Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Three: Captivated
The fight began about as expected – with flights of arrows. The soldiers deflected the missiles with their shields, but one or two of the archers got lucky, and the first soldier fell, an arrow protruding from his neck. The emissary began casting – some sort of lightning spell, from the feel of it – and I wrenched its mana away before it could do any damage. Faren engaged with a number of hurlocks, swinging his longswords in arcs, cleaving indiscriminately, and a few of the soldiers went back-to-back, protecting each other from flanking.
Still holding the emissary's mana and using it for shields when I could, I began working my way through the archers. It was difficult: though they couldn't see me, they were aware of me, and I risked being hit every time I attacked. I picked off those standing alone first, then started working on a group of six standing together to the north. I'd slash at one and then drop to my knees or dodge out of range before its fellows could divert their attacks to where I'd just been standing.
I spared a glance for Faren and the soldiers, shocked at the carnage; there were more than a dozen darkspawn bodies, some still weakly twitching, strewn around the clearing, with several human corpses scattered between – but the odds were getting worse. Each person who fell had taken multiple darkspawn with him, but the sheer numbers of the monsters meant that Faren and four others were now standing together and virtually overwhelmed.
And then I felt something that made my stomach plummet: a mana signature the likes of which I'd experienced only once before – when I'd fought the General during the final battle.
That explains the coordination, then.
I skipped away from the archers I'd been targeting, closed my eyes, reached out and seized all the mana I could take. It took an effort I hadn't expected, almost as though I was wrestling with the creature I hadn't even seen yet. Sweat broke out on my forehead, and I clenched my fists and
pulled
; with a ripping sensation, I yanked the mana away, hearing a rough cry of alarm, or pain, in the distance.
Finally opening my eyes, I wiped my nose irritably, only to realise it was bleeding again. I pinched it between my fingers and then looked around, trying to reorient myself after an unknown amount of time psychically wrestling with a darkspawn mage. When I was finally able to focus, I gasped, horrified at what I saw.
The soldiers were dead – all of them, bodies torn up or fallen like leaves scattered across ground soggy with blood – and Faren knelt, a darkspawn wielding a wicked-looking jagged dagger against his throat while he panted with rage. A tiny trickle of blood escaped from a wound on his neck where he'd obviously been nicked while struggling, and a larger red spot was spreading down his arm, blood dripping off his fingers. And beside him was not only the first emissary, the one who'd spoken, but a group of hurlocks and two other figures as well.
The first I initially took as a genlock, wearing dirty but still obviously well-crafted armour; a closer glance showed long brown hair, far more than any genlock would ever have, and eyes far more alert and cunning than the black pools of most darkspawn eyes.
A ghoul then. A dwarven ghoul.
The next creature frightened me even more. It was tall, a good head taller than the hurlocks that surrounded it, wearing robes that must once have been fine garments, but were now caked with blood and filth, torn and ragged in places, sagging loosely across a skeletal frame. Over top of the robes, it wore a complex, almost delicate piece of gold armour that wrapped around its chest and shoulders in a parody of human ribs. One side of its face was damaged, whether formed that way or injured at some point I couldn't say. Over its half-melted face, it wore a strange mask, part helmet, part crown, with one side sweeping up into a sharp horn. Deep chasms in its cheeks showcased decaying skin, but despite the unnatural grey colour and wounds, its face looked far more human than any true darkspawn.
I had seen that face before – in my dreams, after the Joining.
The Architect.
And it was looking straight at me.
Oh shit.
The Architect was the source of most of the mana I held, and I wondered if some of its pallor was due to the unexpected loss of mana. It – he, I supposed – raised a shaky hand and barked a command in a language I couldn't understand, and the darkspawn all stopped moving. Faren still struggled weakly, but desisted when the hurlock holding him pressed slightly harder with the dagger. The ghoul – Utha, I realised – stepped up to him and placed her hand on his shoulder gently, and the Warden seemed to sag in place.
I turned my attention back to the Architect, who was watching me curiously; neither Utha nor the other darkspawn seemed to be paying me any attention, though the emissary glared at me furiously.
He opened his lopsided, ruined mouth, and the voice I remembered from my Joining dream issued forth. "We mean you no harm." Utha looked up at him, apparently startled, but the rest of the darkspawn ignored the exchange.
"Right. No harm. That's why you've killed my soldiers?" He didn't respond, and I scoffed. "Let my friend go, then, if you mean no harm."
The Architect...winced? "I cannot. I...need him. What have you done to me?" He took a few steps towards me, and I stiffened.
"Stolen your mana. Fun, right? Take another step and you'll find out what else I can do to you." I knew I could do my modified smite if I had to – it probably wouldn't kill him, but it would hurt.
"Harm me, and I won't be able to stop them from killing him," he warned, but he didn't take the next step, either.
"Guess we're at an impasse, then, aren't we." I scowled. "And I'm pretty sure taking his blood counts as harm."
"I will endeavor not to kill him, but I require Warden blood." He reached up and rubbed his forehead irritably, a gesture I'd seen time and again from people with headaches. "You must stop this."
"I'll stop when you let him go. Otherwise, I hope you didn't plan on using your magic ever again," I bluffed.
