Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  There was a ring of heads. Dozens, not just nine. Their eyes were plucked out, their flesh otherwise whole and healthy. Squeezing tendrils ran inside, caressed the cheeks. A crown of the blind, lovingly carried inside that atrocity. When the Cekorax spoke, their silent mouths formed the dripping words.

  “Come inside and see.”

  I must have screamed and waved my arms, because a ball of fire and stone cast from a pair of staffs smashed into the looming reservoir with incredible ferocity. It had never been built to withstand an assault. Especially when packets of explosive Quanari gaatlok powder had been stuck there by some idiot earlier. There was a crack from the reservoir, then the terrible sensation of stone buckling and a great weight sliding free.

  Even the Cekorax stopped writhing, turning its tendrils before a lake’s worth of water swept over everything.

  I grabbed the fountain’s dragons. The deluge ripped off my scarves, the charms and necklaces. When the roaring became a stream and then a trickle, I threw up a lungful of water. Arms aching, I dragged my numb legs behind me as I climbed up the dragon heads.

  The bulk, that crown, rose untroubled, whipping its many limbs about as if it were shaking off a light rain. Other ropy strands slid through the water like eels circling the fountain. My hands groped back, into the small pit where the dragon heads met.

  “Come,” it said, as if we hadn’t been interrupted. “See how nothing can hurt me. Come and be safe. Your true face forever. Be free.”

  I relaxed, nodding as those scalpel blades hummed. My hand closed on the harpoon that Mizzy had hidden earlier, and threw. It punctured the Cekorax’s main mass with a squelch. A whirring blade sliced off one of the dragon heads. A metal coil I had looped around the harpoon was now dangling in the water nicely. I ducked another blade, and screamed up to the mages: “NOW, PLEASE!”

  Lightning slammed into the upturned harpoon. The Cekorax shrieked. Everything in the water lit up, purple spots dancing in my eyes as it grew almost too bright to see. Flesh spasmed, every connected root and frond twisting. The Cekorax’s main mass toppled and popped. Blue-white liquid poured into the water, dissolved.

  “Visitor,” it gurgled, voices lost as heads toppled from the crown. The last one was barely a whisper. “What have you done to me?”

  I waited until the thrashing stopped, and all the worming ropes grew very still. The water continued to spark and sizzle, and I knew better than to leave. But I wanted to mark the victory.

  “I was told to tell you, O Cekorax, that that was from Mizzy.”

  * * *

  “That was one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen in my life,” Dorian said as we arrived at the bristling piles of the docks. We were in a carriage, drawn by those horse-size lizards Tevinter likes so much. Even their draft animals are an oddity.

  “Do you know what Mae and I found left of the Cekorax in that soup after it drained away?” Dorian continued. “A sort of skin, mostly.”

  “Like a sausage casing,” I said helpfully.

  “Please don’t.”

  “I must ask: What was the Cekorax?”

  Dorian smoothed down one side of his mustache. “That soggy mess didn’t do much to clear that up. Some ancient breed of demon? Some fiend brewed up by a magister?” He looked pensive. “I was at a party with one of those necromancers from down south a while ago. Five cups in, she went on about things ‘past the Veil of our world,’ neither demon nor spirit. Perhaps it wasn’t the tipsy nonsense I assumed it to be.”

  The lizards pulled the carriage over a high-arching bridge. For once, at least in this thoroughfare, it was quiet in the city. Dorian stuck his head out for a moment to admire the sight, then drew back in.

  “Maevaris sends her regards, by the way. I doubt that light show would have been so splendid without her help. She’d be here, but intrigue struck in the Magisterium.”

  “Will she have to explain to them how the garden reservoir cracked open so mysteriously?”

  “I understand those dastardly perpetrators are long gone from the city. We’re going to have a harder time explaining the lightning. It’s been a while since I cast something so spectacular, and it practically lit up every corner in Minrathous.”

  I hefted my purse. Five hundred aurum. No, Mizzy didn’t ask for more. But after a night like that, I felt she’d acted so much like a Lord of Fortune in the making, anything less than half was miserly. She and her sister were leaving the city for a while, until those troublesome questions about who’d flooded whose public gardens faded from memory. If she liked, I had told Mizzy, she might learn something from the Lords of Fortune in Rivain.

  “I’ve got loads of aunts and uncles and cousins south of here,” she had said reproachfully. “I’ve got to take care of them now that I’m a rich lady. But when I grow up,” she’d concluded, “maybe I’ll visit. Don’t forget me!” Then she hugged me for a moment, and ran into the crowds and was gone.

  The carriage pulled up to a clipper. The sails were pearl-white, and its captain was already waiting. “Courtesy of Maevaris. I’ll thank her for you. It’s fast, and reasonably comfortable even by my standards,” Dorian said. “Everything’s paid up for your journey.”

  “You two are exceedingly generous,” I replied, and meant it very much.

  “Consider it one last courtesy. Mae and I would hate to leave you with a bad impression of this fair city.”

  I got out and took my packs, and looked at the clustered towers of Minrathous in the sunrise. For a moment and from that angle, it was serenity. Turning to Dorian, I told him, “I wouldn’t come back to Minrathous even if you paid me.” Then I shrugged. “But a few of the people are very lovely.”

  He laughed, and waved goodbye as I set out on the boat to Rivain. I’ve since drilled a hole into one of those five hundred golden coins, and have it around my neck, here, just for the memories.

  Anyhow, to answer your earlier question: That’s the story of how I came by this map case, with sapphires of such fine quality.

  HUNGER

  BRIANNE BATTYE

  One here, one there.

  The trader who failed to turn up that summer. The cooper gone missing by the river. They thought “accident” despite knowing better. They thought “bad luck,” which was closer.

  A month went by. Enough to let them justify. To feel safe.

  The trader’s father passed through that autumn, in search of his missing son. A hunter went out and never returned. Another hunter clawed apart, left strewn across the path for them to find.

  Were they “accidents” now?

  Then came the sounds at night. The blood in the barn the next morning.

  The sounds came again two weeks later, followed by screams. Then again, the following week.

  When they sounded again, she ran.

  Are you hungry? it asked itself.

  She ran.

  And it followed.

  * * *

  The horses had already bolted.

  Five darkspawn blocked the road ahead—three hurlocks with rust-spotted armor and chipped blades, and a pair of genlocks, their blight-mottled limbs exposed and thick with muscle. The lead hurlock snarled, lips peeling up from gray teeth. It took a halting step toward the two Grey Wardens, teasing them.

  Antoine held his bow loosely in one hand. This was it. His other hand hung by his side, fingers twitching. Ready.

  The last and only time he’d fought darkspawn, it hadn’t gone well. He’d barely survived and lay near death for days before the Grey Wardens rescued him.

  He hadn’t been a Grey Warden then, but he was now. And Grey Wardens stopped the monsters first.

  “We’re outnumbered.” Evka’s dark eyes flicked to the left, her heightened senses alerting her to further danger. “And surrounded.”

  They didn’t tell outsiders that part—that being a Grey Warden meant a ritual that connected you to the darkspawn. That the strange song that runs through their heads will run through yours, too. Antoine’s own sen
ses hummed, but he wasn’t used to reading them. Instead he was getting a mild headache. “That’s bad, no?”

  “Only if we die,” Evka said. She released a knife from her belt, turned, and threw it at the darkspawn shriek that burst through the trees to their left. The shriek let out a sharp cry as the blade cut its arm. It raked a taloned hand at the dwarf, but Evka had already dived clear. She drew a short ax and squared off against the monster.

  The darkspawn on the road ahead charged at Antoine. He tensed but didn’t move. Five darkspawn, narrow path, they were crowded together …

  “Avoiding death means doing something,” Evka called.

  “Almost, almost,” Antoine muttered.

  “Now.” Evka dodged another blow.

  Antoine reached into his pocket, pulled out a round glass vial, and threw it at the nearest hurlock.

  The vial bounced off the darkspawn’s chest and onto the ground.

  The hurlock blinked.

  Not exactly the plan, but there was always a backup … once Antoine figured out what that was.

  “Antoine!” Evka shouted. The shriek screamed again, the sound almost enough to make their ears bleed.

  “Désolé—sorry! That’s not what it’s supposed to do!” Antoine sprang backward, nocking an arrow as he went, and fired. The shot went clean through the hurlock’s eye, bringing the darkspawn down and ensuring the elf’s head remained on his shoulders.

  Evka ripped her ax from the shriek’s chest, turned, and slid herself between Antoine and one of the genlocks. Blood spattered across her face as her ax tore through thick flesh. Antoine nocked another arrow and fired over Evka’s head into the monster’s face.

  Two hurlocks and one genlock left. Their odds were slightly better.

  Or they were before the remaining genlock flung out its arm, sending Antoine into a nearby tree.

  Dazed, Antoine heard Evka call his name again. She must have dealt with the genlock because only the hurlocks advanced on his fellow Warden. As he picked himself up, his eyes landed on the glass container lying in the dust by Evka’s feet.

  There it was: a backup plan.

  Antoine darted forward, a rock in hand. He barely registered Evka’s startled expression before flinging himself to the ground, bringing the rock down on the vial.

  There was a sharp crack and a dark cloud billowed up and outward, obscuring everything in its wake.

  “What—?”

  “That’s what it’s supposed to do!” Antoine cheered.

  “Have you ever heard of a warning?” Evka griped, but she’d already taken advantage of the disoriented hurlocks, bringing down the one closest to her.

  Antoine rolled back to his feet, drew his bow, and fired at the final darkspawn. Black, sluggish blood spat from its teeth. It staggered and fell.

  As the cloud began to clear, Antoine broke the silence with his own relieved laughter.

  “Weisshaupt’s not a short walk,” Evka noted.

  Antoine brushed off his coat, unconcerned. They’d fought six darkspawn—and he was still on his feet. It was much better than almost dying.

  “Another detour,” he said. Evka rolled her eyes.

  “There must be an inn nearby,” Antoine said.

  The sound of thunder grumbled overhead.

  * * *

  Warden Evka Ivo had grown up in Orzammar. The dwarven city was what it was: stone floors, stone walls, stone ceilings. It never changed much. Her three years with the Grey Wardens had brought her to the surface and she’d found a lot to love about life aboveground.

  Being outside in the rain wasn’t included.

  Being outside in the rain after dark was even worse.

  “Is it sore?” Antoine asked, catching Evka rubbing her shoulder.

  Evka glanced up at the elf. Knowing him, he’d found some guaranteed-to-work ointment at a roadside stand. “Nothing sleep won’t fix. If we get any. Then we’ll push on.”

  “Are we late?”

  “Not yet,” Evka said. “But we had horses this morning.”

  Warden life was hardly predictable. She knew that. But nothing about Antoine’s short time with the Wardens had been a straight line. After a hasty recruitment in Orlais, Evka was charged with taking the new recruit to a quiet outpost. They weren’t halfway there when the messenger caught them. The summons called available Wardens to Weisshaupt Fortress, the center of their order, located in the heart of the Anderfels. Evka and Antoine had crossed the vague border a few days ago, the landscape already taking on the bleak cliffs and ragged forests of the harsh northern country.

  “The vials need improvement,” Antoine admitted. “But when it worked it was interesting, no?”

  “It was,” Evka conceded. Antoine grinned. “And you could have died,” she added.

  “You’ve said that to me before,” Antoine said, teasing as always.

  Evka winced.

  She’d been the one to find Antoine. He should have been dead. According to the other servants, they’d only escaped darkspawn because “that grinning lunatic distracted them.” When the Wardens arrived, Antoine was three-quarters gone and muttering to himself. Poisoned with darkspawn blood, his only hope was to take the Joining ritual and become a Grey Warden—if he could survive it. Turns out he could and he’d been cheerful as a songbird ever since. Not the reaction she’d expected.

  Antoine gave her a sideways look and changed the subject. “We saved the horses.”

  “They ran away,” Evka said.

  “From darkspawn. Which we defeated.”

  “That doesn’t—”

  Evka’s retort was cut short by a young woman crashing through the trees and onto the road in front of them. Her forearms were bare, thin dark lines showing where she’d run through branches, and sharp burrs clung to her skirt. At the sight of the Wardens, the woman spun away, slipped, and fell to the ground.

  “It’s all right,” Antoine said immediately. The woman clawed dark tangles of rain-plastered hair from her face and scrambled to her feet. Her eyes darted to the surrounding trees. Antoine took a step toward her. “We can help you.”

  The woman gave a bitter laugh. “No, you won’t,” she said.

  “What’s after you?” Evka asked. She nodded to Antoine, who readied his bow and scanned the surrounding woods. Given the late hour, overcast sky, and dense trees, it was impossible to see far.

  The woman’s eyes fixed on the griffon insignia on Evka’s chest. “You’re Wardens.”

  “Wardens Antoine and Evka,” Antoine said happily. Evka was surprised he didn’t pair the announcement with a jaunty bow. “And you are?”

  “Mina Bauer.” The woman took a step closer. “It’s still out there.”

  “What is?” Antoine asked.

  “We don’t know,” Mina said. “People go missing. We find nothing or … it’s not human. We know that.”

  “Could be darkspawn,” Evka said, more to Antoine than Mina. She couldn’t sense any nearby, but that didn’t mean they weren’t farther into the woods.

  “Darkspawn,” Mina said, turning the idea over. Her eyes lit up. “Wardens have to fight darkspawn. You’re sworn to it. You’ll go to Eichweill.” It was almost an order, save for the anxious way she wrapped her arms around herself.

  “This place you’re from…” Evka said.

  “Eichweill,” Mina said.

  “Does it have a place we can get out of the rain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s worth stopping by,” Evka said. She expected Antoine to chime in, but instead he was standing still—too still—staring intently into the dark woods, his expression troubled. “Antoine?”

  He shook his head and that easy smile returned. “Likely nothing. Another detour?”

  Evka nodded then turned to Mina. “Lead on.”

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight when the path opened slightly and revealed their first view of Eichweill. The rain had passed and in the thin moonlight the village was small and colorless. What passe
d for the main road was little more than a lopsided mud track lined with gray stone buildings. A large wooden statue met them at the village entrance but whether it was a man, a bear, or Holy Andraste herself was hard to say, the features weathered to nothing. The entire place looked run-down but steadily maintained, on the verge of collapse yet oddly permanent.

  And the Wardens were here to save it.

  At least two of them were.

  To their left, a squat, two-story building crouched next to the road. Hazy yellow light strained to extend from undersize windows. A worn sign showed only an angry round toad, the establishment’s name long peeled away. Mina walked straight to the entrance and banged on the heavy wood door. It swung open a crack—enough for a pale eye to appraise the people on the front step—then far enough for them to see a thin man with hunched shoulders and wisps of gray hair. Behind the man, a handful of drawn and tired villagers eyed the Wardens with wary distrust.

  “Back, are ya? Figured you dead,” the man said. Mina looked ready to retort, but the man moved on. “Who’re these, then?”

  “Grey Wardens,” Mina said. “They’re here to help.”

  The man scratched at an itch behind his ear.

  “Wardens swear oaths,” Mina said. Someone inside the inn snorted.

  Antoine stood a little straighter. This wasn’t the welcome he’d expected. “You’re the innkeeper?” he tried politely.

  “When there’s call for it. Rest of the time I’m the tailor. Verschel.” The man held out a hand, curled slightly with age, and Antoine shook it. Verschel nodded, grabbed a lantern from inside the door, and stepped past them out of the inn. Evka shrugged and the Wardens fell in line behind him.

  “If you’re here darkspawn’s as good a guess as any,” Verschel said. “Had those in my father’s time.”

  They followed Verschel up the muddy road, passing a few homes, a trade shop, and the blackened remains of a building that had caught fire and never been rebuilt. The small group from the inn followed, picking up a few more villagers along the way despite the late hour.