Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  In death, sacrifice. She had fulfilled her oath, as well as any Warden before. But Ramesh had not. He still lived. Minutes passed before he was able to stand, and it was still longer before he could tear his eyes away from Lesha’s cairn. Propping himself up on the darkspawn weapon he’d taken, he started toward the entrance, a single step at a time. Behind him, a clattering sound. A pebble. And then another. And another. He turned.

  Slowly, impossibly, the stone was shifting. Rocks fell away, boulders, revealing the chitinous mass of the creature. The shower became an avalanche, the cacophony of falling rock filling the room, seeming to fill time itself.

  Slowly it rose, pulling itself from the rubble, and before long it filled the chamber once more. The sound of chittering, once again, and then it turned slowly, menacingly, toward him. The face of Jovis, what had once been Jovis, creased in a smile that was in no way human.

  Ramesh ran.

  He ran through the elven ruins, up the colossal spiral slope. Behind him, beside him, always nearby came the chittering, the grinding sound of rock as the creature bore its way toward him. Even when his breath grew short, even when fatigue threatened to steal his legs from him, he pressed on. Finally, he emerged, sweating and panting, into the Deep Roads themselves.

  For a moment, Ramesh forgot where he was. Black panic threatened to steal over him then, but he fought it down. Fought it back. There. The remains of the fire he’d lit when first they’d entered the Deep Roads, what felt like weeks ago. Aware that he had only minutes, perhaps less, before the hideous creation pulled its way into the light, he ran toward the casks of lyrium. Two at a time he rolled them toward that massive door, until all dozen of them sat in a clumsily heaped pile.

  He remembered what Lesha had said about the fuses. Pulled the note from Jovis from his boot. Took the string that wrapped it. It would do. He took a stick from near the fire, wrapped it in cloth, and lit it. Waited.

  From the depths the creature broke free, stone flying upward in gouts of earth. Segment after segment poured through the hole until it was finally free. It reared, its massive bulk scraping the top of the tunnel, and looked hungrily around the chamber. It spotted Ramesh then, and shrieked, an almost human note of triumph in that animalistic noise.

  It charged toward him, covering the ground in an impossibly short time. He had one chance, and one chance only. He stood his ground, waiting, waiting. Now.

  Lighting the fuse of the cask he held, he rolled out of the way of the creature’s charge, close enough to hear its chitin rasp against the fabric of his own cloak, and threw the cask behind him.

  The monster tried to change its course but couldn’t, its own weight and size working against it. It slammed into the wall with titanic force, the impact shaking the cave, nearly sending Ramesh flying. It shrieked again, this time in rage, and he could hear the clattering of a hundred insectile feet as it tried to right itself.

  He ran, up the spiral staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Through the antechamber he went, nearly losing his footing, correcting and leaping to the first stair, to the third. He only hoped he’d judged his timing properly, that he hadn’t cut the fuse too short, or left it too—

  The earth moved, and a wall of sound, like the fist of an angry titan, lifted Ramesh, throwing him out of the entrance to the Deep Roads and tumbling down the side of the hill. The screech of the creature turned from rage to pain, to despair, and weakened in volume, before cutting off entirely. Behind him, the earth shifted, the hill collapsing inward, downward, burying the creature with not just the roof, not just the cave, but the entire mountain.

  Struggling to his feet, Ramesh stumbled down the mountain. Behind him, it continued its implosion, falling in on itself and wiping away that blasphemous place. Every moment, he expected to hear that scream, that insectile buzz, but it never came. Silence replaced the thunder of falling rock behind him.

  Thunder came again, but it was real thunder this time. The rain started to fall—a soft drizzle, the water mixing with the tears that streamed freely down Ramesh’s face. Tears of mourning, of grief. For Lesha. For Jovis. For the rest of the Wardens, whatever doom had taken them.

  But tears of relief, too. He’d made it out. He’d survived—and more important, he could tell the other Wardens. Warn them about the horror. Warn them about what lurked beneath Hormok, and maybe, probably, elsewhere as well. Because he remembered something. Something about the bas-relief that he’d dismissed at the time, but which now loomed large in his memory.

  The mountain he’d brought down, the one that buried that nightmare under thousands of tons of rock, was not the only one to which the aravels brought their prey. There had been, before the images repeated, eleven others.

  CALLBACK

  LUKAS KRISTJANSON

  Sutherland took off his helmet to take in the whole of Skyhold. It was not smaller than he remembered.

  “Every day was the best day,” he said.

  The three of them had arrived at first light: Ser Donal of the Hinters, Crosscut Brother, namesake of Sutherland’s company; Ser Shayd, Lady of Evesol, bard of secret distinction; and Ser Voth Dale’An, free mage by special commendation. Together they were a former adventuring company of the Inquisition, recently titled and landed with a minor hold of their own. They’d been on patrol for a month, reviewing borders and meeting neighbors. They were well overdue for a rest. But when the request came, there was no hesitation: Skyhold was dark, and they were the response. The only response.

  The mountain route had been clearly marked, in the way that newly forbidden trails always are. But Sutherland could have made the weeklong climb blindfolded. He’d done it before, or may as well have. Thousands had blindly stumbled up that path, braving snow and snaggled trees, hoping their way forward. Their search rewarded when the mountains parted like curtains, revealing a sprawling valley and the monolithic fortress of Skyhold.

  The valley was abandoned now, spotted with the cold stones of dead fires. A hint of the numbers that had once found shelter there. Sutherland had done better than shelter—he’d found a purpose he never doubted.

  The call to return had given him another.

  “Anything?” Sutherland called over his shoulder. They’d perched on a rocky overlook, but high stone battlements hid everything except the upper floors of the main keep, and the shingled roofs of the courtyard buildings.

  Voth waved the end of a perception-altering spell, his elven ears twitching in annoyance.

  “Nothing moving,” he said cautiously. Lack of movement didn’t mean the fortress was empty.

  Shayd warily nocked an arrow, despite having no target.

  “We should have been spotted and flagged by the caretakers.” She looked at Sutherland. “It isn’t right.”

  Sutherland put his hand on her shoulder.

  “That’s why we’re here.” He smiled. He put his helmet back on and signaled for them to move out. “Main stairs,” he said.

  His manner was decisive and reassuring, but really, there was no other option. Skyhold allowed one approach, and when you walked it you felt watched, and small.

  “Remember,” said Voth, “it will feel us.”

  “Good,” said Sutherland.

  Two numbers mattered after the Inquisition: ten thousand, and one. The first was the deliberately alarming guess of how many soldiers, assassins, diplomats, and all manner of freeblades the Inquisitor had drawn across nations. It was a massive, destabilizing militia with allegiance to an ideal, not borders. Or so the nobility feared. The second number was even more troubling to them. One, they claimed, was how many charismatic monsters it took to misuse that force. The Inquisition had to be disbanded, they argued. Not because of what it was. Because of what it might become in lesser hands.

  Skyhold itself posed a unique problem. The ancient fortress had been the heart of the effort. It was too symbolic to be razed—there was only so much insult its former occupants would allow. And it was too fortified to be left for just anyone to claim
. The Inquisition wasn’t the first army it had hosted. The next might not be so charitably inspired.

  It was eventually decided that Skyhold would be preserved, but also defanged. It would remain a distant beacon, so that all would remember when the Inquisitor had rallied the people of Thedas against a false god, and shouted “No!” as one.

  Sutherland and his company had been there, had rallied with the Inquisitor. And now they walked the valley alone, through the empty echo of that resolve.

  “Feels wrong, going in without Rat,” said Shayd.

  “We stick to the plan,” Sutherland said. When the order had come, they had set out immediately, but not directly, crisscrossing between Ferelden and Orlais. Now, on the last leg, Sutherland had split his company. He, Shayd, and Voth were marching straight to Skyhold, loud with colors raised. Rat, his dwarven squire, deliberately held back on his order.

  “Right,” said Shayd. “It has to feel us.”

  Skyhold stood alone in the valley, raised high on a butte, as though the mountains themselves had fallen away after failing to scale its walls. Normally a cable lift brought people and pack animals from the valley floor. But with no response from above, they had to climb the stairs that spiraled the interior of the barbican watchtower. They had a long ascent ahead of them.

  Officials had promised that the Inquisition would fade away. If there was doubt, if lingering assets proved troublesome, fear and fighting over its legacy would resume. Skyhold had to be boring and safe. But the last report from the caretaker had been a meandering description of restoring the fresco, which was not at all in his mandate. The next supply caravan, the one meant to clarify that all was normal, had not returned.

  Skyhold was, again, a problem.

  Sutherland and his friends were the response. The only response. And he had suspicions about that. They had served at Skyhold and would keep this quiet. But if things were truly dire, they were also small enough to disappear. Why else send his tiny company against a fortress that had withstood armies?

  But Sutherland had returned with purpose. He had no regrets about his time at Skyhold. He wasn’t going to let “failing to protect its legacy” be his first.

  As long as Rat kept pace, and they stuck to his plan.

  “We still think demon?” Shayd asked. She tightened buckles as they climbed, securing hardened leather over the brigandine and silk of her tunic.

  Voth simply nodded.

  If this had happened anywhere else, possession wouldn’t have been their first concern. But Skyhold was unusual. The Veil, the divide between the mortal and spirit realms, was very thin there. It reacted to events like water reacted to stones, and Skyhold had seen more than its share of ripples.

  Sutherland spoke with every step upward, repeating the last four words of the caretaker’s final report. “‘I have made mistakes,’” he said. “What kind of mistakes?”

  Spirits are peculiar things. They are driven by emotions, same as mortals. But spirits embody this to such a singular degree, the expression of an emotion can be a beacon, an attack, or even sustenance. It’s very different for a mortal to act with compassion, and a spirit to act as compassion. And it’s different again for a demon. They are even more inward, more craving. More willing to manipulate to see their flavor of emotion in action. More jealous, starved, and dangerous when it isn’t.

  There were many kinds of mistakes. Sutherland and his friends had made their guesses and prepared as best they could. The light at the end of their climb meant that those preparations would soon be tested.

  “Line of sight from everywhere,” Shayd said.

  The trio carefully peered from the barbican watchtower. It was the same thick stone as the main fortress, but it stood separate, like a last warning. The connecting bridge to the gatehouse—the neck—was strong, but deliberately exposed. It offered a welcoming view to travelers and gave nobles a chance to parade. But the real purpose was to allow ballistae their pick of target. There was no cover between the tower and the gatehouse. Stepping on the neck meant exposing your throat.

  Shayd pointed at the shorter battlements on either side of the gatehouse. “I’d sit up there sometimes,” she mused, “there’s just this access thing from the rampart. I could watch everyone.” She shuddered, imagining the view of herself now, and who—or what—might be in her old place.

  Sutherland had hoped for an obvious threat, but there was nothing. Even the drawbridge at the gatehouse was down. Open, like an invitation. Or a dare. He set his pack to the side of the barbican and secured his traveling cloak over it. Then he examined the cables of the lift. There had been no one to lower it, but it appeared functional. He tapped a support pillar thoughtfully. He loosened sheathes and tightened greaves. He breathed deep. Then he threw the lever that would lower the lift.

  And as the silence yielded to the shifting of huge counterweights, Sutherland stepped boldly onto the open stones of the neck.

  “Easy, fool!” said Shayd, grabbing for his pauldron.

  There was no response from the fortress, no volley of bolts cut him down. He turned and smiled, arms out.

  “If it’s a demon, it has to feel us. And besides,” Sutherland shrugged, looking to the gate, the main keep, and the rotunda within, “we can guess where it will be.”

  The walk to the courtyard was uneventful. The battlements were empty threats, the ramparts behind them bare. The fires beneath the gatehouse—meant to sear intruders caught between portcullises—were as cold as those in the valley. The center courtyard was the most startling. Always bustling, messengers running under and then up the stone ramp that curved to the main keep doors—now it was oppressively quiet. They felt the hollow weight of a fortress meant for hundreds.

  But despite it all, Sutherland was smiling. He couldn’t help it. It felt familiar and light. Like stepping back in time.

  He’d been a farmer most of his life, or maybe he’d just been the son of a farmer. When bandits threatened to oust his family, Sutherland ran, but not to hide. He found an Inquisition patrol and asked if they could help. If he could help. They said it was a local matter, but he could trek to Skyhold, make his case to their commander. He suspected that they told this to everyone, and that most never made the attempt. But he had. And he’d looked so innocuous, so inconsequential, he’d simply walked through the gates among the supply caravans. And then he was standing in the tavern, not knowing who to talk to or why they should care.

  Sutherland stared up at the Herald’s Rest now, wearing armor that cost more than the farm he’d rescued. The Inquisitor had taken a chance on him, on Shayd, Voth, and Rat. And they had honored every coin, plus interest. But he’d always felt like it wasn’t enough. Everything good in his life—his friends, the keep he owned, the people who called him ser—he owed all of it to one place, one person, and one change in direction.

  He looked at the dark of the tavern windows, imagining the cold of its empty hearth, and knew he had to do more. He vowed that he would.

  If Rat keeps pace, and they stick to his plan.

  “Donal?”

  Shayd was looking at him, like she did when he was lost in himself.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  “So is he.”

  When they’d emerged from the gatehouse, reflex had taken Sutherland’s eyes left, to the raised courtyard that held the tavern. Shayd was pointing right, down the curve of the rookery, past the empty merchant stalls. She was pointing at the stables. At a body.

  The caretaker of Skyhold had been carefully chosen. He’d been a brother of the Chantry, with only distant family and an unremarkable name. He’d welcomed long pilgrimages, and repetitive but important work. He was a patient, gentle mentor.

  He was stable. And now he was nailed to one.

  Sutherland, Shayd, and Voth approached with sword drawn, arrow nocked, and staff flickering with preemptive wards. There was no other movement. Even the banners on the ramparts above were still. The stables hadn’t seen regular use since Skyhold was s
huttered. They were so clean, they looked more like an exhibit. A model of how horses might be housed. Except for the figure of the caretaker, half standing at the stable door, attached to the frame by a large spike in his left forearm, just below the wrist.

  “Maker,” said Sutherland, squinting to see less.

  “Dead at least a week,” said Shayd. “You can tell from the eyes.” She got as close as she dared, her dark skin showing how pale the corpse truly was. “He bled out.”

  “But not from that,” said Voth, pointing at the spike. There wasn’t enough blood on the arm, and with the man stooped, the wound was above his heart. He might’ve died because of it, but it wouldn’t have drained him so thoroughly.

  “Right. Pinned there, but…” Shayd flipped the man’s cloak to the side, revealing long gashes in his belly. The wounds had long dried, but the bright red of his Chantry robe made the scene feel fresh. “Like bleeding a rat,” she muttered.

  “No,” said Sutherland.

  “It’s vicious,” Shayd said, turning, “but it makes sense.”

  “No,” he said. “Look.”

  The caretaker was hanging by his left arm. Sutherland pointed down, by the man’s right arm. There, where it would have fallen if the strength in his hand was failing, was a bloodied hammer.

  “Oh, shit,” said Shayd, backing up quickly.

  Voth rubbed his scalp in troubled thought. “Pinned himself so he couldn’t move…”

  “Then something came for him.” Sutherland warily scanned the courtyard.

  “Demons,” Shayd spat.

  “They tempt and confuse,” said Voth. “Maybe our friend realized he was being used”—Voth gestured at the spike—“so he made himself unusable.”

  “That’s not better,” said Shayd. “What would you want to avoid so bad, you’d nail your own arm to a wall?”