Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

by Patrick Weekes

  The old Crow hadn’t moved since he’d lit the lamp, but her eyes followed his every move.

  “Please, come have a drink with me. I assure you, the vintage is quite good.” He sipped from his own glass. “If you haven’t noticed, while I have only a few possessions here with me, I make up for the quantity with quality. For example, when you enter my tent you would likely first look to your left at that war table.” He gestured to the large object next to the woman. “When I obtained my first command, I had that commissioned. It was once a single piece of wood, but I had it hollowed. It doubles as not only my war table for planning strikes and defenses, but also as a chest for all of my belongings. I like to make good use of space, you see. No doubt you also noted the carvings upon it? That is a record of my career. From when I first picked up a spear as a green recruit, saving my squad from a darkspawn raid that felled our commander, all the way through our last raid I led that routed a whole aravel of knife-ears who took up residence in Tevinter lands. Actually,” he gave a brief snort, “I think I may need to commission a new chest and retire this one. Getting a little difficult to find free space.”

  She continued to stand her ground, unflinching and unresponsive.

  “If you aren’t impressed by that, what about the armor stand near my cot?” He gestured to the back of the tent. “Naturally, I had to have it specially designed. In fact, you can see that the gauntlets are barely used! I tend to enjoy just leaving my hands bare in combat so that I can really feel every blow. In fact, one of your previous compatriots and I bonded over that before I crushed his throat. Good man.”

  Still nothing.

  “Or maybe, just maybe, you noticed the support, didn’t you?” He nodded toward the post in the center of the tent. The post itself was a stout wooden beast, wrapped in layers of fur, linen, and leather. The wrapping was worn and beaten, patched and repaired in various places. “In case you were wondering, yes, that is exactly what it looks like. I require that every camp be started by placing that post. It is solid wood, one yard in diameter, and it is buried four feet into the ground. Then it is wrapped, and the camp is built around me while I strike the padding.” He snorted. “Once, it wasn’t solid enough and it hadn’t been planted firmly enough by some young recruit. After an hour, I knocked it free and my tent fell. Oh, we laughed. Or rather, I laughed. And then I found the responsible party. He put on his toughest leathers and I used him in place of the pole until it had been replaced.” He sighed. “Poor fellow. Died of a collapsed lung, I believe.” He curled his right hand into a fist and then relaxed it, remembering the feel of bone breaking as he pounded on the chest of the recruit, beating him into the ground and leaving him coughing blood. Nothing else felt quite like it. He almost wished that it would happen again. If nothing else, it was a nice lesson to leave imprinted on his people. The post never so much as wobbled in the ground after that.

  “I have to admit, you definitely aren’t like the others. Usually when they send a Crow, it’s someone much more … impressive. You know the type—bird-masked, jester motley, ornate, flashy, semi-useless weapons? I heard that your lot like putting on shows. But you, you’re different, aren’t you?” He sipped his drink and gestured that she should take the other glass. “You are aware that you aren’t the first one to come after me, yes? I am a magister. There is no small number of people who would like to see me dead. So who was it this time? A cousin, a rival house, a slighted lover?”

  She pointed to the chest, at the depiction of Magister Bicklius standing in front of a burning aravel.

  “Those Dalish? And you’re the best they could afford?” His grin grew and he almost started to snort with laughter when he noticed that something was different.

  The image used to show Bicklius triumphant, proudly standing in front of the aravel as it burned, smiling as he strode through the wreckage … Now, some of the wood on the chest was freshly scored, newly carved. The fresh shavings sat below the image. The fire was still vibrant, but Bucklius was now depicted as part of the conflagration, his triumphant visage twisted into a grimace of pain, his face turned to the skies in a silent scream.

  All mirth abruptly left him. “What did you do?” His voice was soft, low, and chill.

  “Do you remember, magister?” This slight woman’s face crinkled at the edges of her eyes, taking on a grandmotherly appearance. “Do you recall, dear, the warmth of the fire as you burned the leader of the aravel? Her howls of pain as you burned her alive in her own home? Or do you only remember taking this?” She shifted her robes slightly, coming to her full height and extending her hand. Bicklius hadn’t seen her stow her dagger or where this object came from, but he did recognize the halla statue. “This ironbark halla is the symbol of Ghilan’nain. The Oranavra didn’t even remember how they came to own it, but they believed that she would protect them. As long as they kept this halla safe, she would watch over them, guide them to new fertile lands to grow food, new areas to hunt, and beautiful lands to raise their children. They trusted her, and you stole her. You stole everything from them.” She paused, holding his gaze.

  “My name is Lessef, and I have fulfilled this contract.”

  Bicklius roared with anger and leapt across the tent, massive hands balled into bulky fists. He came for her quickly and put all his weight into a left-handed gut punch.

  Lessef moved with inhuman speed, dropping to the ground, and causing his full force to solidly strike the chest behind her. He felt the knuckles in his left hand explode in a starburst of pain. He had broken enough bones to know that he had at least fractured two, possibly three.

  He shrugged it off and turned to face her. She had leapt toward his bed at the back of the tent, next to his armor.

  He turned on his heel and pressed the attack a second time. He refused to be caught off guard again. His arms began to glow with arcane energy as he directed his magic and body to work in concert. Some mages liked the feel and look of an arcane blade, but Bicklius preferred the closeness of a grapple. He liked the feel of calling a thin arcane weapon into being around his bare skin, the magic licking around his arms and fists as he used the magic weapon to clutch a limb and crush it in his grasp. He loved the feel of a last gasp of air in his face.

  He flew toward Lessef, right arm cocked, and delivered a punishing blow at her head. She dodged again, impossibly fast, and Bicklius watched in horror as his arcane weapon shimmered and fell away, leaving his fist exposed as she tipped the armor stand forward and his naked skin met the metal of his helmet. Too late to react, he could only watch as his right hand nearly shattered, bone breaking through skin, as his beautifully constructed helmet dented and destroyed his fingers.

  He screamed and clutched the bloody remnants to his chest.

  Lessef moved alongside him, putting herself at his back as she whispered into his ear, “It was the lamp oil, dear.”

  He cast his eyes up, still grimacing. It felt like most of his strength was leaving him, all at once, and he wanted nothing more than to just curl up on the ground, wearier than if he had marched in full plate mail for days.

  The opening in his tent that usually let smoke escape had been sealed shut with bright strips of cloth, just like the rags on the crone. Smoke curled lazily out of his lamp, and then cascaded down like a waterfall of vapor.

  “Many people in Antiva enjoy the heady feeling of the herb, but I must confess that the first time you use it has the greatest effect. After a while you grow accustomed to the mellow lethargy that suffuses the body, but that first joyous slumber is so peaceful. How do you feel, dear? Shall I tuck you in?”

  Bicklius looked around and spotted his long sword, still laying in its scabbard next to the tipped armor stand. With a wordless roar of rage he grabbed the weapon in his left hand and whirled around, swinging with every last ounce of energy he could, eyes clenched shut in exertion.

  He felt it bite and hold, deep in his target, and he felt a moment of relief.

  Then he felt a rough, wrinkled palm caress hi
s cheek, and he opened his eyes.

  “Lessef of the Antivan Crows has fulfilled the contract.”

  His arm was wrapped in tattered cloth, tied fast to the hilt of his sword. Her eyes had some pity in them, but her smile was still there, mocking him. Even as depleted as he felt, his wild swing had managed to cleave through half of the support pole, each layer giving way until it splintered the wood, and finally stuck.

  He felt his knees go weak and he collapsed, still attached to the weapon, and he heard the creaking as the pole began to crack. The fabric of the tent above him sagged, drooping, and he watched as the old woman padded out the door, leaving without so much as a glance in his direction.

  “Wait,” he mumbled, his lips moving like thick worms and his tongue clumsy in his mouth. “You can’t leave me like this. You can’t just—”

  The pole gave way completely, and the canvas fell. The sword was now free, but he didn’t have the energy to fight against the weight of his tent. He heard some glass shatter, and then felt wetness around him.

  The oil from his lamp was everywhere.

  “No,” he breathed out, trying to muster the energy to move himself, racking his mind for a spell that would help, “No, I can’t—NO!”

  He managed to pull himself up to his knees before the oil caught full flame, billowing around him. He tried to scream but the air was thick with choking smoke, and his mouth would only open and close, gasping for air that wouldn’t, that couldn’t, come.

  His body would be found, still kneeling, his mouth agape in a silent scream.

  * * *

  Tainsley raised his weary gaze to the west and spotted the signal he was looking for. The black night sky was illuminated by flames coming from the Tevinter camp. It was time to go to work.

  With a heavy wheeze and a sigh, the elderly human rose from the bottom of his small vessel. Reaching his full seven-foot height, he stretched his arms and legs, kneading the muscles with his aged hands to start the blood flowing again. Once the tingling sensations subsided, he reached out to the oars and began rowing toward the beach. He had been having a lovely daydream about relaxing at home in front of the hearth, a cup of brandy warming him from the inside out, but there wasn’t time for that now. Mistress Lessef was going to be coming down that hill any moment.

  His boat lurched to a stop as he beached it, and his old bones protested. He straightened, took a deep breath, and felt his chest expand with air, his ribs cracking as it wheezed out again. He knew he might look like a monstrous apparition, seven feet tall and wrapped in wiry, taut muscles, but he still felt every bit of his seventy-six years weighing him down.

  “That woman is going to be the death of me,” he moaned. He put both hands against the small of his back and arched, the sound of creaking echoing out over the water. He was already perspiring, which was causing his long white hair to fall into his eyes. He hated how every time they left to go and do one of these jobs, the mistress would always force him to wear his hair long.

  “It’s more barbaric,” he imitated a high, squeaking voice. “And you look so handsome.” He shuddered, remembering how she would leer after him and sometimes run her hands through his hair. It always irked him, and he suspected that she liked doing it primarily because of the sour expression it forced to his face.

  As cold as he was, he knew it was about to get worse.

  He looked down into the belly of the boat and saw a bit of metal reflecting the firelight from the encampment, even from this distance. “Stupid, shiny, heavy, dumb, obstinate, plate mail,” he hissed. It was so incredibly heavy, and it limited his movement. He felt like a slow-moving crab inside it, just waiting for someone to come along and crack it open to get at the tender meat inside. The legs were tight against his thighs and calves and made it so that he couldn’t run, then the chest piece would dig into his hips if he bent the wrong way, and the arms … The arms were horrible. He would much rather just wear plain cloth or, at worst, boiled leather, but the mistress insisted that this was required.

  “She just wants me to be uncomfortable,” he muttered, and reached down for the final piece of this disgusting ensemble. The horned helmet. “Who puts horns on a helmet like this, anyway? They’ll just get caught, and they make you look like an idiot. Stupid helmet. Stupid armor. Stupid—” His train of thought was cut off by a shrill shriek coming from the camp.

  “Sten! Sten, shok basra vashedan taam! Teth a! Noms daar vat!”

  Tainsley turned to see Lessef barreling down the hill at breakneck speed, closely followed by a couple Tevinter soldiers. Soldiers who, he noted, were sensibly wearing leather or chain mail.

  Despite the fact that he didn’t like it, the armor combined with his height allowed him to cut a very imposing figure. To the Tevinter pursuers, they were no longer chasing an old woman wearing rags, recklessly rushing down a hill with the firelight guiding them. Instead, they now found themselves barreling toward a berserking Qunari warrior, flames reflecting menacingly off the shining armor.

  “If they were smart, they would stop.” Tainsley bit off his words through gritted teeth.

  But they continued.

  “Sten, noms daar vat!” Lessef continued running at full speed to Tainsley without showing any sign of stopping.

  “Oh, please. Not again,” he plaintively whispered. Inside of his helmet, unseen by the soldiers on the beach, Tainsley felt his lips curl down into a pained expression as he held the battle-ax and braced himself.

  Lessef beamed, the wind blowing her hair back, her ragged robe streaming behind her, looking like some feral child. Tainsley noted that she had removed her shoes at some point, leaving her bony, bare feet exposed. It would take him hours to clean them later. But he could only think on this briefly because he knew that look in her eyes. Without slowing, she lifted her right foot and placed it on Tainsley’s upper left thigh, using it as a launching point to thrust herself high into the air above his head. The soldiers slowed and then stopped in their tracks as they watched the old woman tumble straight up, roll into a ball of limbs and ragged robes, tassels and ribbons flailing. She kicked out at the peak of her flight, turning to face the soldiers and then gracefully landing, standing lightly upon Tainsley’s shoulder plates.

  Tainsley could almost feel her smugness radiating.

  He lifted the hefty ax from the ground and held it to the side in one hand, then tilted his head, as though listening for further orders from Lessef.

  The tiny woman bellowed as loud as she could, “Nehraa Antaam!”

  “Nehraa Antaam!” Tainsley responded in kind, and moved into a battle stance.

  He needn’t have bothered. The soldiers had already started to retreat. They never even tried to look behind them for fear that the monstrous Qunari beast was still chasing them.

  Lessef giggled, and Tainsley felt her weight shift slightly above him as she knelt down. She gingerly removed the helmet and kissed him on the forehead. “My dear Tainsley, is everything ready?”

  Stifling any indignation, Tainsley replied, “Yes, Mistress Lessef. The staging at the beach combined with the spectacle you caused here should leave little doubt that the deaths in the camp are the result of an Antaam raiding party. It is unlikely that the Crows will see any kind of retribution. If I might ask, what was it you were yelling?”

  “Oh, that,” Lessef said, still giggling, “I’m pretty sure I said something about how the sweet bread was burning. I was thinking about cookies.”

  Tainsley breathed a sigh of relief as Lessef tossed the hideous helmet to the side and then sat down on his shoulders. “Onward, to cookies!” She kicked her heels against Tainsley’s chest plate as though he were some kind of mount, and then she rested her head atop his. “Ooh, and your hair is so soft today.” He felt her nestle in a bit, using his hair as a pillow of sorts, tied with a soft kerchief. Yawning as she got comfortable, she murmured, “Tainsley, do you think you could…?” Her words trailed off, and he heard the unmistakable sound of her snore.

  �
��Yes, Mistress Lessef,” Tainsley acknowledged, and made his way back to the boat. He began to hum as she rested. It was a song he had been taught back when his family would visit his cousins, and they would be sent out to gather water from the stream. Thanks to his mistress, his uncle’s clan would at least have their halla statue back.

  EIGHT LITTLE TALONS

  COURTNEY WOODS

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  FIRST TALON….……… CATERINA DELLAMORTE

  SECOND TALON..….….….….… DANTE BALAZAR

  THIRD TALON..….…….….….….… LERA VALISTI

  FOURTH TALON.……….….….…… EMIL KORTEZ

  FIFTH TALON.………….….….… VIAGO DE RIVA

  SIXTH TALON..………….….……. BOLIVAR NERO

  SEVENTH TALON..….… ANDARATEIA CANTORI

  EIGHTH TALON..……….….….…. GIULI ARAINAI

  * * *

  Viago De Riva was brought to by the frantic rocking of his carriage against Seleny’s country roads. Blinking against the light, he surveyed his surroundings with a frown. Outside, rolling hills and olive groves passed by blissfully unaware of his discomfort. Viago hated carriages—no amount of plush seating could make up for the inevitable ache of being knocked around like weighted dice. But decorum insisted, and he would not be outclassed by his fellow Talons.

  Rarely did the leaders of the Antivan Crows meet in one location. As the most illustrious assassin guild in Thedas, it created too tempting a target for their many enemies. Eight birds with one stone, Viago had warned—but the Qunari left them no choice. The invasion of the Tevinter Imperium had the southern nations on edge. Without an army, Antiva’s only line of defense was the Crows. Should the Qunari decide to attack, the assassins must present a united front.