Chapter 133: 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. Hopefully his confusion means he has no idea what my abilities are, or how far they will extend.

He glared at me through red-rimmed, rheumy eyes, then tilted his head slightly and turned to glance at Utha, who still stood near Faren. She focused on him intently, and he waited a moment, head still cocked as though listening, then lifted a hand placatingly and mumbled something to the former Warden before turning back to me.

“Enough. We can discuss this further later. For now, you will come with me.”

“That’s not going to happen!”

“Come with me, or your friend will die.” The darkspawn holding Faren shifted, and Utha snarled – though whether at Faren, me, the hurlock, or the Architect I couldn’t be sure.

“No Sierra! Go! He can’t stop you, and they can’t see you. Go!” Faren shouted, struggling anew.

Utha turned to him, faster than a snake, and struck him in the head with the side of her heavy gauntlet. Faren collapsed in a heap, and the darkspawn holding him sheathed its blade before hoisting the dwarf over its shoulder in a fireman carry.

I cried out in fear and glared at the ghoul. I wanted to scream at her, to tell her exactly what I thought of a Warden siding with a darkspawn against her own kind – but I knew she couldn’t hear me, and that she’d sided with the Architect over her own kind before. The former dwarf pointed and grunted, and the darkspawn carrying Faren turned and started to walk away.

“If you come, he lives. If you walk away, I will drain him completely – I need his blood, not the rest of him. The choice is yours.” With that, the Architect turned and followed Utha to the north. “Leave your weapons,” he added over his shoulder.

I hesitated for a moment. What to do? Follow the psychopath in the vain hope he won’t kill Faren anyway, or leave my friend to die while I escape? Avanna has gone for help – we’ll be rescued. There really wasn’t much of a choice. Sighing, I dropped my daggers, arranging the three – my two combat weapons and the arm sheath Zevran had given me – in a rough arrow pointing the direction the darkspawn were headed, and shouldered my pack. They won’t be able to hurt me, I think ... the Architect and emissary won’t approach me without mana, and the others would be flailing about in the dark trying to reach me anyway. With that small consolation, I followed behind the retreating darkspawn with a reluctant huff.

We walked well into the night, the darkspawn seemingly unbothered by the lack of light; when I started to fall behind, tripping over unseen divots and roots, the Architect finally called for a halt. Utha and the other emissary gave him strange looks when he demanded they stop, but did not openly object. I sank to the ground gratefully, twenty or thirty feet from where they set Faren; Utha proceeded to tie the dwarf up and gag him before settling beside him, her gaze roaming suspiciously in my direction without focusing on me.

I knew I couldn’t risk sleeping – not if I wished to keep the Architect from getting his mana back – so I sat cross-legged, prepared to wait the handful of hours until the sun rose. I fished through my pack, found myself some rations, and nibbled on a bit of jerky disconsolately as I watched the darkspawn. When the Architect wasn’t watching, I dug into my bag and pulled out the first thing I could think of – a dirty sock – and tucked it underneath me, hoping it would go unnoticed by the darkspawn, and help Alistair or Aedan find me if they tried to come looking.

Some of the darkspawn sat, some roamed as if keeping watch. The emissary stayed near the Architect, its demeanour almost subservient as it waited for him to sit before it settled nearby. The Architect eyed me curiously, gaze travelling between the two sentient darkspawn and me, seemingly fascinated that the ghoul could not see me, even knowing I existed.

“How do you do that?” he finally asked.

I glanced at Utha, her ruined face obscured by the darkness, and then back again. I shrugged. “You tell me. You did it to me, after all.”

If I could have seen his eyebrows, I could tell one of them would have been raised in confusion. His expressions were disconcertingly human, and I shifted uncomfortably as I continued. “I assume it was something like what you did to the Grey Wardens whose taint you accelerated twenty-five years ago in Ortan Thaig.”

He appeared to be considering it, his head tilting in that familiar canine way; after a few moments, he shook his head irritably. “Possible, I suppose.” He paused. “And how are you doing this?” He gestured at himself and the ornate staff he had set beside himself, and I knew he meant his mana.

I waved a hand at myself. “Templar.” When he didn’t respond, I clarified, “I’m a templar. Well, something more than a normal templar, I suppose. Also your fault, I think. Look, my friend is hurt. And a dead Warden doesn’t help you as much as a live one, right? Let me give him this.” I held up one of the small healing potions that I made whenever I got the chance. “It’s just a healing potion.”

He considered briefly, then nodded at a stump about a dozen feet from me. “Put it there, and Utha will administer it.”

I did, and the former dwarf retrieved it and carefully poured it into Faren’s open mouth after removing his gag. Once done, she re-gagged him and sat down again. I thanked the Architect, and he acknowledged it with a puzzled nod.

He lapsed into silence after that, and I sat quietly, alternating between watching the stars, and watching the various darkspawn. After a couple of hours I saw Faren stir, to my relief; he couldn’t talk, but I could tell by his aborted movements that he was awake and struggling against the ropes. Not wanting him to hurt himself or panic, I called out to him.

“Faren, I’m here. Try to relax.” I wanted to remind him we’d be rescued, but I didn’t want the Architect sending any darkspawn against Avanna, so I held my tongue.

He grunted, but the twitching stopped. Shortly after that, the sky began lightening as dawn approached; without a word, a hurlock stooped to pick Faren up again, and I stood up reluctantly. We walked the whole day, stopped only briefly to allow Faren and me bathroom breaks; Utha fed Faren some jerky from one of the soldiers’ packs I hadn’t noticed that they’d stolen, and I ate some of my own while walking. The darkspawn didn’t eat, for which I was thankful – but it was also creepy. Where do they get energy from? I was grateful for the year of solid walking I’d done during the Blight, or I’d never have been able to keep up with the darkspawn’s unending stamina. As it was, between no sleep, a few months of less exercise, and the crash after the previous day’s adrenaline rush, I was barely able to stumble along behind.