Chapter Seven – Healing and Loss
“When do we
get there?” asked Neria, trying her best not to sound like a child on a long
wagon journey.
“We get
there when we get there,” responded Alistair stoically.
“But we've
been hunting for those treaties for DAYS,” she whined. “For all we know, the
battle is done and dusted while we're traipsing about here.”
For a moment
a look of worry clouded Alistair's face. He shook his head though, and said,
confidently enough, “I doubt it, else we would not have been encountering so
many Darkspawn in the wild. They would be with the main horde.”
They had
certainly come across more than their fair share of darkspawn. Neria had tried
to count – eight on the first day, a dozen on the second, and more than ten already
today. Even more numerous had been the wolves. Despite Neria’s inherent
sympathy for them, she realised their attacks were dangerous and never-ending.
When the last pack had attacked them, led by a massive creature who was twice
the size of the rest, she had truly let go, engulfing them in fire and ice,
with definite intent to kill.
This had
been a difficult day. The novelty of the adventure had worn off. So had their camaraderie,
such as it had been. Neria was being openly contemptuous of Jory, who was
complaining about the cold, the smell, the blood, and pretty much everything,
while Daveth’s attempts to engage her in conversation were falling flat in the tension
of the prevailing atmosphere. As for Alistair, he merely cracked terrible jokes
about all of them, mostly implying the imminent possibility of a gory death.
“How big do
you think the horde is exactly?” Daveth asked.
Neria caught
her breath. It was a question that had been on her mind as well, but one that
she had avoided asking – mostly because she did not want to hear the answer to
it.
“It gets
bigger with every battle,” said Alistair guardedly. It was the same answer
Duncan and Wynne had given to her earlier.
“Still,
there must be a number. The King's forces are about five thousand strong,
correct? Should be more with the levies from Highever and Amaranthine coming
in,” it was Ser Jory who persisted.
“Eight
thousand, all told,” said Alistair. “The Horde is…larger than that at the very
least. Our position is a good one, though, and as I've said before, we have
repulsed them with negligible losses thus far. If the past is anything to go
by, they would take a couple of weeks to re-group and come back at us. This also
means we have the time to find those Warden Treaties before heading back – and
my map says we are very close.”
Neria leaned
on her staff for a few moments, allowing the others to take a few steps ahead.
What she had seen of the darkspawn had not frightened her, exactly, but it had
made her fear them as adversaries. She did not consider herself craven, but the
creatures she had fought had been not just ugly, they had exuded a mindless
hatred that terrified her. Neria knew she herself was wilful, proud, even
vindictive at times, but she could not understand uncontrolled hatred. In her
mind, she thought about the consequences if she relinquished control over the
two things that drove her – her magic and her sexuality – and shuddered at the
thought of the consequences. A darkspawn was a creature born of hatred, an
unfettered loathing for all humanity, and that, more than anything else, was
most disturbing about them.
Realising
she had fallen rather more behind than she had intended, Neria darted ahead,
shouting, “Hey, wait for me, you lunks!” when she heard, just at the periphery
of her hearing, the sound of a bow being drawn.
Neria
turned, but saw nothing. She held up her staff, for all the protection it could
offer. Nothing happened. With a twitch of her fingers, she had a rock armour
spell cast. Still nothing.
She began to
step away, looking to rejoin her companions. Then she felt the shimmer, just
off to her right. Shieling spells caused a distortion in the atmosphere, but
Neria had long learned to know when it was her own magic causing it – this was
not her doing.
She shot
blind, electricity coursing through her fingers to the staff and beyond,
crackling in the air and landing, just before the arrow came into sight. The
darkspawn slumped to the ground, becoming visible as a quivering ball of
ugliness. The arrow had been aimed straight at her, but as she had expected,
the armour spell did its job, stopping the arrow harmlessly a few inches from
her and letting it fall to ground.
But then
there was another Genlock appearing to her right, and another from behind her,
knife in hand. She spun on her heel, using the staff as a weapon, this time
connecting, pushing the creature away, and then firing an arcane bolt at other.
It slashed at her on its way down, but the knife failed to penetrate the armour
spell. The darkspawn who had been hit by the staff was the first to recover,
and rushed at her, unarmed. She had her hand out, a burst of fire deflecting
that one, but then the one she had hit with the electric bolt was up again and drawing
its bow, shooting an arrow at her. The armour was weaker now, having absorbed
nearly as much damage as it could already, and this arrow got to her, piercing her shoulder.
She screamed
with pain, but kept her footing. She swept the staff, a cone of fire erupting
from it, a weak flame, but a flame nonetheless. It pushed them back, buying her
time, not victory. She was panting as she upped the rock armour again, her mana
reserves low. The fingers of her left hand went to her belt, searching for a
vial of replenishing potion. As her fingers closed around it, the cone of fire
faded. Her thumbnail was on the stopper. They were almost upon her now, all
bearing knives.
Her balance
slipped, she struck out with what was left of her magical energy, heat searing
up her bones as flames burst forth, uncontrolled, as they used to when she was
a child, right into the eyes of her attacker. She saw the face of the genlock, expression
changing, and the horrifying face become for a moment piteous as it realized
its face was melting. Then there was nothing where its eye-sockets had been,
and a grey skull instead of a face.
The other
two darkspawn thrust their knives, but only pierced the body of their own
comrade as its body fell forward. With a grunt, one of them thrust forward
again, and this time the knife pierced right through, into her ribs.
The pain was
incredible, like a tear going right through her, sending waves of pain up and
down, and she cried out, tears in her eyes, as she fell to the ground, awaiting
the next – and perhaps fatal – blow. But then a crashing sound came through the
undergrowth and she knew she was safe.
#
Alistair’s sword
ran the first darkspawn through the heart just as Jory hacked off the head of
the other. For a moment his breath caught as he bent over Neria. Then he
noticed her eye flutter and stepped back.
“Tie up the
wound on the shoulder and bandage the ribs,” he said gruffly. “I think she will
need to be carried. Daveth, you and Jory hold her, we will find a safer place
and halt until she’s able to move.”
“Is there a
'safer place'?” asked Daveth gloomily.
“Probably
not, but she isn't going anywhere in this condition. When she comes to, I am
going to need to have words with her about staying close to the group.”
“It's as
much our fault for letting her fall behind, isn't it?” pointed out Jory.
Alistair
scowled, but did not answer.
#
It was some
hours before she regained consciousness. When she did, she realised they had
made a makeshift camp in the awning of a marble ruin, and it was still
mid-afternoon.
“Why have we
stopped?” she asked.
“Carrying
you around wasn't really an option,” said Alistair crisply.
“We can move
now, we should.”
“That
genlock you were wriggling under broke at least one rib,” replied Alistair. “No,
I don't see you moving anywhere unless you find healing.”
Neria
sighed. She struggled to her feet. The sharp pain that exploded in her chest
told her that Alistair had not been exaggerating.
“So I can
heal myself,” she pointed out. She grasped her staff for support. It was
standard-issue teakwood, Circle Tower edition, but the grip was comforting to
her. Deep within its core was its magic, something that responded to her, that
made it so much easier to do execute spells.
“You can
heal the pain, I know, but can you set a broken rib?” asked Alistair.
Neria cursed
under her breath. Of course, a Templar would know the difference. Most
laypersons did not really get how magical healing worked. A really talented
healer - someone like Wynne, or Anders, could use magic along with their deep
knowledge of alchemy to heal even the most serious injuries in no time, but
your run-of-the-mill mage was good at casting spells that did just enough to
dull the pain and help a person to cope, maybe live another day or two, without
really addressing the root cause of the problem. In such cases, you needed to
find a real Healer as soon as possible. When it came to healing, Neria had no
illusions about herself, she was as run-of-the-mill as they got.
“I can do
enough to make it through,” she answered him. “Where are Daveth and Jory?”
“I sent them
to keep a rotating watch on the two sides of this wall. Anyway, it's good to
know you can get yourself walking again. We can set out immediately for Ostagar.”
She cast a
stupefied look at Alistair.
“Ostagar?”
she asked. “Why back there? Did we - did we find the treaties?”
“We are not
going to find the treaties,” said Alistair in a resigned tone. “We are going to
go back to Duncan and announce our failure. He will probably give me a
dressing-down, but I'll survive that, I'm sure.”
“What do you
mean? Why? And what about us? This was a part of our initiation as Wardens!”
“Your
initiation as Wardens requires the darkspawn blood, which we have collected
already. Anyway, if Duncan chooses to reject your candidature it would not be
such a bad thing either. Jory can go back to Redcliffe, you can go back to the
Tower, and Daveth can go to…well, he'll get hanged, I suppose.”
Neria
scowled.
“Listen, Alistair,”
she snapped. “There's no going back for some of us. There's no place at the
Tower for me. The Templars will see to that. Don't you understand - Duncan
rescued me from being punished for abetting the escape of a blood mage!”
“He…what?”
Alistair's ears definitely pricked up for that.
Neria leaned
against a niche in the wall. She felt old, much older than her seventeen years.
Maybe it was because it felt like so long ago now.
“I thought I
was helping a friend who was unjustly accused. It turned out he was not only quite
justly accused, and he was not my friend either - not the way I wanted him to
be, at least. It does not matter. You don't have to worry about me turning into
an abomination. I passed my harrowing well enough.”
Alistair bit
his lip.
“Whatever
went before is of little concern to me,” he said. “If Duncan saw that much in
you, he will do what he can to save you. But we cannot go on.”
“Oh for the
Maker's sake,” Neria growled. “Why can't we go on, dear leader?”
“There are
large groups of darkspawn up ahead. I... sent Daveth scouting ahead while you
were unconscious. We have to pass over a bridge on the river there, to get to
the Chasind camp where we believe there are stashed supplies and from there to
the warden outpost. But the bridge is held by a small platoon of the vile creatures.
They have an Emissary with them. Do you get what I am saying? An Emissary.”
“Even if
there is an Emissary,” pointed out Neria. “No group of darkspawn has stood
against us when we have been fighting together.”
“An Emissary
is very powerful,” said Alistair. “I would not risk going against a group that
had one of them as leader.”
“In case I
missed something, my dear leader,” said Neria, in a voice that indicated he was
anything but, “we have a mage too.”
“We are
hopelessly outnumbered, and...,” his voice trailed off, but Neria could guess
what he had left unsaid - he did not know how well she measured up against
another magic user.
Neria
gnashed her teeth.
“Numbers
don't matter. You need to know how to use a mage in a fight.”
“Are you
saying I don't know how to lead a group?” Alistair said angrily. “I learned
from Duncan himself!”
“Are there
any mages in the Wardens right now, Alistair?” she shot back.
“No, there
are not, which is why Duncan was so eager to recruit from the Circle of Magi,
but…”
“I'm saying
we can do this, Alistair. Trust me.”
“We
certainly cannot take them out with you out of combat,” pointed out Alistair.
“I soon
won't be out of combat,” she said irritably and walked a few steps away.
A tight
bandage was bound around her body, covering her left rib. She could see the
blood having soaked through. With a tug from her fingers, she loosened and
removed it. Her tunic was soaked in maroon. She tried to reach the knots of her
bodice, but winced in pain as her arm rose. She dropped it to her side.
“Whatever
are you…” Alistair protested. She ignored him. Staff in on hand, she went on
her knees, back to Alistair.
“Unfasten my
tunic,” she said.
“No!” he
protested.
“Do it,” she
said, in a voice that brooked no defiance.
The Templar
hesitated but began to struggle with the knots behind her neck. The congealed
grime and gore did not make it any easier.
“Just cut
it,” she said.
With
trembling hands, Alistair brought up his skinning knife and cut the knots, one
by one. As her body came into view, he averted his eyes, but not, she knew,
before catching a glimpse of her breasts.
Neria looked
at herself and winced. Beneath her left breast was an ugly gash, looking like a
welt which was still oozing blood so dark it looked almost black.
“Could it
have been a poisoned blade?” she asked.
Alistair,
eyes tightly shut, replied that it was more than likely.
“Good,” said
Neria. “Poison, I know how to deal with.”
She stripped
the tunic off herself, wincing at the cold. She began to chant the closest
thing to a healing spell that she knew, one that gave her a little strength and
stamina, then brought some potions out of her backpack.
“Are you
still naked?” asked Alistair.
“Yes. Not
that I mind if you open your eyes, Alistair. Unlike you, I haven't anything to
hide.”
“I'm…I'm
fine, thank you,” said Alistair politely. “I shall just remain here with my
eyes closed, and think about the hours I have spent peeling potatoes in the
chantry kitchens as a Templar initiate.”
Mix and
match, get the proportions right. Some mages did their measuring by hand,
estimating the proportions as they poured. Neria wasn't one of them. She
carried a thimble and used it to make her measurements as precise as possible.
First she collected a drop of her own inky blood into it a vial and then added
a few measures of the bristlewort extract. The mixture turned clear for a
moment before becoming turbid.
“Well, it's
a simple enough poison. Mostly concentrated acid. Should kill me in a day, very
painfully.”
“But you
don't intend to die, I suppose,” said Alistair, opening his eyes for a moment
and closing them again as he took in a view of her tapered waist and pert
buttocks.
“Not so soon.
I'll have the antidote ready in no time. Is there water?”
He handed
her his water-bottle. She added it to the ingredients she had and mixed for a
while. Then, she cleaned her wound thoroughly and with a grimace, she set her
teeth, gripped the staff, and applied the potion to the wound. She felt the
waves of magic swirl into her her bloodstream, cleansing the cells, and
finally, closing the skin damage, with the faintest of scars. She ran a finger
along it, making a mental note to show it to Wynne when she got back.
She had a
spare pair of small clothes in her pack, which she donned before getting to
work on the potions. It was her most modest pair. Her grandmother-clothes, as
she called them.
“You can
look now,” she told Alistair. “And come here and help me.”
With a sigh
of relief, he opened his eyes. As he drank in the sight of Neria mixing ingredients
on a flat rock, in her knees, in strips of cloth that while they covered
little, at least covered it well, he took a deep breath, and asked.
“This won't
take long, will it?”
“It will,
actually.”
“Then I'll
go relieve the other two and send them to help you.”
#
When
Alistair returned, Neria was sitting leaning against the marble. She had
evidently sliced what was left of her tunic to make something more dignified
than what he had left her in. Daveth was staring at the fire silently while
Jory ate a piece of wolf meat. That pesky orange-eyed raven was still with
them, sitting on the wall above, silent and a bit sinister, chewing something in
its beak that Alistair hoped was not darkspawn flesh.
He wondered
if the elf was all she appeared to be. She was certainly a powerful mage for
one so young, and stunningly beautiful, even by elvish standards. As he looked
over her, dirty golden tresses falling over her shoulders, skin the colour of
fresh honey, ankles bare in the grass, he wondered what would have happened of
her had she not been a mage. If fortunate, she would have remained in an
alienage and married another of her kind. If less so, she would have ended up in
a brothel, probably at the Pearl in
Denerim, given her looks. He dismissed her talk about becoming a mistress of
the Arl of Denerim. Men like him did not keep elven mistresses for a long time.
He’d use her and cast her aside soon enough.
But the
Maker had cursed her with magic, and she had grown in the Circle Tower, bullied
and harassed and then exploiting herself in a manner Alistair, at least, found
distasteful. But she was not without some intelligence, and though impudent,
she had shown she did listen when he spoke.
“Are you
ready?” he asked.
His three
companions nodded.
“Let’s go,
then.”
A walk of
about half an hour later and they were closing in on their destination. In the
distance, Alistair could even see what was left of the Warden outpost. It was
some way away, on top of a hill, but they were no more than a few hours from it
at most. Except for the troublesome darkspawn in the way.
“How many?”
asked Neria, staff lowered.
“At least
nine,” replied Alistair. “The Emissary’s the one standing on the bridge.”
“We don't
have a chance. Can't we go around?” asked Daveth.
“There's
only that one bridge across the water,” said Alistair.
“Then let's
turn back. Surely this is madness?” suggested Jory.
“I'm going
to agree with Ser Knight,” said Alistair.
“Not this
again,” said Neria. “We are going in.”
“Listen, sweet
one. There's the possible, the improbable and the impossible. How do you expect
the four of us to take on that many darkspawn, all armoured and supported by a
magic-user?” asked Daveth.
Neria
ignored him.
“Jory, move
left and charge the Emissary. Some of the other 'spawn will try to break your
charge. Fend them off and go on, don’t engage too long with them. Alistair, do
the same from the right. Daveth, we need covering fire. Try to take out any
darkspawn who try to attack Alistair and Jory,” she said, her voice quiet but
commanding.
Alistair and
Daveth nodded. Jory had a protest to lodge.
“And what
will you be doing, elf?”
With a
beatific smile, the elf replied, “Winning.”
With a
grimace, and certainly against his better judgement, Alistair ran. It was
easier with his splintmail than it would have been with full plate like Jory
wore, but it was difficult all the same to pick up any speed. A Genlock rushed
at him from the right. He elbowed the creature off with all his strength. Another
aimed a knife thrust from his left. An arrow from Daveth hit it – somewhere, he
did not see exactly where – and the danger was gone. He saw the atmosphere
darken as the Emissary threw a spell towards Jory. The Knight tried to side
step but it was no use, a spell, by its very nature, almost always hit. A
Hurlock raised an axe at Alistair. He ducked, the blade swung over him. He
thrust with his shield hand, pushing back the Hurlock. A Genlock advanced on
him, but was taken out by a blast of electricity. He was almost on the bridge
now. The Emissary had run back to the other side of the river, but turned now
to deal with him. Alistair pointed his sword at the creature. His Templar
training took over and he struck, dealing only the faintest cut. But he knew he
had done what he needed to, what the Templars did best – removed its shield
spells. Then the Emissary responded, and Alistair felt his skin burn as he
fell, crashing to the wooden floor of the bridge. A fireball? The creature had
cast a fireball this close to itself? That was suicide. He could see the Emissary
thrown back, falling a clear ten feet away, twitching.
As his eyes
closed, he saw her through the flames, dull gold robes around her waist, two
strips of cotton crossing at and covering her breasts, skin glistening with
sweat, hands raised. A cooling breeze seemed to take away the smoke and her
hand – it must have been her hand – was on his cheek. He heard the thrum of
arrows pick out staggering, stunned darkspawn. He and Jory had been the distractions.
The magnets, bunching the darkspawn in one place for Neria to destroy with a
single fireball.
“Will my
pretty face be scarred for life?” he murmured, eyes still closed.
“No more
than mine,” he heard her say. “You aren't even singed, Ser Knight.”
And then he
opened his eyes and stood, to his own surprise, completely unhurt. Around him
he saw corpses of Darkspawn, one, two, three...he counted more than nine. Eleven. Daveth was helping Jory to his feet. They
were barely scratched.
“What did
you do?” he asked, awestruck.
“Flame
blast,” she smiled. “Why use a fireball when a controlled flame does the job
just as well? All I needed was for them all to be in a single arc and I – well,
I let go.”
“Well, that
settles it. You plan battle strategy from now on.”
She laughed
and bowed. Daveth and Jory were laughing too.
“I must
confess, I thought this would be my last battle,” said Jory.
“I must
confess, you should have more faith in yourself, Ser Jory,” said Neria
graciously. “You took out three hurlocks before the emissary’s spell got you.”
“I could hardly
tell,” he admitted, and looked at her, full in the face, with neither contempt
nor guilt, but admiration.
The little
group looked toward each other, and then, for the first time since they had set
out, smiled.
#
“Do you
think they can see us?”
“Not yet.
But it’s open ground from here to the Warden outpost.”
Neria had
asked the question, and Alistair had answered it. They had been going for two
hours over uneven terrain after crossing the bridge held by the darkspawn.
After finding an old Chasind campsite and raiding it for weapons and
inadvertently summoning an ancient demon, Neria, at least was more than ready
to get this over with. They could see the outpost clearly now, outer walls
standing in the front, but crumbling on the far side that overlooked the marshy
water. She could even make out the interior, broken stone walls and floors, trees
and bushes growing tables and chairs must once have been.
But they
were forty yards at least from those walls, at the bottom of an incline, and
between them were six darkspawn, well-spaced out, keeping a look out to the
ground below.
“If Alistair
and I rush at them as we did at the bridge, can you take them out again?” asked
Jory.
Neria shook
her head.
“They are
too far from one another to line up quickly, and I think two of them have
crossbows. No, we will need to try something else,” Alistair explained.
It was still
light out here in the Wilds, though she knew it would be getting dark soon.
There was no way they could try to sneak past under cover of darkness, not with
Alistair and Jory in their heavy armour. If they did not move soon, they would
have to return to the abandoned Chasind camp for the night.
“I might
have a plan,” she said, “Daveth, do you trust me?”
He gave her
a peculiar look, but nodded. She could see a flock of ravens flying overhead,
circling. She wondered if the creatures feasted on darkspawn carcasses in
addition to the humans. Was that how the animals became infected with the
Blight-sickness, or did it merely accelerate the process? She thought about the
whining dog back in Ostagar for whom she had picked and packed several of the
medicinal flowers as the kennel-master had requested her. Somewhere in that flock
above, she was sure, was the orange-eyed raven that had been with them almost
from the moment they had entered the Wilds. Well, it was time to see if the
Maker was going to reward the bird’s apparent loyalty.
“Daveth,”
she said. “Do you think you could take down a raven with your arrows?”
“A raven?
Yes, fairly easily.”
“Good. I
need you to kill one. Alistair, Jory, you will follow me and when I turn, abandon
me and make for the ruins, killing any darkspawn in your way.”
“We are not
abandoning you,” said Alistair.
“You said
you trusted me, so you will,” said Neria. “Daveth, you will stay here after you
have killed the raven and then nock another arrow, keeping it aimed at me. At
all times, at me. When I shout, you release it.”
“At you?” he
frowned.
“At me, yes.
And now, take down that bird.”
She watched as Daveth drew the bowstring back,
took careful aim, and released. A raven – or was it a crow? – came hurtling
down, while the others shrieked and flew in all directions. It accomplished
what she wanted – it made the darkspawn leave their positions and look towards
the skies. In an instant she had shot off a fireball at the closest genlock. It
was thrown back and lay on the ground, quite still. Neria ran, Alistair and
Jory behind. A crossbow bolt sped towards her, but she had seen it coming and
swerved, right then left, avoiding one and then another. A Hurlock was running
at her with a raised axe – she bent and unleased a cone of cold. It stood
frozen solid. She ran on, and Alistair’s shield bashed the frozen body to
pieces. Another darkspawn, a Genlock this time, and she hurled a flame blast
right into its face. It was not lethal, but it threw the creature back long
enough for Jory to run it through.
Neria
doubled around, leaving Jory and Alistair behind and ran back down the incline
now, three darkspawn just behind her.
She was fast, and the ‘spawn were between her and the two Knights, but that
was all right, it was all as she wanted it to be.
A few yards
more, just a few.
They were
almost there.
“Daveth, now!” she shouted, and dropped flat
to the ground.
His arrow
was unerring, and took out the first genlock, piercing it through the chest,
sending it staggering. Neria rolled to her right and unleased a powerful flame
blast right in the face of the last remaining Hurlock. Both creatures were
maimed and struggling, and by the time Neria was back on her feet, Daveth had
sent a succession of arrows through their bodies to ensure they did not stir
again.
He laughed
as he came up to her, and they gave each other a brief, triumphant hug before
going on towards the warden ruins. Jory and Alistair had finished off the big
Hurlock, and though Jory seemed to have taken a slight injury he was still
standing.
Together,
the four passed the outer walls. Little remained inside, nothing but fallen
walls and stray stones marking where rooms and barracks might once have been.
“There –
that ornate chest over there must be where the Treaties are!” said Alistair,
pointing excitedly.
They picked
up pace, their footsteps echoing through halls abandoned since the withdrawal
of the Ferelden monarchy from this outpost hundreds of years ago. Above them
the crows seemed to have returned and were cawing as they circled, a few
settling on the walls and pillars that remained.
Neria saw it
first, for she came to a stop before the others. But only by a few steps, for
the others stopped too. The top of the chest was cracked open, a gaping hole
shaped like an arrowhead on the top.
There was nothing
inside. No treaties. Nothing at all.
That was
when the raven – the raven, the one
with the orange eyes, swooped down towards a mostly-intact staircase to their
left, and transformed into the most striking woman Neria had ever seen outside
of her own reflection.
“Well,
well,” said the apparition. “What have we here?”
#
[Anything you might recognise from playing Dragon Age: Origins is (c) BioWare. This work is not intended to earn any profit or make any money.]
No comments:
Post a Comment