It was a moniker Blackwall had given him in a conversation once, a long time ago. Back when they'd first been acquainted and ire had been more natural for the both of them. It was a diversion now too, one they didn't really need.
"More concerned what the Inquisitor will do to me if I let her favorite pet mage do something stupid while unarmed," Blackwall corrected, eyes scanning that the area had not yet been refilled with enemies. At present it was still all bodies and blood and disturbed earth. "That woman is terrifying when she's angry." The Warden happened to glance down then, seeing the symbols Dorian was sketching onto the backs of his hands in glowing blue mana lines, sigils and signs in lost languages. He sighed. He was stubborn but their Altus was just as commendable in his skull density sometimes, if not more so. "I thought Solas said it takes more energy to...should you be doing it that way? We may need that energy for the next wave."
"My power is no good to us if we are not alive to reap its benefits," the mage said quietly. "By 'benefits' here I of course mean the rampant unleashing of lightning upon those foolish enough to oppose us. More tiring or not, I don't have much choice at the moment, and there may not be another wave to defeat if this one kills us first. So," he finished the last detail on the glyphs with a flourish, the backs of his hands glowing ominously as he held the spell back. It felt like hauling on the reins of an ephemeral Charger, proud and pawing and not wanting to submit. Part beast, part Fade-bound force of nature, all power, raw and ready. The spell was done and the magic wanted to be released, seething at the edge of his senses as a coil of dark wisps and in his core as an ominous rumble of indiscernible whispers and heat. "-as I was saying, a terror spell from me-"
Blackwall knew the tactic; they had used it together before, and he nodded. "-I'll feint in from the right, call the attention of the ones that don't panic--"
"-and I'll light them up from the left with lightning. I will have to use the ground as...well, my ground, but that should not be an issue, though I will be somewhat slower than usual." That confidence waivered just an inch as the mage swallowed hard. The two men left it, nodded at each other as the shouting grew near. Blackwall stilled his nerves and, after hesitating for a moment, clapped Dorian on the shoulder. A friendly gesture, albeit a gruff one. The mage let out a muttered "Kaffas" and wobbled sideways, a few twists of magic freeing themselves from his grasp to wind upward on the breeze. He could not find the words to scold just then, however.
"I'll do my best to keep them off you," the Warden said earnestly. Dorian smirked, none of his normal attitude in it. He didn't doubt for a second that was true--and that was something right there, a comraderie hard-won through many weeks of baleful banter and close calls. What he said out loud in reply, however, was far more his style:
"See that you do. I'm far too dashing to die." Dorian raised his hands, long fingers twisting in a gesture that made the hair on Blackwall's arms stand on end. The air around them charged before the telltale bursts of violet light and black smoke overhead. Screams rang out in the air as Dorian's spell took hold, whispers of dread clawing at their enemies as their nightmares twisted the world around them to something frightening. Once the fear took hold it was visceral, icy and all-encompassing; all but two of the mercenaries either stopped or fully turned and fled back up the path several paces, screaming at the specters in their heads. The two that were undeterred either though thickness of skin (or perhaps dullness of wit) raised their weapons and charged towards the busted bit of wall, tracing the spell back to its source.
Blackwall rose and spun, called their enemies to him as he charged from cover. His roar worked as expected, metal ringing in answer as he bashed the pommel of his sword against his shield and cut down the first of the advancing party. Dorian only spared a second of hesitation before getting back to work, crouching down. His eyes fluttered closed as he tugged at the near-dry wellspring of his power, drawing a waning tendril of glittering blue mana into each palm. Nausea swam through him. Deep breath he commanded himself; grey eyes cracked open again, his stomach doing an unhelpful roll as his long fingers etched designs on the ground.
"Dorian!!" The mage looked up from the glyph he'd just burned into the dirt at Blackwall's cry. The large brute with the maul was headed for Blackwall but the second enemy, bearing a sword and shield, was headed right for him. He swore and stood and nearly fell over, retreated a few steps, and then frantically began looking around for anything that would serve as a weapon.
A one handed sword (a saber by the look of it) from a prior enemy lay in the dirt to his right; Dorian lunged for it, boots slipping slightly on the small stones underfoot. Cursed dirt paths!
The sword's weight was not quite right, a little shorter and heavier in blade than the ones he'd used back in Tevinter as a boy. He took a two handed grip on the weapon just in time to set his feet and parry the bandit's first strike, sparks lighting the air as metal screeched. The mage turned the second strike as well, his opponent's blade knocked wide, Dorian's left hand dropping away as the same foot slid back. The tip of his blade bit upward in a riposte, muscle memory of a foil kicking in from long before. The soldier hissed, a fresh stain of red growing from where arm met body; the retaliatory swing drove Dorian back a moment before the shield bash would've rearranged his face.
The mage kept his left foot back and dodged his enemy's uncoordinated second rush, managing to turn aside two more sword thrusts. The attacks lacked finesse: sharp, brutal strikes that he was able to catch on his own blade and direct away. A third blow, though, hooked under his blade and broke his guard, the merc lulling Dorian into a pattern the mage did not catch fast enough. Lightning leapt to his fingertips as a burning pain seared a line of weeping red down Dorian's right bicep. Leather whined as it was split, the straps and buckles of his armor sliced clean through.
A black and blue blur collided with Dorian's opponent so fiercely the mage stumbled, hand brushing against his attacker's shield as the man was rammed from behind. Blackwall's rush caught the man in the middle of his back, metal on metal shrieking a ghastly chorus. Dorian, in the same motion, let go of the charge in his left hand. Sparks leapt, aiming themselves, as sentient as a serpent’s strike against its prey. The mage grimaced at the smell as he felt the bolt strike home, frying the man in his armor before the dull thud of his body hitting stone was audible in the clearing's sudden silence.
Dorian exhaled, adrenaline seeping out of him like the rivulet of red weeping down his arm. His staunched the bleeding with his free hand, still clinging to the sword. The weight grew to be too much, though, and he had to lower the tip to the ground. Blackwall circled him, shield up and teeth bared, checking the battlefield for anyone who remained a threat. He kept his back to the mage, placing himself between any further comers and Dorian. Blessedly, they appeared to have run out of hostiles.
"I think we got them all," the Warden announced, relief in the lines of his body as he relaxed, fastening his shield behind him. He followed with sliding his blade home into its sheathe at his waist after a brief pass over his pant leg to clean it.
"How would you know if you did not count them, hmm?" the Altus asked, feeling his own shoulders loosen at Blackwall's gruff chuckle. A large, warm hand found his shoulder and Dorian’s eyes were brought to center to meet the Warden's questioning look.
"When did you learn to fence?" he asked, relieving the mage of the weight of the blade by hooking its grip onto his own sword belt. Dorian shrugged as he made to sit back behind cover, still clutching his arm. The wound wasn't bad but it did burn like hell...not unlike the glare he was going to get from Trevelyan when she found out.
"As a youth in Tevinter. It was not a sport most noble mages engage in--our dueling is done with staves, after all--but I rather liked the pacing of sword play. Something very nuanced about the proper use of a blade. If staff fighting is like dancing-"
"-which it is," Blackwall agreed helpfully, having admitted before how graceful Dorian looked when he fought; the mage nodded cordially.
"-then a properly used foil is rather like strategic sport. Much more direct attack and counterattack than with staff fighting. Most of the latter you spend working three spells ahead, overcoming your opponent's barriers and counterspells. Sword play relies more on reflexes and battle sense than it does the proper flow of magical energies. Quite different." He stopped himself with a cough. “You are more than capable with a blade. This is...rather like explaining how to boil water to a chef, I think. Apologies." The older man shook his head.
"No, I understand what you mean. You held your own quite well for someone so out of practice. I should think it's quite different than what you do normally, directing magic through a staff rather than having just your arm and skill to protect you. It was nicely done.” His lips were obscured by his beard but Dorian heard the good nature in the tone as he added: “-At least for someone like you." The Warden sat down beside the Altus and rustled around in his pack for some elfroot salve and bandages. The men wrinkled their noses in tandem at the bitey smell of the stuff when he found and opened it.
“Someone like me, hmm?” Dorian raised an eyebrow, hissing when the tincture was pressed into his wound; Blackwall snorted a laugh, coarse and amused despite himself.
“Right,right, ‘there is no one like you,’” the warrior grunted. “Save it for the qunari, mage.”
“Southern lout.”
“Spoiled prat.”
“Here they are!” the last came from the Lady Seeker, advancing up the trail opposite Dorian and Blackwall and trailed closely by the Inquisitor. The warrior waved a hand, glad to see the women had made it. They were dirty, marked by battle, but seemingly well.
“Three, two, one…” Dorian muttered under his breath, just as Trevelyan got close enough to see the light stain of red on his bandaged arm and shrieked:
“Dorian what did you do?!” Blackwall’s laugh was rich in Dorian's ear when he groaned aloud and asked for the sword back.