Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

by Patrick Weekes

  Seated at a table, sipping a cup of watered wine, Duke Remache smiled. “Completely understandable, Pierre. I would hardly wish it to be Lydes, nor would the grand duke enjoy a battle at Verchiel.” Unlike Gaspard, Remache had removed his armor. Gaspard supposed he should be grateful that the man had at least put on riding leathers instead of court silks.

  Gaspard made a gesture, and the surgeon bowed and left without a word. When they were alone, Gaspard sighed. “You should be proud, Pierre. Outnumbered, forced into the fight, and you still made it harder than I expected.”

  “She escaped.” Pierre took in a long, ragged breath and stifled a cough, flinching as he did.

  “So she did,” Gaspard said, and knelt down by the injured man. “Her elf, the one that killed Mainserai? She has no idea where Celene might be.”

  “Mainserai.” Pierre’s pale face twisted. “Damn the man. He brought this to my city. The rebellion, the bloodshed … the fire.” He smiled bitterly. “I should thank the elf for putting that bastard down.”

  Gaspard shook his head. “No, my friend. I’m afraid you have no one but yourself to blame.”

  Pierre’s eyes widened, and he fought his way to a seated position. “You insult me,” he said, gasping the words through the pain. “I will have satisfaction.”

  Gaspard ducked his head. “My apology, Pierre. I intended no offense, and my words were ill-chosen.” With an effort, Pierre lay back down. “But the elves rebelled because you didn’t crush them. You felt sorry for them, didn’t you?”

  “Mainserai deserved it,” Pierre said again.

  Gaspard sighed. “You thought they were right to be angry at Mainserai, so instead of raising an army and stomping out the rebels, you wrung your hands and sent a few extra patrols and hoped that everything would eventually quiet down. You taught the elves to fight, just like a bad horseman teaches his charger to buck and bite.” He shook his head. “You taught them to attack the guards, when you allowed it to go unpunished. You taught them to dream of a life outside the slums where they belonged. And if Celene hadn’t slapped shackles on her lover and burned those slums, you would have taught every damned knife-ear in Orlais to stand up against us.”

  “Do you know how much damage was done to my city?” Pierre asked, his voice rough. “How much coin I will lose? How many families will starve because Celene would not let the elven anger run its course?”

  Gaspard smiled. “Even so. Now, my lord … do you know where Celene would have run to?”

  Pierre clenched his jaw. “No, Gaspard. I do not. And you know that I would not tell you if I did.”

  Behind them, Remache rose to his feet. “I know a few men who might loosen his tongue.”

  Gaspard froze, then slowly looked back over his shoulder. “Comte Pierre of Halamshiral is a lord of Orlais, Remache. More than that, he is my prisoner. My code prohibits his torture.”

  Remache nodded. “Yes, of course. Perhaps you might wish to examine the defenses, my lord? If you take a few hours to ensure that the preparations are to your liking, I might have more news—”

  “Remache. Have done.” Gaspard stood and turned to face the lord, his armor clanking with the movements. “I understand that you don’t think much of the chevaliers’ code, but I will not violate the spirit of it to obey the letter. I will not torture him. I will not leave so that you may do so. If you lay a hand upon my prisoner, I will defend him with my life. Or, as is more likely, with yours.”

  Remache swallowed. “Of course, my lord. I apologize.”

  “Accepted. Now, gather the men at the command tent. I want plans for the fastest and safest way to burn Halamshiral to the ground.”

  “I … yes, my lord.” Remache bowed and left without another word.

  “Gaspard,” Pierre said from behind him.

  “Celene could be inside, Pierre.” Gaspard didn’t turn around. “My men say she rode for the woods, but they could have been mistaken. Or you could have shown her a hidden entrance. Maker knows Val Royeaux is full of hidden tunnels. Why should Halamshiral be any different?”

  “She isn’t inside, Gaspard.”

  “I have nowhere else to look, my friend.” Gaspard looked back at the man on the bedroll. Pierre’s color had gone waxy and gray. “Rest now. I will send for the surgeon.”

  “I beg you,” Pierre said softly. “Do not burn my city.”

  “You let Celene burn part of it already,” Gaspard said. “Why shouldn’t I finish what she started?”

  Pierre closed his eyes and fell back, anguish twisted across his features. Finally, he said, “Jader.”

  “You’re certain of Lady Seryl’s loyalty to Celene?” Gaspard asked.

  “Absolutely. We have discussed it at length.” Pierre didn’t open his eyes. “I told Celene to get to Jader if Halamshiral fell. If she did not reach the city, she rode east for Jader. Messengers would have been sent there as soon as you began your attack.”

  Gaspard nodded thoughtfully. He hadn’t been sure of Lady Seryl—the woman played the Game well enough to have kept him guessing—but Pierre’s anguish spoke of a true confession.

  He gave a sharp whistle. A moment later, a young woman came into the tent. She wore a fine robe of gray satin and a ring on each finger. Slung across her back was a slender staff.

  “Heal him,” Gaspard said. “The gut wound first.”

  “Obviously, my lord,” the woman said with a small smile, and Gaspard smiled despite himself.

  She knelt beside Pierre, and the lord opened his eyes in confusion as she touched him. A cool white light shone from her hands, spreading softly to Lord Pierre’s wound.

  “The Circle has backed you?” Pierre asked.

  “The Circle hasn’t really voiced an opinion just yet,” Gaspard said with a grin. “This is Montsimmard’s daughter.”

  “Lienne de Montsimmard, my lord,” she said with a small bow, not lifting her hands from the wound.

  “Montsimmard saw the war between the templars and the mages coming years ago,” Gaspard said. He watched the healing magic with some interest. “And when his little girl started hexing the servants and curing her horse’s bad leg, he decided that he didn’t want her in the middle of it.”

  “An apostate.” Pierre looked down at the hands on his torso as though they were poisoned. Then he looked back up at Gaspard, eyes narrowed. “So I’m to be killed after all, then? You can’t leave me alive after I’ve seen something that could have you executed by the templars.”

  “Pierre, my friend, I allowed you to meet dear Lienne for the same reason that I healed you.” Moving carefully around Lienne, Gaspard knelt back down. “You’re mine now.”

  Pierre clenched his jaw. “I gave you Jader to save my city, Gaspard.”

  “Yes, you did. And just like when you let those elves go after your guards, you taught me something in that moment.” Gaspard bared his teeth. “You taught me where to hit you so you flinch. Now, if I had called for the surgeon instead of this lovely young lady, you’d have been dead inside of three days … and whoever took charge of Halamshiral after you? If I threatened him with the death of his city, he might sneer and tell me to burn the filthy peasants alive.” As Pierre went pale, Gaspard leaned in. “But you love your city. You’ll do anything to keep it safe. And you know that I know that about you.” Then he sat back and patted Pierre on the leg with a little laugh. “So I think it’s best for you, and me, and even those filthy peasants, if Lienne takes care of you.”

  “My lord,” Pierre said sadly, and shut his eyes and nodded.

  “Yes, I am,” Gaspard said, and stood up.

  He left the prison tent and walked to the great pavilion where his men were speaking with Remache. “Jader,” he said as he walked in.

  Remache shot him a surprised look. “Pierre gave up Celene’s location?”

  “All in how you ask, Remache.” Gaspard nodded to his men, who were already marking off spots on the road to Jader. “Seryl is Celene’s. Assuming we didn’t get every damned bird
that left the city…”

  “We did not, my lord,” said Ser Beaulieu.

  Gaspard smiled. “Ah, well. One can always hope. Seryl will be ready, and given that her city is built to hold off half the dog-lords of Ferelden if need be, that’s going to be an ugly fight.”

  “Blockade, my lord?” asked Ser Laguerre.

  Gaspard nodded. “Across the Imperial Highway and through the trees … here.” He pointed at a likely chokepoint. “I want to be able to walk from the Waking Sea to the Frostbacks on their shoulders.”

  Ser Beaulieu grinned. “Might be hard to catch the empress with you on our shoulders, my lord.”

  “Maybe Remache, then,” Gaspard said, gesturing at the lord. “He’s lighter. Same goes for the west, as well. If she was smart enough to lie to our man Pierre, she could be running for Val Royeaux already.”

  Remache smiled thinly. “We block Celene from Lady Seryl to the east, and we hold Halamshiral, as well as Lydes. She is trapped.”

  Gaspard grimaced. “She didn’t rule this empire for twenty years just by throwing balls and banquets,” he said, remembering what his cousin had said on that hunting ride a few weeks back.

  “She’s trapped once she stands before me in chains.”

  8

  Briala kicked on the panel separating her compartment from the front seat of the prison coach.

  It took a while, but eventually the guard slid the panel back. “What the hell do you … Maker’s breath!”

  The arrow was lodged in Briala’s armor. “Came through the bars … late in the battle. Tell Gaspard I’ll talk. Just need … water…” she said, coughing through the words. As the guard gaped at her, she coughed again and fell back.

  She’d had nothing to use for blood, but her dark armor would have made it difficult to see anyway, and she was hoping that the guard was too tired after the day’s battle to notice.

  Moments later, she heard the jangle of keys on the prison coach’s door, and the guard rushed inside.

  She looked up, swung the shackles, and caught him across the face. As he stumbled back, she sat up and drove the arrow up under his chin into his throat.

  He stopped shaking a moment later, and Briala stepped outside.

  The horses were gone, and she’d killed the only guard. The wagon was inside the perimeter of Gaspard’s forces, and his command pavilion was over to the left. The fastest path out of Gaspard’s army was to the right. She turned and climbed up to the driver’s seat, and was relieved to find her dagger, bow, and arrows in a storage locker.

  Nobody was yet looking at her.

  The important thing about growing up elven was learning how not to attract attention. It had mattered less in Celene’s house than in the alienages, but her mother had still made sure that Briala was only noticed when she wanted to be.

  Humans were hunters, but they were also farmers. When the deer ran, the humans had to chase it. When the scared rabbit froze, the humans had to loose an arrow. That was their way—proving their mastery, their skill.

  But few humans tracked the movements of their cattle. The idle, complacent sheep walking from one tuft of grass to the next wasn’t a target the humans felt compared to master.

  It was time for Briala to be a nice, lazy sheep and walk out of Gaspard’s army in broad daylight.

  The dead guard’s thin wool cloak lay on the seat where he’d taken it off once the day’s heat and his chainmail shirt had left him sweating. She pulled it around herself, hiding the fine drakeskin armor, and brought the hood up to hide her ears.

  She tucked her bow up under her arm and looked around the coach until she saw a bucket. It was old and stained, likely used for something she didn’t want to think about, but at the moment, it was worth more to her than gold.

  An elf in fine armor with an ironbark bow would be spotted in moments.

  But as she hefted the bucket, hopped down from the coach, and headed toward the perimeter at a slow, lazy shuffle, she was just another servant taking too long to fetch water for her master, her thin cloak pulled up for warmth against the autumn chill.

  She passed a row of tents where most of Gaspard’s soldiers were resting, roasting food over cookfires. They’d taken off their armor, and their undershirts were stained with rust and sometimes blood. Other servants hurried to and fro, with bandages and food and everything else an army needed to stay alive and moving. A few were elven, and they shot her surprised looks, but none of them stopped her.

  She was tempted by the line of horses, with only a token guard and a few serving boys and farriers to get past, but she kept walking. Servants with buckets didn’t ride horses.

  Still no alarm sounded, and Briala walked, slowly, casually, pausing to shift the bucket to her other hand when the perimeter guards ahead met a scout. She tried to ignore the sweat trailing down her neck.

  The scout finished talking to the perimeter guard and headed for the command tent. Briala started moving again.

  She moved a moment too soon.

  The guard didn’t notice, looking out for threats in the other direction, but the scout, trained to see everything, glanced her way. Just a glance, but it was the end of her walk with the bucket.

  The guard wore chainmail and had both a crossbow and a short blade for close work. Briala saw a waterskin at his waist, new enough to be shiny, and also saw that his blade was belted too high for an easy draw. A novice, then.

  The scout was more dangerous. He carried a longbow, which meant that he was trained, and a pair of woodsman’s hatchets. By his bow-legged gait, he was tired from riding all morning, but he was still alert enough to have noticed something about her. It could have been a glint from her armor, or the shape of her bow beneath the cloak, or even just something in her walk that drew his attention.

  Briala kept walking. So did the scout, heading toward the command tent off to Briala’s right and behind her.

  As soon as he was out of her line of sight, she heard his pace change. He was good enough that it wasn’t obvious, but fatigue made a scout’s instincts kick in, and his footsteps were suddenly quieter. He was circling, coming back toward her.

  Without lifting her head, Briala angled slightly to the right. It wasn’t enough for her to see him, but even as he started to close, she put herself cleanly between him and the perimeter guard.

  She needed five steps.

  “Hey, you, girl,” came the call from behind her. Casual, as though he was about to ask for a sip of water.

  Four. Three. She tightened her grip on the bucket.

  “Hey!” the scout barked, and now there was no hiding it. Any servant would have stopped and turned around. The perimeter guard shuffled.

  Two. One.

  “Guards!” the scout yelled, and she heard the creak of leather and wood as he lifted his longbow.

  The perimeter guard turned and saw her just a few feet away. His eyes widened as he took in the armor, and he jerked the crossbow up.

  Briala threw the bucket at him and rolled as he fired.

  The bolt split through the cheap wood, sending splinters flying into the guard’s face, and she heard it hiss past her ear, close enough to rip the hood of the cloak.

  The scout had been behind her. He had enough training to see the crossbow come up, and Briala heard him dive to the ground even as she did. The bolt hit nothing but the bucket.

  But the scout was also tired from riding, and it took him one critical moment for his tired legs to coil beneath him and kick him back to his feet.

  By then, Briala was already back on her feet, her bow drawn and leveled, and by the time he saw her, her arrow was in his heart.

  She turned to see the perimeter guard fumbling for his sword. She stepped in, drew her dagger, and had it across his throat before his blade cleared its scabbard.

  Briala started walking again. She got five steps before the shouts sounded behind her, and then she broke into a run.

  It was fifty yards to the trees. Heart pounding, Briala ran without lookin
g back. A bolt thudded into the turf in front of her. Another hit her back—a glancing shot, deflected by her drakeskin, but still enough to make her stumble. She’d have a bruise tomorrow.

  She reached the trees and kept running. Low-hanging branches, fiery with red and gold in the autumn, slapped her face and tore at her cloak. A crushing pain drove the breath from her lungs as another bolt caught her on the shoulder, and she staggered, tripped on a spidery root, and slammed into the ground with an impact that sprayed brown leaves.

  Briala heard hoof beats.

  She’d been trusting that the trees would keep her safe, that the guards wouldn’t come into the forest after a single running elf. Judging by the shouts, she had been wrong.

  She scrambled to her feet, peering back through the branches, to see at least a score of men charging toward her, plus several more on horseback. The horses wouldn’t help them as much in the trees, at least if she kept to the thickest parts of the forest, but trying to lose so many …

  She raised her bow. There was no way she could outrun them, and if the fight was coming, it was best to let it come on her terms.

  As she drew back her bow, the ground beneath her heaved.

  She thought for a moment she’d been shot again, and she dropped to her knees as the whole world around her lurched, the ground bucking and heaving like water in a birdbath after a rock was tossed in.

  Trees swayed and danced, and leaves hissed and rustled as they shook free. The riot of red and gold filled the air before Briala, and she could see nothing of the men out on the open field. She could hear the screams and shouts of horses and men, though. She held still and let the ground twist and shake beneath her, gritting her teeth to stop them from rattling.

  When the leaves cleared, Briala saw the field again. Most of the men were on their knees. Some of the horses were riderless, and one had fallen and wasn’t moving. The men had their swords drawn and turned wildly from side to side, looking for an enemy to face as the earth itself turned against them.