Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

by Patrick Weekes

  “No weapons,” he said after a moment, moving toward one of the bodies curiously.

  “Be careful,” Briala said. She was crouched, squinting as she looked at the ground and gently traced the stones with her fingers, and Michel realized after a moment that she was searching for traps.

  Sitting calmly on the edge of a sarcophagus, Felassan answered Michel. “Servants, not guards. Trapped in here when the eluvians went dormant. Note that there are no natural exits from the room.”

  “That’s…” Briala checked herself and looked back at the floor. “… tragic,” she said after a moment, and worked a knife into the seam between two stones. “I believe I’ve found the central point for this chamber’s traps.”

  “I wonder how they ended up here,” Felassan said. “Maybe the eluvians didn’t all go dormant at once? Maybe they were fleeing, hoping to get to a chamber with a way outside, only to end up … here.”

  Something in the strange elf’s voice was wrong. Michel looked over sharply. Felassan’s eyes were unfocused as he looked out across the great room, and his fingers tapped an odd rhythm on the sarcophagus. Michel remembered the feeling when the Dalish elves had fallen into their trance, when they had freed him and ignored him as he left.

  “Felassan…”

  “Can you imagine it?” Briala asked, her fingers still working at the knife that was stuck into the seam between the stones. “Trapped in here, knowing that you were condemned to die for … for what?” Her voice sounded strained as well. “The pride and honor of the nobles who sealed you in here?”

  “I am certain the nobles fared just as poorly on the surface,” Celene said gently.

  “Majesty, wait.” Michel felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

  Briala didn’t seem to hear either of them. Her voice was raw now. “They played their games, while the servants bled and died for them. Hiding down here, waiting to be found, surrounded by corpses that were dressed better than they were!”

  “Their last moments,” Felassan said softly, “would have been filled with hunger and rage.”

  Twitching and popping, the bones on the ground began to move.

  “Majesty, the corpses.” Michel stepped forward and slapped Felassan sharply across the face. As the elf blinked and shook his head, Michel turned and slapped Briala as well.

  “I see them, my champion.” Celene drew her daggers. “Suggestions?”

  While most of the Academie’s training centered on fighting other armored men, the chevaliers could hardly have claimed such excellence had they not been prepared to fight less common enemies. Michel had studied templar techniques to fight mages and Grey Warden tactics to fight darkspawn.

  And, in grim tests at the sites of old battles, shivering in his armor, Michel had learned to fight the dead.

  There were dozens of them. The poor elven servants who had died had all congregated in this chamber, it seemed. They dragged themselves to their feet, ancient bones creaking and popping, tattered rags tearing. The eye sockets of the skulls were lit with cold light.

  “They’re unarmed, at least,” Celene said, turning slowly in a circle. They were surrounded.

  “No.” Briala’s voice was shaky, but she was herself again. “Look at their hands, their teeth.” The bones had stretched and warped, hands curving into savage claws and mouths gleaming with jagged fangs.

  “Felassan!” Michel called, readying his sword and bringing up his shield. “Can you call forth your magic?”

  Felassan hopped up onto one of the sarcophagi and raised his staff, not as a magical implement but as a simple weapon. “Certainly,” he said. “Of course, doing so will weaken the Veil even further and let more of these things into the room.”

  “Then stay out of the way.” The corpses, finally on their feet, shambled forward, claws ready. Though they had no throats left, an eerie predatory hiss rattled from their fanged mouths. Michel took stock of his enemies and allies and moved. “Briala, with him on high ground. Rain fire on the back ranks. Majesty, my flank.”

  Without waiting to see if they listened, Michel raised his shield and moved in.

  A warrior could gain honor by killing bandits, defeating another warrior in a formal duel, or even hunting down some great beast. All of those enemies were alive, and a fight against them meant matching will and strength against something else that possessed a desire to live.

  A fight against corpses and darkspawn, though, was butchery. There was no honor, no glory, only the grim pride in knowing that the world had one less monster in it.

  Michel smashed back a corpse with his shield, brought down his sword and crushed the skull of another, and slammed his shoulder into a third that was trying to close. He stepped, raised his shield to knock away dagger-sharp claws, and shattered another corpse’s shoulder with a second overhand strike.

  They never learned, even as he struck down a third, then a fourth. It was simple, in the same way that running in full armor from sunrise to sundown was simple. If he had the discipline and strength to keep them from overwhelming him, he would grind them all to dust. If he faltered, due to fatigue or fear, he would die.

  Block, step, smash, step. His breath was tight in his chest. All around him, the corpses hissed and snarled. Claws curled around the edge of his shield. As his blade grew heavy, it was tempting to let the dead pull on the shield, use their pull to guide his next step.

  Michel had watched a fellow trainee give in to that temptation, trying a flashy move to cover his fatigue. The corpses had torn his throat out moments later.

  He wrenched his shield free from their grasp, smashed the bodies back and crushed another skull with the same Maker-cursed overhand blow. Block, step, smash, step.

  At the edge of his vision, he saw Celene slashing the horde with her daggers. Iron or steel would have done little to bone, but Celene’s silverite blades sheared through the corpses’ claws, trailing flames that scorched the dull yellow to black. She had taken down few of them, but she kept them from flanking Michel, which was enough.

  In the back ranks, skulls shattered like clay target vases as Briala fired shot after shot from her bow. Like Michel’s simple work, it was more a practice exercise than an art form.

  Block, step, smash, step. Michel slipped on a flopping arm bone, recovered, and swung his blade in a great sweep that knocked the closest corpses back before they could swarm him. Sloppy, too sloppy. His old masters would have had his hide for that. Tired and lazy, loose steps leading to missteps. The longsword, a noble blade of shining silverite, felt like a great stone hammer, and a voice at the back of his mind began to whisper, as it always had during the longest drills.

  Just put more into each swing, and rest for a second when the blade digs in.

  Drop the shield and switch to a two-handed grip. It will be so much easier with both arms.

  Or even better than that, just run. Run before you make the mistake that gets you killed. Before you slip up and show them that you’re just a fake, just a boy from the slums.

  “I am,” he growled through gritted teeth, “Ser Michel de Chevin.”

  Block, step, smash, step.

  “I am Ser Michel de Chevin.” Another skull shattered. A trio of corpses raked claws along his armor, and he crushed their hands to dust with a swipe of his shield, slammed them back, and set himself in the proper stance, though his legs burned and his back screamed.

  “I am Ser Michel de Chevin!” An arrow buzzed past his face and punched through a corpse’s skull, and he blocked, stepped, and smashed another, then stepped to his next target only to find the great burial chamber before him strewn with scattered limbs and smashed bones.

  He took in a great gasping breath and, despite himself, let out a laugh as he leaned against a sarcophagus. He had no idea how many corpses had risen and fallen, but the dark voice at the back of his mind was wrong. His old masters would have been proud.

  Then, from behind them came a voice.

  “You are indeed Ser Michel de C
hevin,” said Grand Duke Gaspard, “and I have been looking forward to avenging the death of my bard.”

  * * *

  Celene’s world went from hot to cold in an instant as she turned to look at the grand duke.

  Gaspard had come in through the same eluvian they had used. It was still active behind them, and Celene had no idea whether it was because of her ruby, or if Gaspard had somehow made his own bargain with the demon.

  He stood at the edge of the room, flanked by Lord Remache and a young woman robed in gray satin, holding a staff that glowed soft white. Behind them, soldiers were still stepping through the eluvian.

  They were outnumbered, and badly. Michel, though he held himself proud and tall, had to be exhausted.

  Still, it had to be now. If the rest of Gaspard’s men got through the door, they would have no chance.

  She opened her mouth to order the attack, and a tiny motion at the edge of her vision caught her eye. It was Briala, shaking her head ever so slightly.

  “Grand Duke Gaspard,” Celene said smoothly, “you continue to impress me. Though you could have arrived a few moments earlier and offered assistance.”

  “With the dead?” Gaspard grinned. “I’d have been honor-bound to assist you had you asked. Good thing for me I arrived late.”

  Celene stepped back, a simple, prudent move that put a stone sarcophagus between her and Gaspard and also put Briala more clearly in her line of vision. Briala had an arrow nocked in her bow, raised but not drawn. As Celene glanced over, Briala tapped her bow with her little finger. Anyone not trained in the bardic arts would have simply thought it the nervous gesture of a sloppy fighter.

  From one bard to another, Briala’s gesture meant, “Encourage them to approach.”

  Celene had no idea what Briala intended, but the gesture carried with it the implicit suggestion of a plan, which was more than Celene had at the moment. “Will you not be reasonable, Gaspard? How many lives have you thrown away in this play for power? How many more will die because you refused to play the Game?”

  “Your game,” Gaspard said, “not mine. As for how many more…” He shrugged, grinning. “Enough. But fewer of mine.”

  He was too assured. She needed him off balance. “And if I accepted your marriage proposal?”

  Gaspard’s smile faded. “I offered in good faith, Celene. This, now, is another of your little games. I will not match you in a battle of words. I never could.” As more soldiers crowded in behind him, he stepped forward.

  Celene glanced at Briala, who signaled “not yet.”

  “If you think so little of your skill with words,” she said, “then you may not find the throne of Orlais quite as comfortable as you think. You have all of you overreached. Brutish warriors who think you can keep the empire safe by swinging your swords hard enough.” She glanced over at the man beside Gaspard. “Duke Remache, who fancies himself the next grand duke despite never becoming a chevalier. And … young Lady Lienne de Montsimmard,” she said, making a guess from the girl’s familiar features, “who believes Gaspard will protect an apostate even after he has the Circle to serve him. The future high nobility of the empire…” Celene smiled coldly. “Cowering at the door while their empress and her champion fight the dead.”

  “Yes, Celene, it’s called tactics,” Gaspard said with a sigh. Celene noted that Remache took the barb angrily, while Lienne shrugged without concern. “It’s this novel concept the chevaliers taught me while you were pandering to the Chantry and trading innuendos with the courtiers. And did that work, by the way? Have you kept the templars and the mages from dragging our glorious empire into war?”

  “You made that rather a moot point when you dragged our glorious empire into war.” Celene shook her head, and with the motion saw Briala gesture ever so slightly with one foot. She was pointing at her dagger, still lodged in the floor plate that controlled the chamber’s ancient traps. And with that, Celene understood. “And when we lose more land to Ferelden or Nevarra,” she added, “you will doubtless claim that it was not your fault, raging at your defeat in battles you should never have had to fight.”

  Gaspard glared. “But I believe I’ll win this one, Celene,” he said, and stepped forward again as more soldiers came through the mirror into the room. “Archers, ready. If your former empress wishes to swear her loyalty to me, she lives.” One last figure stepped through the mirror. To Celene’s surprise, it was the young elven healer from the Dalish camp. “The mirror?”

  “It closed behind us,” the elf said, and gave Celene a chilly look. “But if you get the gem she carries, I can activate any eluvian we need.”

  “I’ll have it for you in a minute. Celene?” He smiled, and when she said nothing, Gaspard said, without breaking eye contact, “Men, if she and her people are foolish enough to fight, kill them where they stand.” Then he glanced over at Briala. “At least you’d be buried with your people.”

  “Do you remember what you told me as I sat in the prisoner’s wagon, Gaspard?” Briala asked, stepping down slowly from the sarcophagus.

  Gaspard raised an eyebrow. “That you were easier on the eyes than I was?”

  As Briala landed, she kicked her dagger free.

  “No. You told me I was dangerous.”

  As she dove behind a sarcophagus, arrows hissing past her, Briala fired a single shot of her own.

  It was a lazy, wobbling shot from a half-drawn bow that would never punch through armor or lodge in bone.

  It was, however, enough to trigger the small pressure plate on the floor near Gaspard.

  A roar of flame shattered the air in an explosion of light and sound. The impact slammed Celene to the ground, her ears ringing, and flame arced over the spot where she had stood. As she dazedly tried to breathe, she realized that the explosion had not knocked her down. Michel had, shielding her with his own body. He rolled free, coming back to his feet smoothly, but Celene saw that his armor smoked.

  The ground where Gaspard and his men had stood was scorched black, and most of the soldiers were charred husks on the floor, new corpses joining the old. Gaspard himself, his armor scorched and smoking like Michel’s, was back on his feet, face grim. Remache was on his knees a few yards away, coughing, and Lienne was still and unmoving on the ground, while the elven healer, sheathed in a glow of crackling magical energy, looked down at her curiously.

  Behind them, the eluvian they had all come through was lined with a spider web of cracks, and its surface was dull gray and lifeless.

  “For the empress!” Michel shouted, and lunged at Gaspard. Gaspard brought up his shield. The two chevaliers met in a ringing clash of steel, and Michel pressed forward, sending Gaspard stumbling back, frantically blocking Michel’s furious assault.

  It seemed that the time for talking had passed, and for her own part, Celene was ready to kill someone.

  One of Gaspard’s men struggled to his feet, and without hesitation, Celene darted forward, kicked him behind the knee, and slit his throat. Another warrior, badly burned but still conscious, got his sword out, but then an arrow sprouted from his throat, and he collapsed wordlessly.

  “As Ser Michel said, for the empress.” Back on her feet, Briala nocked another arrow, and Celene spared her a small smile.

  Then she turned to Remache, who was getting back to his feet. “Ah, Duke Remache.” Celene lunged in, sidestepped his clumsy slash, and lashed out with a slice that opened his cheekbone. “You should truly have reconsidered your career as a playwright.”

  “Michel.” The cold hatred made Celene look, and she saw that it was the elven healer, raising her staff as she spoke.

  Around her, energy played, light twisting, and with a sickening twist in her gut, Celene saw tendrils of light coil around the nearby bodies of the dead. Energy hissed from the corpses, and the elven healer glowed as though lit from within.

  “Briala, the elf!” Celene dove back from Remache and lunged for the healer, but Remache sidestepped to place himself between them. Snarling under the b
lood that poured from his cheek, he swung at Celene wildly, and his reach, if not his skill, forced her to give ground.

  Gaspard shoved Michel back, shield to shield, and lashed out with a high slash. Michel turned it away with stunning speed and stepped in with a low kick that caught Gaspard in the leg and sent him stumbling. Michel followed with a high overhand strike, and Gaspard caught it with his shield, only to cry out as Michel’s shield slammed into his own and staggered him.

  “Michel,” the elven healer said, her voice echoing through the chamber, and this time even Michel heard it. “You should have killed me.”

  She raised her hands as though cupping the air between them, and then she hardened her hands into claws.

  The air around Michel hummed, and then a smoky field of energy shimmered around Celene’s champion. It coalesced around him, and Michel shouted, slashing at it uselessly. Then he grunted, struggling against the strength of the magic, and Celene heard the slow keening whine of his armor buckling.

  Remache seemed stupefied, staring in sick fascination at the glowing magic that was crushing Michel. Celene darted past him. “Briala!” she shouted, and lunged at the elven healer, who still shimmered with glowing energy pulled from the corpses around the room.

  A handbreadth from the elven mage’s throat, Celene’s daggers glanced harmlessly off a shimming barrier of arcane energy. A moment later, Briala’s arrow shattered on the same barrier.

  The elf didn’t even spare them a glance. She had eyes only for Michel, who had fallen to one knee, straining against the crushing strength of her magic.

  “You killed my people!” she called, as Michel groaned. “You killed everyone I loved!”

  “Oh, good, we’re showing off esoteric magical talents,” Felassan called, pulling himself upright with smoke still trailing from his cloak. “Can I go next?” His own staff thrummed with power as he spun it in a fast circle, and a wave of rippling force exploded through the room.