Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

by Patrick Weekes

  It washed over Celene, and the room plunged into darkness.

  For one terrifying heartbeat, she thought she’d been stricken blind, but then she saw that the eluvians still shimmered around the room, save the one that was cracked. She also saw a pale glow around Michel where he knelt—the spectral light wavering and falling into wispy nothingness like a chalk drawing in the rain.

  Celene realized then what Felassan had done. He had cast away all nearby magic.

  The elven healer screamed, and Celene looked over to see her contorted in pain as tendrils of energy crackled around her. All of her magic, the protective barrier and whatever power she had wrung from the corpses nearby, hissed along her skin. Her staff fell to the ground, its red light dimming.

  Felassan’s staff flickered, and then cast out its light once more, bathing the whole room in the same gentle glow as before. The elven healer was on the ground, shaking, and everyone else was still for a moment. Remache had his hand pressed to his bleeding face. Briala stared at Felassan in awe, and even Gaspard seemed unsure of what to do next, taking a few steps back and looking from person to person with his guard raised. Michel, still on his knees, was pale and sweating, and his armor was marred with dents where the spectral force had nearly crushed the life out of him.

  To Celene’s surprise, Felassan himself looked more worried than exultant.

  “An enhanced dispelling, which can provide a nasty backlash on anyone surrounding herself with too much ambient magic,” he said to the silence. “And if I could please ask all the mages present to avoid any more big flashy magic in the room with the very thin Veil, lest something decide to come through?”

  With the low rumble of ancient stone, the lids of the three largest sarcophagi in the room slid open.

  15

  Ser Michel had never been in this much pain. Not during his childhood in the slums, not during the harsh training at the Academie.

  Whatever Felassan had done to break the elven girl’s spell had helped him as well. Some remaining energy sent soothing warmth through his limbs, easing the biting pain of ribs he was sure had cracked under the strain. Still, his momentary advantage over Gaspard was gone. The grand duke would find Michel little challenge, he knew, even as he struggled to his feet and set himself to stop his knees from shaking.

  But Gaspard didn’t attack. He was not even looking at Michel. Instead, he stared at the far end of the room, sword and shield raised in the Spear-fisher guard. It was a defensive position, used to recover from fatigue, and most chevaliers derided it as the guard to choose when you knew yourself to be outclassed. Blinking, Michel followed Gaspard’s stare and saw why.

  Three of the great sarcophagi in the chamber had opened, and from them rose corpses. But unlike the simple clawed horrors Michel had slain by the score a few minutes past, these were clearly beyond anything he had trained for.

  Two of the creatures were simple skeletons, but even as they stood, the air around them shimmered with magic, and then spiked armor, bulky and hideously impractical to move in, formed around them. Each held a greatsword as long as Michel was tall, and under the spiked helms, cold light flared from empty sockets. Michel had heard legends of these creatures: revenants, deadly warriors that would kill every living creature they could find.

  The third figure, Michel had no name for. It rose into the air, and energy swirled around it like a great golden wind, solidifying into glittering red and gold robes. Its bony claws crackled with energy, and it held no other weapon. Around its head, the magic formed a golden skullcap, and beneath it, gray skin formed a mockery of a face, with eyes that burned like coals staring out balefully.

  “An era’harel,” Felassan hissed, and Michel was surprised to hear very mortal anger and fear in the elf’s voice. “It’s, ah, a demon-mage, essentially. Only worse than that sounds.”

  Michel looked back at the others. Briala and Celene were up, as was Remache. Felassan looked exhausted from whatever magic he had used. Gaspard’s mages were even worse. The elven healer was still on the ground, shaking, while the young noble was unconscious.

  Of Gaspard’s soldiers, there were no survivors. They had either died in the blast or, worse, been left on that Maker-damned path between mirrors for all eternity when the eluvian had cracked.

  “Gaspard!” Celene said sharply. “I would say we have common cause.”

  The grand duke looked back at her, then at the horrors rising from their tombs. “Agreed.” He looked over at Michel, and his lips twitched with a tiny smile. “Come, then, brother. Let us show these things how wrong they were to face Orlesian chevaliers on the field of battle.”

  Gaspard had to know that Michel was barely on his feet. It could have been encouragement or insult, but either way, it was enough of a goad to set Michel’s back straight. He raised his blade into the Spear-fisher guard, tightened his grip on his shield, and gave Gaspard a solemn nod. “Agreed.”

  Then he lumbered forward, grimacing through the pain as each step made his dented armor dig into his shoulders and side. Gaspard matched his gait—not a full charge, for only a fool would charge such unknown and powerful creatures, but a jog that would put the force of their armored bodies behind their first blows.

  “You must slay the demon-mage!” Felassan called from behind them. “Da’len, clear a path!”

  Fast as lightning, an arrow punched into the armor of the revenant on the right, even as a boulder smashed into the one on the left. Breath whistling in his lungs, Michel ran past the revenants at the mage-corpse, the one Felassan had called era’harel.

  He had almost reached the thing when it raised its hands. Energy rained down from above and drove Michel to his knees. The room spun, and only years of training kept his sword from falling from nerveless fingers.

  It would have been so easy to let it end. He had slain a roomful of the dead. No one could accuse him of doing less than his duty. Even the chevaliers had their limits, and the reanimated corpse of an ancient elven mage was certainly a worthy foe. Somewhere in the distance, fire roared and lightning crackled as Felassan brought his power to bear.

  Then the ground lurched again beneath Michel, and with a sickening twist, he found himself standing not before the mage-corpse, but before one of the revenants. Though half a dozen arrows sprouted from its breastplate and greaves, it held its greatsword without concern.

  Michel barely had time to raise his shield before the first blow slammed down, faster than any mortal man could have swung such a weapon, and the force nearly tore Michel’s shield from his arm. Even as he stumbled, the blade came back up with blinding speed, smashing through Michel’s guard and spinning him back.

  Michel slammed hard into a sarcophagus, and the physical shock of the blow was enough to knock the fog from his mind. He came to his senses just in time to see the great blade coming down at him. Staggered and leaning against the stone behind him, Michel had no defense.

  Gaspard’s shield caught the blow.

  The grand duke himself was driven to his knees by the force of the blow—he had leaped, Michel realized belatedly, to stop what would surely have been a deathblow from landing. Even the revenant seemed caught off-guard, stumbling back momentarily.

  Gaspard could die right here, Michel realized, and if he did, he would die having defended another chevalier who was too frightened and tired to fight for himself.

  Ser Michel de Chevin, champion of Empress Celene of Orlais, would not allow that to be his legacy.

  With a roar, Michel leaped up and chopped down on the revenant’s arm, shearing through magical armor and ancient bone just below the elbow. Instead of falling free, the arm hung in place, and Michel saw tendrils of magic snaking out from the severed limb. Snarling, Michel drove the lip of his shield into the wound, and as the revenant hissed in rage, Michel leaned in and smashed the pommel of his sword into the thing’s face.

  It grunted, flailing and trying to free its arm from Michel’s shield, to bring its fearsome sword to bear, and then it raised
its other arm, gauntleted fingers curled into claws.

  Gaspard chopped the revenant’s other hand off at the wrist with a savage laugh. The grand duke met Michel’s eyes and gave him a tiny nod. Then both men broke free from the revenant, turned in unison, and struck at the ancient warrior from both sides.

  Michel’s blow chopped into its torso. Gaspard’s blow tore into its shoulder. The unnatural creature fell back, wisps of magic leaking from it like a bloody spray, and an arrow buzzed past Michel’s ear, hissed under the revenant’s helmet, and exploded out the back of the thing’s skull.

  An ancient skeleton, cracked and broken all over, fell to the ground bare and naked.

  Michel drew himself up, knowing that the battle-fury that was currently keeping him on his feet could desert him at any moment. The other revenant stood over the fallen form of Duke Remache, but it was falling as well, frosted with ice that made even its spectral armor hiss and squeal as it cracked. An arrow lodged in its breastplate, and then a ball of fire roared through the chamber, and when the smoke cleared, the armor and the blade were gone, and only a charred skeleton fell to the ground, crumbling into dust as it landed.

  The mage-corpse floated forward, its hands raised with energy crackling between them.

  Michel rushed at it, blade swinging wildly in an attempt to disrupt whatever spell the creature was preparing, but before he reached it, Celene stepped out from the shadows behind a sarcophagus and plunged her daggers into the thing’s back.

  It flinched, dropping whatever horrific spell it had been prepared to unleash, and that was all the time Michel needed.

  His blow came in fast and clean, slashing through the creature’s neck. Grand Duke Gaspard came down almost at the same time, his blow chopping from shoulder to crotch.

  The foul demon possessing the corpse fled, defeated, and another ancient skeleton fell to the ground.

  Celene, Gaspard, and Michel stood over the thing that had nearly slain them. It looked pitiful now, a bare skeleton clad in faded rags that had once been robes. Though it was hard to say, with so many bones cruelly shattered, the skeleton looked small. In life, Michel wondered if the elven mage would have even come up to his shoulder.

  He offered a small prayer to the Maker. Whatever heathen gods this mage had worshipped in life, he had deserved better than for his bones to be possessed by demons.

  Then he looked at Celene. She was looking at the skeleton as well, but with the calculated attention that meant she was thinking hard. She shifted her grip on her daggers, and her gaze stayed on the skeleton, not on Gaspard, even when the grand duke let out a chuckle that would normally have drawn her attention.

  She didn’t want to alert him.

  Michel saw her think it. Saw the tiny shift of her weight that would let her blade slide so easily across Gaspard’s throat, ending a war and putting her back on the throne with no cost except a broken truce.

  No one would ever know, except for Michel. He would not even need to attack, just stand idly and say nothing while Celene took Gaspard by surprise. Michel might disapprove, but Celene was hardly a chevalier, restricted by the same code of honor to which Michel and Gaspard held themselves.

  But Michel was a chevalier.

  “Gaspard,” Michel said as he stepped back, lowering his blade. “Is our truce concluded, or would you speak further?”

  He pretended not to see the flash of frustration in Celene’s eyes.

  * * *

  Briala watched from atop the sarcophagus, next to Felassan, as Celene, Michel, and Gaspard stood over the bodies of the demon-mage and the revenants. Her bow was raised, an arrow ready in her free hand, ready for whatever came next.

  As it turned out, what came next was talking.

  Briala lowered her bow, grimacing at the stupidity of humans. “Maker’s blood. She should have killed him then and there.”

  Felassan gave a tiny shrug. “Humans.”

  Briala looked at the humans as they spoke. Gaspard stood stiff and formal, as though his battlefield honor could somehow erase the betrayal of attempting to usurp the throne in the first place. Celene had shifted her stance, a tiny step that made her look just a little smaller and more submissive. Before she became empress, she had used that stance to get the boys to do foolish things for her. Michel was practically dead on his feet, legs locked, holding himself up by force of will.

  “It wouldn’t be a certainty,” she said. She had used most of her arrows in the battle before, and she hadn’t had the chance to retrieve any from the battlefield.

  “True.” Felassan hopped down, and Briala followed. “This was but the first danger. There will certainly be more. Say what you will about the humans, they’re smart enough to burn their dead.”

  Briala nodded. “So rather than kill each other here and then die at the hands of whatever else guards the eluvians, we ally with Gaspard, get to the central chamber, and then decide matters there?”

  “It makes sense.”

  “Yes.” Briala looked at the humans again. Celene had lived too long behind her mask. Her tiny smile gave away that she was getting what she wanted. “But that isn’t why they’re doing it.”

  “Probably not.” Felassan looked over at Gaspard’s allies. “Tell me what you saw of Mihris.”

  Briala blinked at the change of subject, then looked over at the First of Clan Virnehn. She had recovered from Felassan’s magical attack, though she was still on her knees a dozen yards away, near the unconscious human mage. Her staff lay on the ground beside her. “Her staff glowed white before, but it’s red now.” She squinted. “And it is the same staff. Is that common?”

  “No. Though I suppose she may have stolen some magical trinket from her now-dead clan.” Felassan chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. “That might explain why Thelhen’s apprentice was suddenly tossing off such impressive spells.”

  Which, Briala noted, Felassan had countered quite handily. “I’ve only seen you control the elements before now. I had no idea you could do that.”

  “Really?” Felassan cocked his head. “I suppose we didn’t run into many mages during our time together. That’s about the only thing that spell is good for.” Felassan shook his head, smiling, but his eyes were far away. “When you live long enough, you have the time to study spells you might only need on rare occasions. Most of the humans are happy enough just to throw fire or lightning.”

  Briala was about to reply when Mihris coughed and looked up at them.

  “Michel,” she said.

  Celene and Gaspard were at the far end of the room. This, then, was for her to handle.

  At a dozen yards, Briala could put a shaft through the mage’s eye nine times out of ten, but they were among the sarcophagi, and a single roll would put Mihris behind cover, with time to prepare a spell that could kill them all.

  Briala lifted her bow, an arrow nocked and ready. “Celene and Gaspard called a momentary truce, Mihris. Reach for that staff, and I will consider you to be breaking it.”

  Mihris glared at her. “I do not expect you to understand, flat-ear. My clan is dead because of Michel.”

  “Yes,” Briala said without lowering her bow, “what would a flat-eared city elf know about chevaliers killing her loved ones?”

  “How did Michel kill your clan?” Felassan asked. “The storm and lightning was mine. Not that I want your vengeance aimed at me, necessarily…”

  “Imshael.” Mihris spat the name. “Michel freed Imshael, and then Imshael destroyed my clan.”

  “Your clan imprisoned an ancient demon,” Felassan said. “You might want to aim that vengeance at Thelhen, for being such an idiot.”

  Mihris smiled bitterly and continued as if Felassan had not spoken. “I only live because Imshael found Michel’s choice not to kill me amusing … and because the demon respected my choice to kill him in return.” She looked at Michel, and her fingers twitched toward the staff.

  “You can try,” Briala said, “but I need him. You’ll have an arrow in your hear
t before you reach it.”

  Felassan looked at Mihris with interest. “Still, though, you have a choice. You could hope to survive Briala’s shot, maybe use your spirit magic to drag a little more energy out of these corpses and heal yourself. Given the power you wielded earlier, you might live long enough to see Michel die before I kill you.”

  Briala spared Felassan a glance. “Is there any particular reason you’re encouraging her?”

  “Yes.” Felassan gestured politely with one hand and raised his staff in the other. “Mihris?”

  She stared at him with absolute hatred, her eyes darting to the staff, to Michel, to Briala and the arrow that was already ready to fly.

  “Briala, Felassan, hold!” Celene called from across the chamber.

  “Mihris,” Gaspard added, “I have agreed to a truce. We travel with them as allies against whatever else this Maker-cursed crypt throws at us.”

  “Once we reach the central chamber, we will settle this dispute with a fair fight,” Celene said. “The winner will control the eluvians.”

  “You said I could kill him.” Mihris pointed at Michel.

  “And now I’m telling you to wait,” Gaspard said, “or by my sworn oath as a chevalier, I will cut your head off and dump your body back with the rest of your clan.”

  Mihris clenched and unclenched her jaw. “I should never have trusted you.” She picked up her staff, slowly and carefully, and slipped it back into her harness. “You shemlen break any deal except with each other.”

  “Good girl,” Gaspard said. “Now tend to Lienne and Remache, if you please.”

  Briala looked at Felassan, who shrugged.

  They had the truce, as she had expected. And it made sense, as Felassan had noted.

  But Briala did not entirely disagree with Mihris.

  * * *

  Celene lost track of time as they made their way through the paths between worlds.

  The pace felt grueling, at least for the humans. Felassan, Briala, and Mihris always somehow pulled ahead without seeming to walk any faster than Celene or Michel, and they were always waiting in the ruins that lay on the far side of the eluvian, waiting for Celene’s ruby to guide the way and awaken the eluvian that would lead to the next path.