Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

“In this forest?” With a smile, Strife patted the nearest tree trunk. “I’ve no doubt Myrion and I will lose them. Dareth shiral, lass. Bring back a lockpick if you’ve a mind to.”

  “Dareth shiral.” Irelin turned to glare at Myrion. “I liked Thant. I like Strife, too. If the Qunari get him because of you, you’ll lose more than a foot.”

  For a moment, Irelin reminded him of the old mage who had trained him in combat magic back in university. None of his barriers had been good enough, and his firebolts had been “perfunctory.” Her face was scarred from fighting with the Qunari, making her scowl even worse when she ordered Myrion to stay late for more practice. He had hated her with a burning passion until the day he saw her sitting by the fountain. She was crying, holding a letter whose wax seal marked it as coming from the front lines of the war. He had not liked her after that, exactly, but he had stopped complaining about staying late for more practice.

  Myrion pushed himself back to his feet. His legs were shaky and his breath was only now coming back, but he met the elf woman’s glare. “If the Qunari get him, it means I’m already dead, so your threats are empty. Are you going to get moving, or are you going to stay here and waste time glaring at the shem?”

  She wasted another moment glaring at the shem, and then the air around her shimmered with magic. A moment later, a falcon hung in the air where she had stood, and with a quick beat of its wings, it was darting through the forest and up through the branches and away.

  “That went well,” Strife said after a moment. He looked back, and Myrion heard shouting behind them. “Ready to run? Now, inside foot, outside, inside, outside…”

  * * *

  The Antaam had sent the Huntmaster to Bas-taar just days ago, after the fall of Ventus. Bas-taar did not think he needed a Huntmaster. He worked the bas like the clumsy, lazy animals they were, so that even those who did try to flee were too weak to make it far. The Huntmaster had offered no further explanation with the written order, and Bas-taar had assumed it was another small sign of disorganization in the invasion.

  Usually the other Qunari were there to support the Antaam—the workers crafting the gear and managing supplies, the Tamassran priests making sure the Antaam were healthy in mind as in body, the Ben-Hassrath spies scouting behind enemy lines and removing any Antaam who might forsake their training and abandon the Qun. This time, the Antaam had attacked the bas of the south without the blessing of the other Qunari, and little things were not working as well as they should. Supplies were late. Ships were not in good repair.

  As he walked out onto the beach where the Huntmaster stood, Bas-taar growled to himself at the treachery of the other Qunari. Had they been here to support the Antaam in bringing death to the bas of the south, the two prisoners would not have escaped. Bas-taar would find a prisoner to beat later.

  The Huntmaster carried a bow that stood as tall as a human, as well as a wicked spear longer than the Huntmaster himself. He had an arrow nocked in the bow now. Bas-taar did not see at first what the Huntmaster was aiming at, and then, squinting down the beach, he saw a black gull pecking at a dead crab.

  The Huntmaster held his great bow at full draw as Bas-taar approached. While Bas-taar ordinarily thought little of scouts and hunters, he had to admit that holding such a bow drawn for so long was an impressive feat.

  Still … “Will you kill it?” he asked in the proper language of the Qun as he came up behind the other Qunari.

  For a moment, the Huntmaster did not respond. Then, without turning, he said, “It is no threat. The path of the Qun does not call for needless violence.”

  “Your arrow is already nocked,” Bas-taar pointed out. “The path of Qun does not call for wasted effort. Why draw back your bow if not to use it?”

  For a long moment, the Huntmaster looked at the black gull in the distance. “I wished to know whether I could strike a target from such a distance.”

  Slowly, with perfect control of his movements, he relaxed the bow and returned the arrow to its quiver.

  Bas-taar glowered at the Huntmaster. This is why he thought less of Antaam who did not fight on the front lines. Even the black-and-white-striped vitaar that painted the Huntmaster’s face was drawn to symbolize sight, finding, rather than battle and power, as befitted the Antaam. “And now?”

  The Huntmaster smiled faintly. “Now I know.”

  “You know nothing,” Bas-taar snapped. “You did not kill the gull!”

  “To not know something is foolishness,” the Huntmaster said. “To know by doing is experience. To know without needing to do is wisdom.”

  It was one of the sayings of the Qun, one of the talky lessons Bas-taar had never cared for. The parts about obeying orders and non-followers of the Qun getting ground into dust had always been his favorites. “This wastes our time, and you are needed,” he said to the Huntmaster, stifling a growl. “Two prisoners escaped. One may be a mage.”

  “I thought you killed all the mages in Ventus,” the Huntmaster said, “even those who surrendered and did not fight.” The words held an edge.

  “Without the Ben-Hassrath to interrogate the mages and discern which ones could be trusted, we had no choice but to administer qamek to all of them.” Bas-taar smiled. That at least was a benefit of the Antaam acting alone. No Ben-Hassrath to say that no, this mage should live, do not hurt them more than necessary. “This one hid his nature and acted as a normal bas.”

  “How much qamek did you give the mages?” The Huntmaster’s voice was calm now, a mountain lake on a windless day.

  “We have no Ben-Hassrath to measure it for us,” Bas-taar said with a hard smile, “so we gave them a heavy dose, to be sure. None of the saarebas or the other troublesome prisoners will ever come back to their minds.” Another benefit of no Ben-Hassrath. They always preferred halfway measures, shackling a man’s mind when it was so much easier to simply break it.

  “I had heard of your work in Ventus, and now I see that it is true.” The Huntmaster nodded to Bas-taar in respect, one follower of the Qun who knew the truth of another. “I will follow the fleeing prisoners. Your twelve most-devoted warriors will come with me.”

  “My twelve most-devoted warriors and me,” Bas-taar corrected, and smiled broadly. “The bas will learn what it means to disobey me.”

  “It shall be done as you order,” the Huntmaster said with a small nod.

  And though the Huntmaster might have been weak by the standards of the Antaam, a hunter and tracker rather than a real warrior, Bas-taar saw that the other Qunari had a little smile on his face as well.

  Behind him, far in the distance, the gull shrieked once and then flew away.

  * * *

  Strife moved through the forest, his steps quick and assured. Beside him, or more often behind him, the idiot magister huffed and thrashed and stepped on every damned dry leaf the forest saw fit to put before them.

  There were other noises, too, sibilant whispers that curled through the branches overhead, tiny crackling breaths of something huge just out of view. Arlathan was like that. Strife had once called it haunted. Irelin had said that the spirits remembered what once had been.

  Up ahead, something moved on a tree branch, silhouetted against the sunlight so that he couldn’t see it, only the suggestion of a shape. Strife pulled an arrow from his quiver and raised his bow without slowing his stride. Whatever it was slid back into the shadows.

  “Trouble?” Myrion gasped behind him.

  Strife slid his arrow back into the quiver. “Don’t let it worry you.”

  “Concerned for my feelings, knife-ear?”

  “Concerned for the spirits of the forest that can feel our moods,” Strife snapped. “I know I belong here, so they leave me alone. With all your fear, you might as well be leaving a trail of fresh blood to bring something dangerous our way. So don’t let it worry you. Magister.”

  Myrion huffed. “I’ve been guarding my thoughts from demons since I was fourteen years old. Took a test on it and everything. A desire de
mon took the form of a boy I liked.”

  “The spirits of Arlathan are older and more powerful than the little wisps your teachers summoned to test you. I just hope you’re better with spirits than you are with the forest.”

  “I’m better with anything than I am with the forest.” Myrion glared at the bushes. “I managed to get lost in the gardens of Minrathous once. Fell into an ornamental pond.”

  “I couldn’t have ended up chained to a magister who likes hiking?” Strife let it go. The man was a mage. If he said he could deal with the demons, Strife had to trust that, at least.

  They kept going. Beside Strife, slow but steady, the mage kept moving, muttering something under his breath in a low chant.

  Strife thought it was magic, until he caught the words in time with their each step. “Inside, outside, inside, outside…”

  When the shafts of sunlight snaking down through gaps in the leafy ceiling told him it was midafternoon, Strife raised a hand and stopped. Myrion staggered forward a few more steps, yanking against the shackle on Strife’s left leg, and then got the message and sagged against a tree, gasping for air like he’d been the one half strangled a few hours ago.

  “Have they given up?” the mage asked, panting.

  “I can’t very well tell with you wheezing over there, can I?” Strife snapped. “I take it you let your slaves do most of the running?”

  Myrion made a rude gesture and closed his eyes. After a moment, his breathing slowed.

  Strife shut his eyes as well and listened.

  The leaves shifted in the wind. Off in the distance, something chased its prey on too many legs. A bird pecked at the bark of a nearby tree, hunting for bugs.

  And behind that, the clank of metal.

  “Ghilan’nain guide my steps,” Strife murmured, and then looked down to Myrion. “Break’s over, magister. Time to climb.”

  “Climb?” The mage looked at him blankly.

  “The Qunari are behind us.” Strife strode to a large tree with low-hanging branches, pausing so that Myrion could catch up. “I need a better vantage point to know whether they’re stumbling around blind or on our trail. So…” He grabbed a branch and pulled, catching the ridged bark beneath the slippery moss with an expertise born of long practice and bringing himself up onto the branch with a smooth movement. “Climb.”

  The mage followed, ungainly and awkward. Strife took it slow, and still had to descend a bit and lower his own leg a few times so that the mage could keep up. It took them several minutes to reach the upper branches, a climb Strife could normally have made in seconds. The mage’s clothing was torn and littered with twigs by the time he made it.

  It was worth it for the view, though. Here in the highest branches, Strife could see the trees below, and off in the distance—not far enough, still—the forest’s edge and the misty clouds that marked the ocean.

  And before that, glinting through the branches, the shine of metal in the trees.

  It was a straight damned line between him and the edge of the forest.

  “Blast.” Strife eased back down, and Myrion followed, his fingers scrabbling at the moss. “They’ve got a tracker. Their Huntmaster must be worth his name.”

  “You told Irelin you could lose them,” the mage said with an accusatory note. He slipped a little, and dropped hard onto the next branch. The chain pulled taut between them, and Strife grunted and dropped down as well.

  “Well, I didn’t know their huntmaster was any good, now, did I?” he muttered back. He slid nimbly down to the next branch and then dropped to the ground. This time, the chain yanked on Myrion’s leg, and he fell from his branch and landed hard in the mud.

  “Idiot.” The mage’s heart didn’t seem to be in it, though. “What now?”

  “Vir Assan,” Strife said. “The Way of the Arrow. Be swift and silent, strike true, and do not waver. It’s a hunter’s saying, but in this case, we’re the prey. There’s a river a few hours away. We’ll lose the Huntmaster there.”

  Myrion pushed himself back to his feet. “Ready when you are, knife-ear.”

  Strife started up again. Inside, outside, inside, outside … He heard the mage still muttering it under his breath with each step. He was slow, but he didn’t give up. The chain danced between them, jingling with every step.

  “What’s that saying from?” he gasped a while later. “The bit with the arrow?”

  “Vir Tanadahl.” A wall of heavy foliage blocked the path ahead, and Strife gestured for them to head left. “The Way of Three Trees. Wisdom passed down from the goddess Andruil.”

  “Right, the elven gods.” Myrion smirked. “Lot of good they did you.”

  Strife shot him a glare. “If we get out of here alive, it’ll be because of what Andruil taught my people.” Myrion opened his mouth to fire something back, and Strife shouldered the mage into a tree. The man smeared the moss as he staggered against it, which would make tracking them easier, but the Huntmaster had already tracked them easily enough. “Be careful how you speak of the Lady of the Hunt while you stand in her forest.”

  Myrion glared and shoved him back. “Fine. That must be why the elven empire is the greatest in the world today.” As Strife’s hands clenched into fists, Myrion raised a hand, and his fingers crackled with lightning. “Oh, wait. Tevinter overthrew the elves, established the largest empire in the known world, and held off the savage Qunari for centuries because we know how to wield power instead of letting it run wild in a damned haunted forest.”

  Strife laughed. “You did it on the backs of slaves, shem. Elven slaves.” He wanted to punch the glare off the mage’s face, but he leaned in instead. “And the Qunari are stomping all over your great empire as we speak.” He stepped back, then turned and started walking, yanking on the chain. “Come on. Break’s over.”

  They moved in silence after that.

  It was nearing sundown by the time they reached the river. It was about fifty paces across, dark water foaming white around the rocks, and shallow enough that they could walk instead of swimming if they were smart about it.

  “Come on.” He pointed at a bit of frothing white. “We use the rocks under there.”

  Myrion pointed at a chain of rocks a bit upstream. “Why not there?”

  “Because the Huntmaster’s behind us.” Strife started moving, and the mage came along rather than trip both of them up. “Walk on the dry rocks, and he’ll spot the muddy prints from your sandals. Walk in the water, and it’ll erase any marks we leave.”

  The river wasn’t too cold, a small blessing, and Strife picked his way across, moving from stone to stone and keeping them in the shallows as much as possible. When he was halfway across, he changed direction, moving them upstream.

  “Why the change?” the mage asked, raising his voice a little over the crash of the water.

  “They’ll be expecting us to cross directly,” Strife answered, “or go downstream, since it’s easier.” He looked up at the afternoon sky. “Even if this doesn’t lose the Huntmaster, it will buy us some time.”

  “That makes sense.” The mage said it warily, like a peace offering.

  Strife paused as the chain snagged on a rock. He tugged it free and made his way farther upstream, the mage behind him. When he thought they’d gone far enough, he went a little farther, because moving upstream always felt farther than it actually was, and then he looked for a likely spot.

  “When we come out of the river,” he said, “we need to leave as little trace as possible. Muddy footprints, broken branches—all of that tells them right where to start looking for us again.”

  “How do we get out without leaving marks?” the mage asked.

  Strife squinted. “There.” He pointed at a large rock at the edge of the river. “We climb onto that, then hop onto that little one next to it, and from there onto the fallen log.” The log didn’t even have any moss on it.

  “What about our muddy footprints?”

  Strife smiled. “I imagine the river’s done a bette
r job washing your sandals than the slaves you’re used to. We’ll leave water, but it should dry off quickly enough in the afternoon sun.”

  Myrion glared, then looked at where Strife had pointed. “There’s sand and mud all around those rocks. One slip, and we’ll leave prints even a blind man could track.”

  “Then I suggest you don’t slip,” Strife said, and started for the shore.

  They reached the large rock, which was orange and flat and hung out over the river like a balcony. Strife hopped up easily enough, at least most of the way, and then fell onto his stomach when the chain went taut. A moment later, Myrion climbed up, huffing.

  “Right.” Strife got to his feet and offered the mage a hand. “We move together, magister.” Myrion took his hand, and Strife pulled him up to his feet. He pointed down at the next rock, a wide speckled one that would be just large enough for the two of them to stand on together. “Ready?”

  Myrion grunted, and they jumped.

  Strife made it easily enough, and then Myrion landed and bumped into him, and he pinwheeled his arms, standing on one leg on the very edge of the rock and looking down at the wet sand just waiting for him to land and make an enormous mess.

  The mage’s arm clamped down on his shoulder and hauled him back. “Clumsy oaf!”

  “I’m the clumsy oaf?” Strife resisted the urge to punch the mage. Instead, he pointed at the fallen log, and the wall of dark forest ahead of them, tantalizingly close. “On three, we jump for that. Try not to wave your arms around this time, magister. One—”

  “I’m not a magister,” Myrion muttered.

  “Two.…”

  Just before Strife would have said “three,” an arrow punched into his back.

  * * *

  As the elf cried out and fell, Myrion turned, trying not to gloat about not being the clumsy one tripping all over everything in the damned forest for a change. Then he saw the arrow sticking out of the elf’s back and also out his front, blood already pooling below his ribs on his left side, and then the elf landed in the mud and rolled, and the chain went taut and yanked Myrion off his feet.