Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  He landed on the rock with a jarring impact and, looking up at the sky, saw an arrow flash through where he’d just been standing. Groaning, he sat up.

  The Qunari had reached the river a hundred paces downstream. There were at least a dozen. The Huntmaster was the one holding the bow, standing tall and already nocking another arrow. Even at this distance, Myrion recognized his black-and-white-painted face.

  Beside him, the Bas-taar’s gold-painted face lit up in a savage smile, and he raised a massive ax whose double-bladed head was bigger than a dinner plate and twisted with cruel barbs. “Bas!” he shouted. “You run fast, but the Qun leads us to you! The Bas-taar does not lose those in his care!”

  An arrow glanced off his rope-knotted armor, and he roared in surprise. Myrion looked over at Strife. The elf was already up, the bow Irelin had give him still thrumming. “Care for that, Bas-taard?!” Strife yelled, his voice steady despite the arrow sticking out of his gut, and then ducked down as the Huntmaster’s next arrow buzzed past his head.

  “Get behind the log!” Myrion hissed, pulling the magic to him. The magic of the woods was slick and dangerous, heavy one moment and leaping the next. Myrion had cast spells in places where the Veil was thinner before, letting the magic come to him with little resistance, but this was different. Something else lurked at the edge of his awareness. He ignored it for now, focusing the magic.

  While the Huntmaster and the Bas-taar held back, the other Qunari were coming up the river, thick swords and large shields held up over their heads.

  Myrion released his magic, and a bolt of lightning sizzled from his hands. It wreathed one of the Qunari in crackling tendrils of lightning, and then darted across the water to his comrades, jolting them all into a dance of pain. “For Jasecca,” he murmured, letting the anger focus his mind.

  Then Strife slammed into him, knocking him down just as the Huntmaster’s next arrow hissed past them.

  “You mentioned the log,” Strife said, his voice tight with pain.

  Myrion scrambled to his feet. “Inside, outside…” Together, they scrambled over the log and then hunkered down behind it. “How’s your back?”

  “It won’t be what kills me. Break off the arrow anywhere above the fletching, would you?”

  Myrion grabbed the arrow, trying to ignore his revulsion at the sight of it sticking out of the elf’s back, and snapped it. “Done. Now what?”

  “Hang on.” Strife took a breath, then reached down to his gut, where the arrowhead protruded. With a quick motion, he pulled it through and out, and then released a ragged breath. “Andruil’s tits!”

  Myrion was very nearly sick, but if Strife could keep steady after doing that, he could keep steady after watching it. “Should we run?”

  Strife threw the broken arrow aside, nocked one of his own, drew back his bow, and fired. One of the Qunari in the river fell, clutching at his throat, and Strife gave a grunt of satisfaction. “I had twenty arrows. I’d rather not die with any left in my quiver.”

  Myrion nodded and pulled the magic to him again. It was still easy, but the sense of something else was stronger this time, something lurking at the edge of the Veil, sensing him pulling at the threads of magic. Again he ignored it, and this time, his bolt of lightning sent two of the Qunari soldiers in the river down into the water, their limbs spasming.

  Wisp-darts and iced wine. The little pastries they served at the café on the hill overlooking the docks, the ones with honey and nuts baked into them … All of that had died with Ventus, and the Qunari would pay.

  An arrow sank into the log a handbreadth from his face, and he stared across the river and saw the Huntmaster look directly into his eyes. The Qunari’s eyes were cold behind the black-and-white stripes, showing a calculating intelligence as he drew another arrow.

  “You are weak, bas!” Bas-taar shouted. He was running along the riverbank, waving his ax and smiling his horrible meat-chopping smile. “The Qun will teach you obedience!”

  Strife loosed another arrow. This one snagged the rope-knot armor and pinned Bas-taar to a tree. “I’ve had fifty years to learn obedience, Bas-taard!” he called back, his voice a little ragged now. “And stronger men than you have tried.”

  Then he grunted in pain as the Huntmaster sent another arrow clean through the log and into his arm.

  Myrion raised his hands. If the Veil was thin, it was time to see how much he could really do. He pulled across the Veil, drawing as much power as he could …

  And the forest roared in anger.

  Myrion’s spell fizzled into nothingness as a massive form of wood and stone crashed out of the forest. It was as tall as a golem, and it walked on four wooden legs bound to stone feet covered in runes and moss. Its body was stone covered in vines, and two great wooden arms rose up, each ending in a blade of thick metal whose edges glowed with lyrium.

  “Dumat’s breath,” Myrion swore as the thing crashed toward him.

  He readied another spell, but Strife’s hand slapped his shoulder. “No magic! It’s a forest guardian!”

  The elf pulled him back, and they both gave ground, stumbling. The chain snagged on a root, and Myrion fell, landing on his back. Beside him, Strife swayed where he stood, but his hands were steady as he held them up before the thing. “Andaran atish’an! Andaran atish’an, damn it! This is supposed to work!”

  Another arrow sank into the tree beside Myrion, and he glared at the Huntmaster downstream, then back at the forest guardian. “I can’t fight it without my magic!”

  The Qunari warriors were closing in now. Before long, they’d have Myrion and Strife cut off from any retreat.

  “We shouldn’t have to fight it at all! Adaran atish’an!”

  Myrion looked at the Huntmaster, who had another arrow nocked already. “Perhaps we don’t have to.” He yanked the chain free, grabbed Strife, and pulled him to the left, putting the massive forest guardian between them and the Huntmaster. “Inside, outside, inside, come on, damn it!” Past the guardian, he saw the stripes painted around the Huntmaster’s eyes twist as the Qunari glared and lowered his bow.

  “Listen, you stupid pile of rocks, I’m not here to fight!” Strife shouted at the guardian, scrambling back to his feet.

  The guardian raised a giant blade-arm … and then paused as one of the Qunari warriors struck it from behind.

  The guardian’s reaction was immediate. It stopped, rotated, and turned to the Qunari warrior, whose blade was still raised. It was a big thick blade, large enough to chop a Bronto in half with a single blow.

  Unfortunately for the Qunari, the guardian was larger than a Bronto.

  The forest guardian’s arm-blade slammed down and chopped the soldier in half.

  “Good. Kill each other,” Myrion muttered, and turned to Strife. He was pale, his eyes glassy. “Come on, knife-ear! You going to give up before I do?”

  Strife’s eyes focused, and he glared. “Not likely, magister.”

  Inside foot, outside, inside, they ran.

  * * *

  Once they could no longer hear the fighting, Strife collapsed so that Myrion could get the arrow out of his arm.

  “You’re sure I should take it out?” the mage asked.

  “I can’t shoot with it in, that’s for certain.” Strife grunted. “Through a log. Andruil, that’s a strong bow. What I could do with a bow like that…” The wounds were clean—seemed clean, anyway—but he’d lost a lot of blood. “Do you know any healing magic?” he asked, rolling onto his stomach.

  “A little. I was better with lightning.” Myrion pulled the arrow from Strife’s arm, and Strife grunted, refusing to let out anything more. He hoped the darkness hid the pain on his face. “I had a friend, Jasecca. She worked with spirits. Once she reattached a man’s hand after it had been chopped off.”

  “She sounds like a powerful mage.”

  “Not powerful enough.” Myrion sighed in the darkness. “I saw her back in the tent.”

  Strife thought about that for a mo
ment. “Then you gave both her and Thant some peace.”

  “I … She taught me a few tricks,” Myrion said, voice quick and businesslike. “Maybe I can close your wounds, at least. Is it safe to use magic now?”

  “The forest guardians are rare. I’d be surprised if there were another within a day’s walk.” Strife felt a humming warmth seep into his back, and he relaxed a little. “Thank you.”

  He heard cloth ripping behind him. “I’ll see if I can bind it.”

  “As long as I can still use my bow.” How many arrows did he have left? Eighteen? Nineteen, maybe. “How’s the arrow you pulled out? Still usable?”

  “Would you like a scented pillow to lie on as well?” Myrion wrapped the makeshift bandage around Strife’s stomach, looping it under his arm.

  “That’s more your style, magister.” Strife winced as the bandage tugged tight. “You’re not bad at this. Had to bind up your slaves after some blood ritual?”

  “I don’t even own slaves, you knife-eared idiot.”

  Strife turned, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of magister did I end up shackled to?”

  “I’m not a magister!” Myrion glared, his eyebrows about the only thing Strife could make out in the darkness, then sighed and shook his head. “Magisters come from important families! My family were slaves. I only became a citizen because after my magic came, the owner of the factory where we worked adopted me into his family.” He swallowed. “I’m nobody. You know the glowing lamps in the streets of Ventus? I light those with magic. That’s my job.”

  Strife stretched carefully. He’d be able to shoot. “Can I tell you a secret?” He got back to his feet and found them steady beneath him again. “I grew up in an alienage in Starkhaven.”

  “I thought you were Dalish,” Myrion said.

  “I had a big mouth, and it got me in trouble,” Strife said, smiling. “Hard to believe, I know. I hit a guard who was beating elven children, and he came back with more guards, and I ended up living in the woods. The Dalish found me and let me join up with them. I’ve picked up what I can from them, but…”

  Myrion started to laugh. “You’re nobody, too.”

  Strife grinned. “Well, we’ve only a few hours left, and I’ve got more than a dozen arrows in my quiver.” He looked at the darkened sky. “The Qunari are close behind us. It’s probably too much to hope that the guardian kills them all.”

  Myrion sighed. “Your friend said she’d be back by midnight. You think we can stay ahead of them for that long?”

  “I don’t know,” Strife admitted. “With my injuries, and your…”

  “Complete ineptitude with all things related to the damned forest?” Myrion finished.

  Strife laughed. “Lack of familiarity, let’s say.” He squinted, then continued soberly, “No. We’ll manage for a few hours, but they’re going to catch us.”

  “Well, then.” Myrion offered him a hand. “Let’s make them regret it.”

  * * *

  When the fourth Qunari guard fell under the forest guardian’s blades, the Huntmaster decided it was time to act.

  As Bas-taar and his guards hacked at the thing, the Huntmaster put away his bow and readied his long spear.

  He stepped forward, feet light on the ground, pace unhurried, and watched as the forest guardian moved. Its blades swung swiftly, but with a regular pattern, and he paused for a moment, waited …

  His spear snaked through the whirling blades and struck the creature where its neck would be if it had one, the broad point punching through the stone.

  The guardian staggered, and Bas-taar and his guards hacked at the creature’s legs as it turned to the Huntmaster, its blades flashing red in the sunset light.

  He stepped to one side, and a blade hissed past. A tiny movement of his spear sent another blade to the side harmlessly. Then he struck again, lunging in with the full force of his weight behind his thrust.

  His spear punched through the hole left by his first strike, and the guardian shuddered. Whatever magic inside the creature that gave it life, his spear had struck it, and the guardian collapsed, arm-blades still twitching. The idiot guards kept hacking at them.

  “Enough!” the Huntmaster snapped.

  “We must ensure the creature is destroyed!” Bas-taar yelled, bringing his great blade down and shearing off one of the blades.

  The Huntmaster stalked forward and grabbed Bas-taar by the shoulder. “We would not have needed to fight it had your guards not attacked it.”

  Bas-taar pulled free from the Huntmaster’s grip. “It is an unnatural beast!”

  “It is a waste of our time.” The Huntmaster stared at the log where the mage and the archer had taken cover. “This creature is unknown to the Qun, and our quarry has gone deeper into the forest.” He shook his head. “We should let them go.”

  “What? Why?”

  The Huntmaster turned to Bas-taar, whose face was a mask of outrage. “This is a flawed hunt. There is too much we do not understand.”

  “What do you need to understand?” Bas-taar pointed at where the mage and archer had fled. “They are bas. My bas! You hunt them, we kill them.”

  “One is an elf,” the Huntmaster corrected. “He treads lightly in this forest, despite being captured in the city. This forest carries old magic we do not know, but the elf knows it. We should come back with more guards, plus Ashaad, who are better in the woods—”

  “Vashedan.” Bas-taar wiped grime from his great blade. “As long as I command the prison workers, you answer to me!” One of the guards—there were only seven left—stood before him awkwardly, and he turned and snapped, “What?”

  “Bas-taar,” the guard said hesitantly, “one of our number is too injured to continue. He needs a healer.”

  The Huntmaster looked at the fallen guard, whose face was a mask of stoic pain, for all the blood that steeped from an ugly stomach wound.

  A moment later, Bas-taar’s sword cut the injured guard down.

  “Not anymore,” Bas-taar said. “Now, move!”

  He stomped off after the escaped prisoners, the cowed guards in tow.

  The Huntmaster looked for a long moment at the dead guard, and then he too followed Bas-taar deeper into the forest.

  * * *

  The moon had risen, casting its pale light down through the branches onto the forest floor, when Myrion and Strife heard the crash of footsteps in the distance behind them again.

  They had moved as quickly as they could, the now-filthy chain catching on roots and rocks hidden by the darkness, but Strife’s injuries slowed him down, and Myrion was too tired to push them any faster. At one point after he’d tripped, Strife had hauled them up, and they’d kept going with arms over each other’s shoulders. Inside foot, outside, inside, outside.

  “When do we turn and fight?” Myrion asked, panting with effort.

  “Just a little farther,” Strife said. “When you see a dead tree that looks like a pointing hand, head left.”

  “Got it.”

  They kept moving. The crash of metal on branches grew louder behind them. If this were open ground, Myrion would probably be able to see them if he turned around. How long before they were seen?

  Ahead of them through a clearing, a small hill loomed, perhaps ten feet high, mossy and steep. Just in front of it, a fallen tree jutted out, its twisting branches looking uncannily like grasping fingers, with one pointing. “There,” Strife muttered, and Myrion turned to the left.

  He found himself scrambling up a natural staircase made from tree roots. His sandaled feet slipped on the slick moss, but Strife caught him. In a moment, they were up at the top of the hill Myrion had seen before. They now looked down at the path where they had just come from.

  “Now we stand and fight,” Strife said.

  Myrion nodded. “I doubt the Qunari will see the steps in the darkness.”

  “Vir Adahlen,” Strife said, and grinned, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “Way of the Woods. Receive the gifts of the hunt
with mindfulness. Normally that means the food you catch and eat. In this case, the gift of the hunt is me knowing about this little hill.”

  “Wisdom from your Lady of the Hunt? Perhaps your gods are good for something.” Myrion began to pull the magic to him. It came in fast and strong, with no hint of the danger he’d felt before the forest guardian had come. In his best aristocratic accent, he added, “I’ll make a note to have my slaves apologize for doubting her.”

  Strife laughed beside him and nocked an arrow. “You’re not so bad, magister.”

  “Same to you, knife-ear.”

  The Qunari came out into the clearing, and Strife let his first arrow fly. It sank into a guard’s shoulder, and he howled in pain and staggered back.

  Myrion let his magic loose, and lightning snaked out, catching a pair of Qunari, who collapsed, shaking. An arrow hissed past his cheek, and he ducked back, dimly catching a glimpse of the Huntmaster at the edge of the woods.

  Strife already had another arrow out and flying, and then another, his hands blurring as he loosed his shots. Guards came forward, roaring in anger and pain. Some of them fell, but not enough.

  Myrion focused, and a cloud wreathed in lightning flickered into existence at the base of the hill. The Qunari inside cried out as tendrils of light coiled around them, and Strife sent another tumbling to the ground, an arrow in his throat.

  Then a meaty hand came over the lip of the hilltop, just inches from Myrion’s face. He leaped back in surprise, then staggered as a jagged impact slammed into him, and he looked down to see blood seeping from his right arm, where an arrow had grazed him.

  The hand pulled, and Bas-taar came up over the edge. In his other hand, he held his massive ax. “Bas!” he roared, smiling savagely, and ripped Strife’s bow from his grasp with a backhanded blow that left Strife on the ground, stunned or worse. “You led us a good chase, but now you see that none escape the Antaam!”

  It was done. Myrion kneeled down to Strife, who was curled up and unmoving. He grabbed the elf’s hand. Now standing before them, Bas-taar was laughing, and the other Qunari in the clearing were starting to climb.