Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  Up ahead, the sun through the trees lit the afternoon sky in purple and orange. Bharv stared at it until his eyes hurt. Once retired, he would miss many things about the Lord of Fortune life, but sunsets from all over the world topped the list.

  Elim fell in beside Panzstott. “Want to hear something fun?”

  He nodded like he’d been bored fleeing for his life.

  “My name is Dora Brown. Born and raised Ferelden-strong.”

  Panzstott threw his massive arms in the air with delight as her accent changed. He leaned closer to her as though it would help him understand how she did it. It even caught Bharv by surprise, and he knew about Elim’s skills. Her voice dropped from refined to “cheery woodland” in a breath’s span, just as appealing but for different reasons. The Ferelden accent was spot-on. As a younger man, he’d chatted up enough barmaids to recognize it instantly.

  “It’s your misfortune to meet Claudia Pirro, of the House of Crows.”

  Panzstott clapped, and Bharv chuckled. It was uncanny.

  “Margeaux DeLamore, monsieur. You’ve caught me on my way to the Orlesian court.”

  Panzstott pointed excitedly at Elim. Looked like he might wet himself. “That’s a good one. Sounds like the lady who will find my sister.”

  Elim glanced back at Bharv. He knew the same question had popped into her head. Why would an Orlesian woman offer to find a Tantervale brute’s sister? Long way to travel just to help a stranger. So generous, yet she was charging Panzstott all the money he had to find missing family. Bharv’s daughters—particularly young Sandrine—lectured him that kindness needed no reward until he wanted to slice his ears off. He’d never believed that. Stealing and adventuring did that to a man. Ground down whatever optimism he’d passed to his daughters until he no longer understood those who worked at drudgery for their coin. Eroded his faith in people until he wondered what everyone was taking. Used to drive his daughters’ mother crazy. Bless her.

  “Tell me about your sister.” Elim was back to her original accent.

  Panzstott smiled. “My big sister. She used to push me around. In a good way, though. To show her feelings. We grew up in marshes. Saw our parents only when they caught us. She looked out for me. Killed snakes for me. She thought of things for me all the time.”

  “And you need to find her?”

  He nodded. “She went away last year. She was supposed to write me.”

  “Where was she headed?”

  “Anderfels. Gone to be a Grey Warden.”

  Elim put a shocked look on her face. “That is a long journey indeed. A dangerous one, too.”

  “She’s a very big sister.”

  The elf switched to her Orlesian accent. “And your lady believes she can find her?”

  He brightened at the change in accent. “Lady Lucie, yes. She’s sure my sister might be found. Says so all the time.”

  “Might be found?”

  “Will be.” Panzstott put threat into those two words. Bharv figured Elim noticed, same as him. “Lady Lucie says she can find anyone. Her husband is also a warden.”

  Elim cocked her head. “Really?”

  Shit, Bharv thought. Another potential new wrinkle. He patted the amulet in his pocket. The more unknowns on a job, the more he checked the goods. His hand felt different scraping across his rough jacket. No pain. He examined it in the failing light. The scratches he’d gotten from the window in Starkhaven were gone. He flicked his hand around at different angles to see if it was a shadow’s trick. Smooth skin no matter which way he turned. Looked ten years younger than his other hand. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and tugged his sleeve down. He skimmed a couple of fingers under his shirt. The wound on his belly was still open, but the pain had dulled from searing to a low throb. So, the damn amulet healed people. Nice trick.

  Guilt tickled at Bharv as he flexed his healed hand in his pocket. He would’ve told Herold about it immediately. Maybe the amulet could’ve grown back the toe on Herold’s left foot. Claimed he lost it fighting a sea beast during his naval service, but that wasn’t true. Herold could barely hold his lunch down in the bath, yet swore he swung an ax while clinging to a burning mast amongst roaring waves and the beast’s mighty jaws. Bharv once watched an hour-long reenactment in a Rivain bar, and Herold was so drunk he called the story’s hero “the Admiral” because he forgot it was supposed to be him.

  Herold would’ve hated being in this position. At job’s end, he liked to tie off the stumps and move on. His preferred method was to be halfway through the celebration hangover by now. Herold’s plan to move the amulet back north where it belonged would’ve been something simple. Someone to move it, a meeting place he’d been before, where he knew the doors and windows. His usual routine. Bharv didn’t think Herold would risk dealing with anyone new. Bad news was, that still left a long list of possible friends. Herold lived his whole life like he was running for public office. He slapped backs like everyone he met was choking on a grape. Herold truly trusted only a scant few of his contacts, and Bharv kept a close eye on the rest. Still, the list of his Free Marcher friends had to be short. Most of their fellows, and enemies, were farther north.

  Herold was in a foul mood his last days, ever since Bharv dragged him away from the rows of stretchers and wounded in the north. They’d been chasing the amulet from bandit to slimy agent for too long. Once inside the Free Marches, Herold guessed they were headed to the Grand Tourney. Rich targets and stuffy collectors from all over Thedas would be there, and it was a bad place for their prize to land. Herold and Bharv didn’t credit much brains to a wealthy crowd entertained by men pushing each other off horses with sticks, but their sheer numbers were the problem. If our prize gets lodged in a place packed with heroes, braggarts, and guards, Herold said, we’ll never pry it free again. Not without a bigger fight than we’re prepared for.

  “Stop,” Elim whispered. She crouched behind trees and they followed. Bharv and Panzstott swung their heads about, but she closed her eyes and relied on her ears. She pointed east, the way they’d come. Bharv peered through the branches. They should’ve left the riverbank, he thought. Herold would’ve said so. The deeper woods were more dangerous, but the river was the most obvious trail their pursuers could follow and hope they’d catch up. Maybe they should’ve tried to reach the village bar he and Herold drank in on their way to Starkhaven. At least Bharv knew that place.

  “We only want the sword.” It was a man’s voice calling. “Though we will take your thieving lives all the same.”

  Elim cocked her head. “Ferelden accent. Must be a tournament knight. He says he wants a sword, Panzstott.”

  Another voice—from the north—demanded they show themselves. Sounded like they were shouting blind in all directions. Still, they’d found their way down the riverbank faster than Bharv expected. It was possible the shouters were distractions while quieter trackers crept closer. Tournament knights were no more clever than wood, but the Prince of Starkhaven enjoyed a solid reputation throughout the Free Marches. No fools would be counted among his pursuing guards. As they crouched, and the shouting continued, Bharv and Elim finally got a good look at the greatsword across Panzstott’s back. There were intricate carvings and numerous names etched into the steel. The blade gleamed, aside from the dried ray blood. It was no guard’s sword picked up in the fray at the tourney.

  The shouting faded, though none of them stood. The elf turned with a vicious look in her eye. “Show us that damn sword.”

  Panzstott looked bashful. He pulled the greatsword from its makeshift sheath, the golden hilt shining even in the setting sun. The big man held it up, but not out.

  “Where did you get that?” Elim asked.

  “The tournament. I just grabbed it.”

  “That’s why the whole place came after us. Your clumsy theft.”

  “Could’ve been you.”

  The elf looked offended. “I assure you it was not.”

  Elim reached for the sword and Panzstott’s face ch
anged from doughy to sharp. He made a low, guttural sound and shuffled back. He no longer held the sword lightly.

  “No.”

  “Let me see what I am chased through these filthy woods for.”

  “What Herold died for.” Bharv used a tone he rarely did with men that big.

  “Never.” Even Panzstott’s voice was different. “It’s what Lady Lucie wants. It’s not yours. You got your thing, I got mine. All square.”

  The elf scoffed. “Hardly square. We didn’t get caught.”

  “I didn’t know people would see.” Panzstott put a second hand on the blade’s handle.

  “Give me the sword.” Elim stepped forward and moved one hand to the back of her head.

  Panzstott growled and charged with his shoulder, sending Elim hurtling into Bharv. They tumbled to the ground in a tangle. Bharv snatched his hand away before it was crushed by Panzstott’s thick boots. He charged noisily ahead of them.

  “Move your old leg,” Elim snapped as she leapt to her feet. She was quick, but Bharv managed to lurch forward and grab her ankle. She swung to the ground, rolled, and glared at him. “That sword gets us out of this alive.”

  Bharv pointed upward where an arrow still quivered in the tree above her. A red Starkhaven tail, emblem of the Vael family.

  Hoofbeats sounded back along the riverbank. The two Lords of Fortune broke and ran, winding and scrambling through the cover of trees and rocks. Bharv looked behind them and gawked at the pair of tournament knights that galloped after them. All four of Bharv’s daughters thought he should quit hunting down shiny things. They all agreed. Moments like this, so did he. Bharv made it to the trees, zagging between them best he could, slamming off one rough trunk to the next. He heard one set of hoofbeats behind him. Bharv swore the animal’s snorts were close enough to part his hair. Desperate, Bharv lunged over the nearest rock, rolling and scraping himself clean as he went. The knight’s horse reared and swerved in its attempt to follow. The animal’s front hooves kicked into the air and it fell over, the rider disappearing between his horse’s flank and the rock with a thin wail. The Lord of Fortune watched as the horse scrambled to its feet, riderless, and charged away to the river, still draped in its bright tournament finery.

  Ahead, the second mounted knight tried to run Panzstott down. He turned more sharply than a man that big should’ve been able to, and slashed his stolen sword at the oncoming horse’s neck. The animal screamed, then fell under a red fan of blood. Bharv heard the knight’s leg break beneath the animal’s weight as they fell. Then Panzstott took a long stride and stomped on the archer’s head hard enough that Bharv didn’t need to hear anything at all. Panzstott glared at Bharv, but turned and ran through the woods.

  Bharv scampered to the knight crushed by his horse and kneeled beside him. A groan came from inside the helmet. Bharv lifted the faceplate to see the knight’s head was mostly intact.

  “Can you hear me?”

  The knight nodded.

  “Whose sword is that? Why are you chasing us for it?”

  “No one’s,” the knight’s voice gurgled. “Everyone’s. Celebrate.”

  Elim kneeled beside them. “Will he live?”

  “I’m not a healer, but…” Bharv pressed on the knight’s chestplate and blood oozed from the seams. “No.”

  “How many of you idiots are chasing us?” Elim asked.

  “Many…” The knight’s teeth were red and shining.

  “Why?” Bharv asked. “What’s the big deal about a sword?”

  “Celebrate.” The knight was fading. “The names.”

  “Damn,” Elim said.

  Bharv looked up with a question on his face and when he looked back down, the knight was dead, his eyes open and fixed. Bharv shut the faceplate and pushed himself up. He wasn’t as tired as he should’ve been. Wasn’t as sore in as many places as he should’ve been.

  “He say something I missed?”

  “Celebrate,” Elim said. “He was talking about the Celebrant, the greatsword Panzstott ran off with. It’s a legendary blade, awarded to the winner of the Grand Tourney held every thousand days. A long tradition, for Free Marchers. Shit. I mean, the damn thing was on a pedestal where hundreds could see, and he still swiped it.”

  “And the names?”

  “More tradition. The name of each winner is inscribed on the blade.”

  “You know your Grand Tourney history.”

  “It’s a good place to steal. Like a buffet. Well, not anymore. Can’t show my face there again, no matter the voice that comes with it. They will not stop chasing us for that blade, Bharv.”

  “And if they find us without it…”

  Elim looked at the broken branches and trampled grass that marked Panzstott’s escape. “We need that sword.”

  Bharv grabbed a mace from the knight Panzstott killed, then went through the saddlebags strapped to the fallen horse. Coins rattled and he raised his eyebrows at Elim. She shook her head and pointed at the long dagger on the knight’s hip. Bharv unbuckled the belt and passed it to her. He took the knight’s canteen, then stood. They walked.

  “Big guy was headed this direction when we met him, and he’s just as determined now,” Bharv said. “He’s got a place in mind.”

  Elim nodded. “There are villages ahead. His Lady Lucie waits in one of them. The smart choice is to wait until the heat dies down before collecting a prize, but that means trusting Panzstott to make decisions on his own.” She made a dismissive noise. “I’d bet all the jewels in Thedas his sister is either dead or a Grey Warden by now, lost to her brother either way. The moment this lady has the Celebrant—poof, she is gone.”

  “And we’ll be wanted across Thedas for the rest of our lives.” Having his name attached to an infamous theft like this was a millstone around Bharv’s neck and a possible blade to his daughters’ throats. Vengeful knights would always strive to claim acts of heroic bravery and recovering the Celebrant was a gleaming one. A way to leech tourney glory without even winning. No one knew who Panzstott had talked to. Who knew what he might blurt out a year from now? Bharv couldn’t let this follow him home. A retirement looking over his shoulder was no future at all.

  It wasn’t a very successful last adventure, he supposed. A lost friend and imminent capture was a rough price for any artifact. He’d survived nearly four decades of capers now, started when he had sprouts for hair on his chest, when he assumed he knew the world better. Shit. He’d stepped foot all over Thedas and barely understood the place any deeper for it. It was a beautiful, terrifying land that surprised him all his life, but he’d stopped trying to find a reason to keep going long ago. It was enough that the world stood itself up. He no longer cared how. Herold would’ve tried to cheer him up. This is nothing, he would’ve said. Just a mishap compared to getting chased by the Sandy Howler. A light day after recovering the Everburning Staff of Red Tongues. They’d lost four eyebrows and two beards between them on that one. A dozen other times, Bharv’s only hope had come from Herold. He’d been ridiculously confident every damn time.

  “Think we’ll make it out of this?” Bharv asked.

  “I will,” Elim said. She adjusted her pinned hair.

  * * *

  Panzstott was easy to track. They were gaining, Bharv noticed. The grass the idiot stomped down was still fighting its way back up. Still, they’d nearly lost the sun by the time Panzstott stopped and faced them. Made his meeting, it looked like. Bharv raised his mace as he and Elim strode into the clearing like their name was on the title. The place was well sheltered by a slope on one side and a creek on another. Thick brush above. Only a few minutes of running to hide in the nearest village if things went sour. Panzstott’s lady picked her places well.

  Panzstott faced them with the Celebrant in both hands. A woman with fiery hair and a black mourning dress stood beside him and sneered. It was a good one, too.

  Elim sneered back. Hers was better.

  “Well, our useful fools,” the woman said in an Orles
ian accent. “You two lack the proper grace to die and let us be. I have what is mine; you have stolen your trinket. May we never see each other again.”

  Bharv and Elim put a few strides between them so Panzstott couldn’t get both with one swing. “That sword will hang over all our necks,” the elf said. “I have no wish to be famous.”

  “I will not be denied my family’s rewards by two thieves.”

  “Lords,” Elim corrected. “Lords of Fortune.”

  Bharv studied the woman as she and Elim verbally sparred. She was lighter on one foot than the other, prepared to duck behind Panzstott in a moment. She was a tall woman, only a haircut shorter than Elim, with a dress Bharv thought cost more than his house. The woman was calm in a tense situation, but what could she want with a greatsword too heavy for her to swing?

  “Helping Panzstott find his sister,” Bharv said, friendlier than Elim. “Mighty generous of you.”

  The lady’s eyes flicked between the Lords of Fortune, then to Panzstott.

  “He mentioned your husband is a Grey Warden,” Bharv said. “Now, how long’s he been doing that?”

  “None of your concern. Flee our mutual pursuers in any direction but mine. Last chance.”

  “Why not face them together? We have this huge sword on our side. I’m impressed that it’s yours. You become Grand Tourney champion, I suppose? Is that what you’re trying to sell here?”

  “It was him, not me.” Lucie’s voice cracked. “He was my champion.”

  Panzstott glanced at the lady. Confusion softened his scowl.

  Bharv pieced it together even as the words came out of his mouth. “You were his wife, weren’t you? Sister, maybe. The chevalier who won the last tournament. Jacques Gallais.”

  Elim snapped her head around. “The chevalier from the memorial?”

  The lady flared and jabbed a finger forward. “Do not say his name! Kill them, Panzstott, for your sister’s sake.”

  Bharv tightened his grip on the mace just as Starkhaven guards and tournament knights stepped out of the woods from both clear sides and across the creek. They’d finally abandoned their horses and were far quieter for it. The knights had even taken off their clanging armor. Clever, for once. At the worst possible time, of course.