Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  “Hold!” called a Starkhaven captain. “No one move!”

  “Murderers!” the lady yelled. “All of you! You are no knights!”

  “My word,” the Starkhaven captain said. “Is that Lucie Gallais, wife of departed Jacques? We met at the tournament, after the bereavement ceremony two days ago. Whyever does the tourney widow accuse us?”

  She stayed near Panzstott. “Your tournament is a fraud; your knights are cowards. My Jacques, chevalier and hero, earned this sword and none bested him. The spoils remain his, and no dreadful murder in the dark changes that.”

  The knights scoffed incredulously. One snickered. The captain silenced them with a wave of his hand. “I’ve never heard mention of foulness in your husband’s regrettable passing. Even if there were, your choice to steal the Celebrant is unacceptable. Guards and knights have died today.”

  Lucie Gallais hissed at the captain. “You assist cheaters and killers, sir.”

  “Worst job I ever took,” Elim said. Two knights stood behind her, swords drawn.

  Panzstott gestured at Elim. “They stole, too. Took a big ruby thing from the tournament.”

  “You are tattling now?” Elim asked.

  The captain wavered at the news and Bharv beamed at their theft having gone unnoticed. Elim’s skills were worth every insult she hurled his way. He saw the elf smile. For all they knew, their efforts might still be undiscovered at the tournament grounds. But Panzstott had ruined that now.

  “What does the brute speak of?” the captain asked.

  “An amulet we stole,” Elim said casually. “Big as my fist. Red as the morning sun. We pinched it before this man-child grabbed the sword for his Orlesian lady because she cannot simply get over her husband’s death. Priceless, really. Worth far more than your contest trinket. This dwarf has chased it across half the world. His friend died for it. I almost died for it. Cram your puny sword.”

  Bharv grit his teeth.

  “Just kill them, Panzstott,” Lucie said. “All of them!”

  The captain put up both hands. “Now, wait…”

  Bharv took a deep breath. Francesca. Melindarah. Sandrine. Bellaclare.

  “I no longer even want the damn thing.” Elim’s hand flicked out of her pocket and tossed Bharv’s apple high into the evening air. For a moment, no one moved. Only Bharv spotted the fake and he was still rooted to the spot. Then, in the next moment, everyone in the clearing charged in a different direction. Bharv raised his mace as the Starkhaven captain crashed into him, the younger man’s eyes still locked on the apple. The mace spun from Bharv’s grasp as they struggled.

  “See here…”

  Bharv slammed his elbow into the captain’s throat and shoved him aside. He needed to grab Elim and get out. The rest would take care of itself. With the sword recovered, the knights wouldn’t give chase. Not all the way to Rivain. Another Starkhaven guard tackled him and Bharv spun into a tree on his way down. The two of them rolled and grappled as Bharv tried to avoid the guard’s dagger.

  A knight reached the rolling apple and Elim kicked him in the face as he crouched to pick it up. She planted her other foot, pushed back, and drove her elbow into the guard chasing her. His nose splintered against her forearm and he fell with a wet, miserable howl.

  “Uncivilized…” she muttered.

  Bharv rolled from under the Starkhaven guard to see Panzstott send knights diving in all directions to avoid his mighty swipes of the Celebrant. He was quicker than he looked, and his reach kept the knights moving instead of engaging. Panzstott hacked at one man who veered too close and blood sprayed against Bharv’s face, blurring his vision as it splashed in his eyes. The guard he’d been wrestling lurched after him and Bharv felt something hot across his chest. Warmth poured down his belly.

  “The brute!” someone yelled. “Focus on the brute!”

  “Kill them, Panzstott!”

  Bharv rolled over and the world rolled with him. The treetops above him spun until the dim sky was a perfect circle. He pulled his hand from his chest and looked at it. It was sticky and red. His breaths gurgled through his shirt and he gripped the amulet tightly in his pocket. Elim screamed and he lifted his head. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  Panzstott held Elim, feet off the ground, with one hand around her throat and sawed deep into her side with the Celebrant. She screamed and kicked. His face was like a sad little boy’s.

  Elim pulled out her long hairpin and slammed the point of it up under Panzstott’s chin. The big man’s teeth clacked together as his mouth was pinned shut, biting off most his tongue. Elim kept going, pushing as high as she could, until his eyes rolled and he went limp. The Celebrant dropped beside them. They both collapsed to the ground.

  In the sudden silence, Bharv listened to the guards pick themselves up and tend to their wounded.

  “Collect the sword,” the captain said. “Bind the widow’s hands.”

  “The thieves, Captain?”

  The captain clucked disgustedly as he considered the question. “Leave them to die. It will be enough struggle getting our own wounded back to Starkhaven.”

  As the guards left, Bharv lay still and wondered how much blood he’d put on the forest floor. Once they were gone, he got to his knees. Elim was on her back, propped on both elbows. Neither mentioned how much the other was bleeding. The whole clearing was tilted, the trees at weird angles.

  “This is a real shit job,” he told Elim.

  “Worst I ever took.” Red spilled down her chin. “I would’ve liked to know what that damn amulet does, besides look pretty.”

  Bharv opened his mouth—Francesca. Melindarah. Sandrine. Bellaclare. They all agreed.—and closed it again.

  Elim’s elbows gave out and she lay back.

  The world spun and Bharv felt the ground against his face.

  * * *

  The moon was high when Bharv woke again. He gasped the cold air and could see his breath against the stars. He jolted upright and grabbed at his shirt. His wounds were closed, already healed to crooked purple welts across his chest. He yanked the amulet from his pocket and stumbled through the grass to Elim. He pulled open her coat. The elf’s jacket shone dull red in the moonlight. She was cold.

  Bharv held the amulet against her side. He spent the night that way, hoping the amulet would resurrect her. When his fingers went frigid and numb, he sat down and held the amulet against her body with his back. He thought about what he’d kept from Elim, about the makeshift hospitals in the north and how Herold stared at the wounded until Bharv dragged him away. As he shivered in the night air, Bharv wondered how long Herold had known they were chasing a healing amulet. Once pink finally threaded through the sky, Bharv let the amulet drop, rolled onto his back next to Elim, and watched the sunrise.

  “Real shit job,” he said.

  * * *

  Bharv circled the bar in the nearest village downriver three times while he tried to spot any warning signs. Place looked the same as when he and Herold got drunk inside on their way to Starkhaven days before. Of course Herold had been casing the spot as a potential meeting place. Bharv should’ve known. There was a pattern to Herold’s plans and a meeting place he trusted was always part of it. Bharv was certain he’d figured this plan out—even the twist his friend kept to himself. Herold or Elim would’ve done a smoother job tying this off, but he owed it to both of them to see it through before he fled the Free Marches as fast as his stumpy legs could take him. Good riddance to the whole pile of shit and their damn tournament. Get over the hill and gone already. Home, like he’d so often promised.

  There were already a few customers inside the Bloody Mirth when Bharv trudged through the doors. Either the drinkers were mighty early or impressively late. Bharv couldn’t argue with that. He planned to live in bars from here to Rivain, two cups an order all the way home. At the main bar, a tall knight with a salty beard and a Ferelden accent told a story to four other customers. He was good at it, too, filling in details that proved he�
��d been places rather than just hearing about them. Bharv nearly stopped to listen.

  “Something?” the bartender called.

  “Big. Make it two.” He paid his coins and grabbed both dirty glasses. The tables past the bar were empty except for one elf whom Bharv assumed was the “squire” Herold mentioned in drunken stories and accidently spilled the beans about to Panzstott. Her eyes flicked to the front door, then the storyteller, as Bharv approached. He sat and slopped his drinks on the table. For a moment, he glanced at the opposite corner, near the largest window, where he and Herold had sung only two nights before.

  “This is not a good time.” The young elf wrinkled her nose at his stink. “I’m expecting someone.”

  Bharv enjoyed finally sitting down too much to answer right away.

  The elf glared at him. “I am trying to be polite. I am not interested in you or your drink.”

  “Good, because neither’s on offer. These are both mine. You know, Herold said you were kind.” He raised his first glass and drank an astonishing amount in one mouthful.

  Her surprise showed. “Bharv?”

  “Vaea. Nice to meet you.”

  “Herold…”

  Bharv looked down with a solemn nod.

  Vaea closed her eyes. She let him take another few swallows before she spoke again. “He talked about you a lot. Said you were the same kind of stupid he was.”

  Bharv nodded. “It’s the kind that’s the most fun. He talked about you, too, a bit.”

  She sighed. “He wasn’t supposed to talk about me at all. Telling that man secrets was like writing them on your horse and slapping it on the arse.”

  Bharv chuckled. So that’s whom Herold had stolen the expression from.

  “Did he tell you our arrangement?”

  Bharv wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I figured enough of it out, I reckon. Enough to know that when I slide this amulet across the table, no money’s coming back in the other direction.”

  Vaea nodded. “He contacted me and said a job of his had turned into a charity run. Asked me to bring the amulet back north with me, to Tevinter. The chaos there has left many in desperate need, a lot of families torn up. He said you’d understand.”

  “I should’ve known those makeshift hospitals got to him. Softhearted little shit.”

  She smiled. “He talked the same way about you.”

  Bharv handed her the amulet he’d wrapped in sackcloth. “Hold it yourself the entire way. Keep it close.”

  The elf poked the sack with one finger. “Does it work?”

  “Only on the living.” Bharv drank until there was only a half-thumb of swill left in his second cup. He raised it high, his arm trembling and his bottom lip gone between his teeth.

  Vaea raised the empty glass. “To the Lords of Fortune. To Herold. Our friend.”

  Bharv’s smile and tears broke at the same time. “To Herold. He never met a giant snake he wouldn’t wrestle. Long may he adventure.”

  AN OLD CROW’S OLD TRICKS

  ARONE LE BRAY

  She watched the sun setting over the Nocen Sea, flashing bright orange off the lightly cresting waves. This was Chencel’s favorite part of the day. It was always peaceful just downhill from the camp. Activity up there was still winding down for the night. Smiling, she lifted her spear off the ground and continued her patrol.

  Chencel allowed herself a brief moment of pride. Not just any Tevinter soldier was given the task of setting up a defensive site like this. The Imperium couldn’t chance letting those ox-men from Seheron make landfall here. So if the Imperium trusted her centuri to keep this area safe, and her centurion trusted her to keep their perimeter safe, then she would ensure that trust was earned.

  Without taking more than a few steps, she spotted the second reason this was her favorite time of day. A small figure was approaching. Her bulky pack forced the old crone into a hunch, driving her into the ground with every step on the grassy hillside.

  “Good evening, Old Nan!” Chencel called. She removed her helmet, her hair falling into her face. She roughly planted her spear into the ground next to her, annoyed at the coarse brown follicles tickling her nose but glad to be free of her slightly too large helmet, even if only for a few moments. As much as she might want to walk over to see what was for sale today, she knew better than to leave her post. Qunari were tricky.

  Even from this distance, Chencel could hear the crone’s wheezing breath. She almost felt sorry for the poor thing. Each day, she showed up with a pack that was just as large as the day before. And her clothes were little more than ragged brown-gray robes tied with strips of brightly colored cloth, as though those were the only clothes she had. But her eyes reminded Chencel of her own grandmother’s, kind and wrinkled in the corners. They were the eyes of someone who has lived a long life, laughing for most of it. She appeared just after the first tents went up, and she had been coming back every day at this time for the last few weeks. Due to these nightly encounters, Chencel was making a small fortune reselling the old woman’s wares.

  “What have you got for me today?” She reached out her hand to offer balance. Chencel’s gloved hand almost enveloped the older woman’s. She was always surprised by how calloused a merchant’s hands could get, but it made sense given how much strength it must take to lug her pack around the way she did.

  Old Nan’s face cracked into her familiar smile. “First,” Old Nan breathed heavily, “tell me how we did today.” With her free hand she slung the pack from her shoulder and placed it on the ground, then tapped it enticingly with her tiny fingers.

  Chencel chuckled. “Fine, fine.” She reached into the sack at her waist, pulling out some coins. “I was able to get a few silvers for your cookies from some of the younger soldiers. Too sweet for me. And once I showed off my own stylish pouch,” she gestured to where it hung on her belt, “I managed to get a few orders for more, if you have them. The quality is decent, and a good soldier always has an eye out for quality.”

  “Ah, those are similar to some Dalish packs I remember seeing when I was younger. I tried to make them from memory, but these are still just pale imitations.”

  The soldier rolled her eyes and spit in the dirt, dumping her handful of coins into the merchant’s hand before releasing it. “Those knife-ears? If they knew anything decent, they wouldn’t be scrabbling about in the woods, wasting their time pining after long-dead ‘gods’ and drawing swirls all over their faces. The only good rabbits are either dead or cleaning up after a magister’s grand ball.”

  Old Nan’s smile faltered a moment. “Oh, no. Then you might not be too interested in what I have today, my dear. I was able to trade for some fabrics from a passing aravel and made some lovely scarves.” She moved to meet Chencel’s gaze, her brows upturned in a worried expression. “I even made sure to save something specifically for you.”

  “Have you, now?” A sly grin broke out on Chencel’s face. She knew that the crafty seller was just trying to goad her into showing enthusiasm to get a better price. However, given the quality of her other goods, this might be too good to pass up. “Well, maybe I can forgive you for trading with those … things, then. What have you got for me?”

  “It’s nothing much, really, but…” She flipped the cover off her large pack and reached deep inside. She was in it all the way up to her shoulder, and Chencel heard her rummaging around in the various fabrics and the faint metallic twangs of whatever it was she kept in there. “I hope you’ll like this.” She smiled, her grasping hands finding what she was looking for, and pulled out a long shimmering length of fabric. “It’s halla wool, woven into a long scarf. Soft to the touch, very smooth. Any gaps in the weave are so small they’re guaranteed not to catch on anything.” She let it play lightly on her fingers to show that it wasn’t catching on her calloused knuckles at all. “Not only that, but it feels cool in the summer and warm in the winter.”

  “Halla? Those beasts with the horns?”

  “My dear, the fabric is so light!
I thought this would be perfect for you. I hate when I see you take off your helmet each day and your beautiful hair hides your face. I can also see the spots where your skin chafes against the interior. There, just at your temples, and also there, behind your ears. Please?” Her hands trembled slightly as she held it out toward Chencel, gesturing to the points where the helmet did cause minor irritations.

  With a sigh, Chencel removed her glove so that she could take the item from Old Nan. It was as soft as she said it would be, and it felt so light that it almost weighed nothing at all. She folded it up and pinched it between her index finger and her thumb, feeling how much give the fabric could offer as a buffer between her skin and the cold metal helmet. She made a show of bending in to sniff the material, giving Old Nan a sideways glance as she did so. There wasn’t even a hint of a smell other than the faint aroma of baked goods that seemed to go with everything the matronly woman sold. Still, Chencel wrinkled her nose and forcefully threw the scarf away from her.

  “Pfah!” she exclaimed, feigning disgust. “Did you get this halla wool from a Dalish camp? They never get all the stink out. And you want me to wear this on my head? How dare you?”

  Old Nan reacted quickly, deftly plucking the scarf out of the air before it had the chance to reach the ground. Chencel was a little surprised to see the small woman move so quickly. It was almost like she uncoiled like a spring for a moment to reach it.

  “Please, if you would permit me, would you let me show you how well it works? Please, dearie?” The fact that she threw in a pet name was not lost on Chencel. It was clear to her that she really wanted to make this sale.

  Chencel had to stop herself from laughing. Even in the center of the Imperium, a garment like this could fetch a high price. And even if she didn’t want to keep it, she could easily resell it to someone in the camp for a modest profit, enough to keep her in good spirit, and delicious spirits, for a long while.