Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

by Patrick Weekes

  Ser Michel was there with the assembled nobles. Though he hadn’t fought this evening, he looked tired, and as he looked past her at the burning slums, his face gave away some of the sorrow he had tried so hard to deny back in the coach.

  Celene rode to the front of her forces and took off her helmet. She was barefaced beneath it—a necessary concession given the armor—and her pale face met the crowd without flinching.

  “All hail Empress Celene!” Ser Michel shouted into the silent square.

  In the gray dawn light, a thousand voices called her name, and a thousand people dropped to their knees.

  She sat and allowed it. This was the other reason she had ridden with the forces, wearing armor that she had never needed. They would call her cruel, to be certain. They might ask whether she had taken leave of her senses. But she had a thousand living witnesses who knew with undeniable certainty how Empress Celene dealt with rebellion.

  The moment wanted a speech, but the words she had prepared didn’t fit, now that the stink of smoke from burning homes was caught in her hair. She turned to Comte Pierre of Halamshiral, ruler of the city, whom she had allowed to command the forces that razed part of his home.

  “Comte Pierre,” she said in a voice that carried to the farthest reaches of the square, “my soldiers have traveled long without rest, and while this act of order was necessary, there was no joy in destroying even so humble a part of this fair city.”

  There could be only one acceptable response, and Pierre knew it. “We thank you, Your Majesty, for making our home safe again, and we must again express our sorrow that such base villainy could grow in proud Halamshiral.”

  “There will be work today,” Celene said, “and soldiers will not make it go faster. We will take our leave and retire to my Winter Palace, outside your fair city.”

  It was a short march to the palace her family had traditionally retired to during the cold winter months, and even after a long night, it would be worth it. Her men would receive better treatment than Halamshiral could offer … and Halamshiral could begin burying its dead.

  Pierre bowed from the saddle. “Your men are heroes all, Your Majesty, and we shall see that they dine as such. With your leave, I shall go now to see to it that provisions are sent to your palace.”

  Celene nodded, and Comte Pierre rode slowly away, the crowd parting before him. Ser Michel mounted and pulled his horse up beside her, and together, they began the ride out of the city.

  “Your duties, Ser Michel?” she asked, not looking over.

  “Successful, Empress. A commoner who was with her resisted and was killed. She was taken without a struggle, as you requested.”

  “Thank you.” The sky had lightened. The banners of the city were shifting slowly from gray to red. “How fares the prisoner?”

  “She … did not react well to the fire, Empress.”

  “I see.” Celene nodded, showing nothing even without her half-mask and makeup. There would be people watching from windows, waiting for a sign of weakness.

  The sun had risen by the time Celene’s forces passed through the city gates. Massive and thick, the gates were mounted on ancient stone that was said to come from when the elves had ruled this city. The walls of the city were so strong, according to history, that after the gates had been breached in the last great push of the Exalted March, the conquerors had left the fortifications otherwise untouched. It gave the city an unexpected exotic air, the guard towers rising with an ancient grace that was not altogether natural.

  “And it is done,” Celene said as the sound of her mare’s hooves changed from the clop-clop of cobblestones to the dull thump of dirt road. “Gaspard’s cursed gambit fails.” And all it had cost her was a few thousand elven lives, and Briala.

  Ahead of them, the first merchant caravans of the day already approached the city.

  “It makes little sense,” Ser Michel said beside her. “I have been so intent upon finding Briala that I have thought little of Gaspard … but he had to know how easily you could counter his false rumors about your sympathy for the knife-ears.”

  “Did he?” Celene shrugged, her fine armor squeaking slightly as she did. “He sees that I have never led an army in battle and thinks I lack the steel to do what must be done.” Or he had more whispers and innuendo waiting for her back in Val Royeaux, and she would have to cross blades with him again to quiet whatever little scandal he had prepared this time.

  “No…” Michel frowned. “With respect, Empress, for all his buffoonery, Grand Duke Gaspard is a chevalier. He has trained in military strategy. He should have expected this.”

  “You are right.” Celene yanked on the reins, pulling her horse up short. “He did.”

  In the merchant caravan up ahead, caravan guards threw off brown cloaks to reveal the shining armor of chevaliers. In the grass, hundreds of bowmen rose from where they had lain.

  As Celene turned to cry a warning to her forces, the dawn-gray sky filled with black arrows.

  7

  Back in the trees, well out of sight, Gaspard grinned as his archers opened fire.

  Beside him, Duke Remache stood calmly by his horse, resplendent in full plate armor of gleaming silverite that had been enameled with his house’s colors. “I’m surprised that the code of the chevaliers allows you to use such tactics.”

  “We’re trained to fight with honor, Remache, not idiocy.” The rain of arrows withered Celene’s messy line. Soldiers exhausted from a long march and an ugly slaughter raised their shields a few heartbeats too late, and moments later, the cries of the dying sounded across the field. “The code is meant to guide us to a path of glory, not restrict our tactics. You understand the difference?”

  “Not entirely, Grand Duke.” Remache pulled himself into the saddle, ignoring a servant with his stool. “But then, I did not train with the chevaliers.”

  Gaspard mounted as well. His armor gleamed like Remache’s, but his enamel had been stripped bare, and the silverite shone pure. “I will not assassinate Celene,” he said, settling into the saddle. “I will not poison her or have some peasant with a crossbow fire at her from afar.”

  “But you will mount an armed rebellion against her.”

  The second wave of arrows clouded the sky. Celene’s poor soldiers were still trying to pull themselves into a defensible formation.

  Gaspard paused and looked over. “That’s putting a bit of a point on it, considering that you stand at my side, Remache.”

  “Again, Grand Duke,” Remache said, “I am merely curious about the code.”

  “You don’t like the chevaliers much, do you?” Gaspard asked. When Remache made no reply, Gaspard sighed. “When given direct challenge by a chevalier, I will answer without hesitation. I will not retreat without order from my commanding officer, and I will not kill a lord or lady outside the heat of battle unless it is a legal execution in the name of the empire. And I will not wear my family’s heraldry while I fight Celene.”

  “I had wondered.” Remache gestured at Gaspard’s bare armor.

  “To rise against the empress while wearing my family colors would shame House Chalons,” Gaspard said. “If I fail here, I will not let the empire think my house responsible for my actions. Only as Grand Duke, a member of the imperial blood, have I the right to challenge. Whatever other title I wear, I will win it on the field this day.”

  “If you fail here, I doubt Celene will take the state of your armor into account when deciding what to do to your relatives,” Remache said with a smile.

  Gaspard chuckled. “True. Fortunately, I had not planned to fail.”

  He looked through the trees, where the rest of his mounted forces were waiting—some chevaliers, some merely nobles like Remache, and some lightly armored men-at-arms, not nobles proper. “Speaking of which … are they advancing?”

  “Yes, my lord!” came a cry from a scout high up in the trees.

  “Excellent. Coming out to protect their empress.” Gaspard held out a hand and took the l
ance that was offered.

  “They should have fallen back into the city.” Remache shook his head and lowered his visor.

  “Celene was riding near the front.” Gaspard grinned. “No chevalier would let his empress fall while he retreated to safety. Which leaves them out there for the taking.” He stood in the stirrups. “Sound the charge!”

  The call went down the line. Gaspard lowered his visor, set himself in the saddle, and spurred his horse.

  It was the noise that always surprised him. His focus, the entirety of the world, shrank to the enemy line ahead and the grassy field between them, with only the dimmest awareness of hundreds of his men spurring their mounts beside him. But the noise, the pounding hooves and clattering armor, thundered through the ground and up into his bones, even as his own panting breath echoed inside his helmet. He heard that crash of battle as he settled into his horse’s rhythm, felt the stride, saw the distance to the enemy line, gauged the timing, and then launched himself perfectly into the moment of impact.

  The shock of the blow blasted past his enemy’s clumsily placed shield and punched through his breastplate. A killing strike, Gaspard noted with satisfaction. If the man wasn’t crushed in the press of battle, he’d languish in a tent until blood frothed on his lips and a good surgeon put him down.

  The thought was by in a heartbeat, and then Gaspard was crashing through the enemy line, his lance gone and his blade out, lashing out with hard, short strikes that made the most of his mount’s speed and minimized the risk of having his blade torn from his hand. He took a blow on the shield and rode past it, caught another glancing strike off the pauldron, and then he was through.

  He pulled his mount up short and forced the beast into a turn once he was clear. Celene’s forces hadn’t been sure whether to retreat in full or try for a spear wall, and as a result, they’d made a weak effort at both. The men nearest Gaspard had punched through Celene’s lines, and the men on the sides had pulled up short rather than driving through, per his orders.

  The middle was a mess, and the empress was flanked on both sides.

  Gaspard looked over to see Remache cut down a footman with crisp efficiency. The man had good form. He might have made a chevalier, but for his romantic misunderstanding of tactics.

  Laughing aloud, Gaspard spurred his mount and rode back into the crash of slaughter.

  * * *

  The massive warrior swung his great maul, and the blow smashed past Celene’s desperate defense and slammed into her armor with crushing force.

  Celene saw the world spin as she fell from her horse, and then a second terrific impact drove away what little breath was left in her lungs. The world was all sharp colors, painful and glittering as the men around her fought and died. The morning sky was sickly with smoke.

  Ser Michel had been cut off from her, and over the din of battle he had gestured for her to retreat to the trees. She had almost made it, a few of her men around her while the main force tried desperately to recover, when Gaspard’s warriors had found them.

  After that, everything was a chaotic blur of clanging metal and shrieks of pain.

  Gaspard’s warrior stood over her, a huge man in huge armor. If he spoke, it was lost under the roar of battle. He did not salute with the great maul, did not extend a hand in the accepted tradition to demand her surrender. He turned and crushed the skull of one of her men—the only one who had still been standing—and then turned to her, hefting the maul without hesitation.

  It was at that moment that Celene realized she might actually die.

  She tried to scramble away from the warrior, but her breath wouldn’t come and her side was a mass of crushing pressure. She had no idea where her ceremonial blade had fallen. She grasped blindly at the dirt as Gaspard’s man raised his weapon for a final blow.

  Then, from the clattering roar of battle, Ser Michel rode into view. His charger smashed into Gaspard’s man, and the huge warrior slammed to the turf. Michel was on the ground a moment later, his pristine silverite longsword drawn and his shield up and ready.

  Gaspard’s man rolled to his feet, graceful as a dancer even in his massive armor, and even as he came up, his maul was swinging up at Michel, but Michel stepped in close, checking the haft of the maul with his shield, and staggered Gaspard’s man with a helmet to the face.

  Celene rolled to her stomach with an effort. The pressure on her chest made every shallow breath a battle, and as she looked down, blinking darkness from the edge of her vision, she saw why. As strong as her armor was, the great maul had caved in the breastplate, bending it out of shape and stifling her like an iron corset.

  While Michel fought for her life, Celene fumbled for the dagger tucked into a hidden channel at the base of her gauntlet. She worked it free, gasping, and sliced at the buckles that held her breastplate in place.

  She heard the screech of shearing metal and the clang of a maul striking home, but she forced herself not to turn and look as she kept slicing. Whether Ser Michel had already dispatched the villain or was bleeding on the ground, the armor still needed to come off, and so she focused desperately on the task at hand, sawing at drake-leather. Her breath grew tighter, her head pounded, and wisps of light danced before her eyes, and then the buckle parted and the breastplate fell open at an unnatural angle. She drew in a shuddering sweet breath and worked frantically at the other buckles. In a moment, the great mass of now-useless metal fell to the turf beside her.

  Celene would have given the Dales for a minute to sit and catch her breath.

  But she was Empress of Orlais, for the moment, anyway. The title had not stopped Gaspard from attacking. It had not held the warrior back from caving in her armor with his great maul. But it served well enough to get her to her feet. As she rose, the ring on her right hand worked its magic, and the dagger flared with tongues of fire.

  Michel and Gaspard’s man had reached an impasse, Michel’s shield locked against the warrior’s hammer, each man heaving and moving with steps as quick and purposeful as the other’s. The shorter man, Michel had better balance, but Gaspard’s great warrior was simply so huge that Michel was losing ground anyway.

  She walked as lightly as she could in her heavy greaves to where they stood, and without pause she slid her flaming dagger up under the warrior’s armpit from behind.

  Gaspard’s man shrieked and jerked back. It was all the opening Michel needed. With a rough shove, he drove the warrior back, and Celene dove out of the way, dagger raised to help again if she was needed.

  Michel followed with a great overhand blow that the warrior weakly blocked, then locked the maul with his shield and chopped down, cutting deep into the warrior’s leg. The warrior fell to one knee, the maul dropping to the grassy turf, and with a final strike, Michel sheared through the man’s armored gorget and crushed his throat.

  “Majesty.” Michel panted as Gaspard’s man collapsed, still twitching. “It is not safe here.”

  “Thank you, my champion.” Celene coughed, still trying to catch her breath. “I had wondered.” She looked at the great warrior, who twitched one last time and then went still.

  Celene had killed before. Any woman trained by Lady Mantillon in the bardic arts could not only slit a would-be assassin’s throat in the bedroom, she could then return to the party and make witty conversation with perfect makeup and clean hands two minutes later. Even during those tests, Lady Mantillon had praised her for her cold nerves.

  Still, it had been some time.

  “My apologies,” Michel said. “I failed you.”

  “Hush, Michel. While I still draw breath, you have not failed me.” Celene looked back to the rest of the battlefield. Her men were being slaughtered, and there was no longer any line, just clusters of her troops around Gaspard’s men, who were steadily butchering them. Riderless horses ran screaming through the field, and arrows still rained down on the remaining pockets of Celene’s forces. Men wearing the imperial tabard ran for the forest, their shields flung down behind them.
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br />   She had marched at a grueling pace and promised them an ugly but easy slaughter, and then a week of rest at her Winter Palace.

  “The city, do you think?” she asked.

  Michel nodded. “I see little alternative.” He whistled for his horse, mounted gracefully, and pulled her up into the saddle behind him.

  She opened her mouth to insist that she could still ride, and then saw her snowy white mare lying unmoving a few yards away. Its neck was twisted, and arrows were sunk into its flank, and for a moment, all Celene could remember was the last time she had gone riding. On the hunt in the woods, riding her mare, with Gaspard telling her that whatever happened was on her head.

  If she had known, she would have knifed him then and finished it.

  They rode hard. Michel swung his longsword in a steady arc, scything through foot soldiers and driving back mounted enemies. For a moment, it seemed they were lost in the chaos of battle, no different from any other rider, but then, over the pounding of hooves, she heard the cries of recognition, and more arrows rained down around them. One glanced off her greaves, and Celene felt sweat drip down her now unarmored back. A moment later, Michel jerked his shield up, and an arrow shattered against it a handbreadth from Celene’s face.

  “Thank you, my champion.” The words came out stuttering as she bounced on the horse’s back behind him.

  “I am a fool, Majesty. I should have had you ride in front.” He chopped down through a spear as well as the spearman holding it.

  Then they were clear of the press of battle, riding hard for the city walls safe ahead. Behind them, she heard the crash of metal, and a quick glance showed a group of Gaspard’s horsemen giving chase.

  Looking ahead over Michel’s shoulder, Celene saw the gates still open. Soldiers were pouring out, Comte Pierre’s men from Halamshiral. Her heart swelled, and she looked to her own forces. With their numbers, perhaps she could still face down Gaspard.

  Even as she looked at the bloodied remains of her own forces, though, it struck her that she had burned a quarter of Pierre’s city to quell a rebellion he hadn’t been able to put down, the rebellion that lured her into Gaspard’s trap.