АкушерствоАнатомияАнестезиологияВакцинопрофилактикаВалеологияВетеринарияГигиенаЗаболеванияИммунологияКардиологияНеврологияНефрологияОнкологияОториноларингологияОфтальмологияПаразитологияПедиатрияПервая помощьПсихиатрияПульмонологияРеанимацияРевматологияСтоматологияТерапияТоксикологияТравматологияУрологияФармакологияФармацевтикаФизиотерапияФтизиатрияХирургияЭндокринологияЭпидемиология

DRAGON AGE: THE CALLING 2 страница

The First Enchanter looked as though he wanted to speak again, but Genevieve shook her head at him. She bowed gracefully to the throne and turned to leave. Duncan and the others went with her. The two men on the dais barely noticed them go.

Once the hall was cleared out, Maric sat back in his throne and waited for the inevitable recriminations from Loghain. He wore that suit of heavy grey armor every time Maric saw him now. He had taken it from the commander of the chevaliers at the Battle of River Dane, a war souvenir that he had worn to the victory parade in Denerim years later. The people had loved him for it, and Maric had been amused.

The amusement had lessened over the intervening years. At first, Loghain and Maric and Rowan had worked tirelessly to restore Ferelden after the war. There had been so much to do, so many issues left behind by the Orlesian withdrawal that it seemed like there was never enough time for anything.

It had been a breathless time, exhilarating in its way. Harsh decisions had needed to be made, and Maric had made them. Each one had taken a small piece of his soul, but he had made them. Ferelden had grown strong again, just as they had always wanted.

Loghain was a hero, and both Rowan and Maric were legends. When Rowan finally gave him a son, Maric had thought that perhaps a bit of happiness was finally possible.

And then she had died, and everything had changed.

Loghain stared at him as if he had no idea who Maric was. Suddenly, he drew his sword and pointed it at Maric's chest.

"Here," he offered curtly.

"I have my own sword, thank you."

"It's not for you to take. It's for you to throw yourself on, since you seem so eager."

Maric pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He had known Loghain to dislike dramatics, once. It seemed that the years had given him an appreciation for it. "Perhaps you'd prefer to throw yourself on it instead?"

"I'm not trying to kill myself." Loghain's expression was dark, almost hurt. "This will make it quicker, easier. At least this way we'll have a body to burn. I won't need to explain to your son why his father went off on a mad mission and never returned."

"The darkspawn are real, Loghain. What if the Grey Wardens are telling us the truth?"

"And what if they aren't?" Loghain walked over to the throne, putting his hands on the armrests and leaning down to look Maric directly in the face. "Even if you think the fact that they have come from Orlais meaningless," he pleaded, "you must know that the Grey Wardens have always had their own agenda. They serve no nation, and no king. They will do what they think is best to deal with this threat, and won't care about you, or Ferelden, or anything else!"

He had a point. Two centuries ago, the Grey Wardens had taken part in a plot to overthrow the Fereldan king. It had failed, and the order was exiled, but what few people knew was that it had taken the entire Fereldan army to drive them out. Thousands of men pitted against less than a hundred, and the Wardens had very nearly won. They were a force to be reckoned with, no matter their numbers.

"It's not just that," Maric muttered.

"Then what? Because Rowan is dead?" Loghain stood up, pacing a short distance away as he shook his head. "You've been like this ever since I returned. You barely see your son; you barely lift a finger to rule the nation that you restored from ruins. At first I allowed it as part of your grief, but it has been three years now. It's as if you wish to disappear." He turned to look at Maric, his eyes full of so much concern that Maric couldn't meet them. "Is that really what you want? Does the madness of this plan mean nothing to you?"

Maric steepled his hands together and considered. He hadn't wanted to tell Loghain, but it seemed like he had no other choice.

"Do you remember the witch we met in the Korcari Wilds?" he began. "Back during the rebellion, when we were fleeing the Orlesians?"

Loghain appeared taken aback, as if he hadn't expected a rational explanation. He hesitated only a moment. "Yes. The mad woman who nearly killed us both. What of her?"

"She told me something."

Loghain looked at him expectantly. "And? She babbled many things, Maric."

"She told me that a Blight was coming to Ferelden."

He nodded slowly. "I see. Did she say when?"

"Only that I wouldn't live to see it."

Loghain rolled his eyes and walked a step away, running a hand through his black hair. It was a gesture of exasperation with which Maric was well familiar. "That is a prediction that almost anyone could safely make. She was trying to scare you, no doubt."

"She succeeded."

He turned and glared at Maric scornfully. "Did she not also tell you I was not to be trusted? Do you believe that now, too?"

There was a tension in that look, and Maric knew why. The witch had said of Loghain, "Keep him close, and he will betray you. Each time worse than the last." It was the only one of her pronouncements to which Loghain had been privy, and obviously he remembered it well. Perhaps he thought that if Maric believed one, he believed the other. Loghain had never betrayed him, not to his knowledge. It was something to keep in mind.

"You think it's a coincidence?" Maric asked, suddenly uncertain.

"I believe this witch was serving her own purposes, and would lie about whatever she thought convenient. Magic is not to be trusted, Maric." Loghain closed his eyes and then sighed. He shook his head slightly, as if what he was about to say was madness, but he opened his eyes anyhow and spoke with conviction. "But if you truly believe that the witch's warning has merit, let me be the one to go into the Deep Roads, not you. Cailan needs his father."

"Cailan needs his mother." His voice sounded hollow, even to himself. "And he needs a father who isn't... I'm not doing him any good, Loghain. I'm not doing anyone any good here. It will be better if I'm out there, helping the kingdom."

"You are an idiot."

"What you need to do," Maric ignored him, "is to stay. Look after Cailan. If something happens to me, you'll need to be his regent and keep the kingdom together."

Loghain shook his head in frustration."I can't do that. Even if I believed this cryptic warning, I would not agree that it was worth placing you in the hands of these Orlesians. Not without an entire army to surround you."

Maric sighed and sat back in the throne. He knew that tone. When Loghain believed he was in the right, there was no dissuading him. He would sooner call the guards in here and attempt to have Maric locked up in the dungeon than see him do this.

In Loghain's mind, the Grey Wardens were Orlesian. The First Enchanter was Orlesian. This had to be some manner of plot - not that it would be the first. There had been several assassins over the years, as well as more than a few attempts by disaffected banns to overthrow him, and while Loghain could never prove that the Empire was behind them all, Maric did not disbelieve his theories.

Perhaps he was even right about this.

But what if he wasn't? The witch had been crazy, almost certainly, but Maric still found it impossible to discount her words entirely. She had saved their lives, put them on the path out of the Korcari Wilds when otherwise they would have died. He had almost forgotten her warning about the Blight, but the very instant First Enchanter Remille had told him of the Wardens' request for an audience, he had remembered.

The thought of a Blight here in Ferelden was almost too much to bear. The old tales spoke of vast swarms of darkspawn spilling out onto the surface, blackening the skies and tainting the earth around them. They spread a plague by their very presence, and those the disease didn't kill, their armies did. Each Blight had come close to destroying all of Thedas, something the Grey Wardens knew better than anyone.

Surely such a disaster was worth risking almost anything to avert.

Loghain could dismiss the idea, but Maric was less convinced.

What if the witch was correct? What if the whole point of receiving such a prophecy was that it gave you a chance to try to prevent it?

"You're right," he admitted with a heavy sigh. "Of course you're right."

Loghain stepped back, folding his arms and looking at Maric skeptically. "This is new."

Maric shrugged. "They're desperate and asking too much. We can give them advice, maybe even draw out a map with as much information as we can remember. But going into the Deep Roads again? No, you're right."

"You give them advice." Loghain frowned. "I have had my fill of Orlesians for one evening. Especially that lickspittle Remille. You know he cannot be trusted, I assume?"

"He's Orlesian, isn't he?"

"Fine. Joke about it if you wish." He turned and began walking toward the small door off to the side of the dais."I will send someone to tell the Grey Wardens to come back, but do not take too long with them. There is much that needs to be done in the morning, Maric. The ambassador from Kirkwall wishes to discuss the raider situation off the coast, and I trust that if you can stir yourself for an audience such as this, you can manage it for actual business?"

"I'll do that," Maric answered. As he watched his old friend storm off, he found himself left with a weary hollowness. Perhaps he even felt a bit of pity, and then guilt for pitying a man who had done so much for him. For all of Loghain's protests about how he remained in Denerim to help run things, Maric knew why he really didn't return to Gwaren. A perfectly lovely young wife was there, raising their perfectly lovely young daughter.

They were all running away from something.

The Grey Wardens and the First Enchanter returned to the hall tentatively, looking around and obviously confused by the fact that Loghain was now missing from the dais. Maric felt about ten years older, hunched over on his throne and nowhere near ready to lead anyone anywhere.

Genevieve strode forward, the picture of a mature yet confident warrior. It made him think of what Rowan might have been like had she lived to that age. She would never have been so crisp and businesslike, however, he was sure. Rowan had been all heart, always showing concern for her kingdom and doting on their son every chance she got. She had enjoyed being a queen just as she had enjoyed being a mother, far more than she had ever enjoyed being a warrior.

In fact, he found instead that the white-haired Commander reminded him far more of Loghain.

"Have you changed your mind, King Maric?" Genevieve asked, with the tone of one who expected that this was the only reasonable course of action.

"No," Maric answered with a grim smile, though from her tense frown she obviously found this of no reassurance. "Provided that no one else knows I am traveling with you and we move secretly, I will go with you. Loghain will remain here. Unless you've changed your mind?"

She shook her head, dispensing with any hesitation. "Not at all. We need to move quickly, and I am certain nothing I could say would make you more aware of the risk than you already are."

"Good." He stood and strode down the dais toward her. She looked distinctly uncomfortable as he shook her hand. "Then let's dispense with the 'king' business, shall we? I'm as tired of it as you are, believe me."

"As you wish... Maric." There was the slightest hint of a smile as she inclined her head. Perhaps she wasn't as like Loghain as he had thought. "But if you'll allow me one indulgence, perhaps I might assign one of my people to you? Someone to watch over your safety and see to your needs?"

"If you feel that is best, by all means."

Genevieve beckoned to the young man she had introduced earlier, the one who had committed the crime. The lad was darker-skinned than the rest: Rivaini blood, perhaps? The boy grimaced, reluctant to approach, though a warning look brought him quickly enough. Once he stood at the Commander's side, he sighed as if the entire effort was an imposition of severe magnitude.

No subtlety there, Maric thought to himself. Wherever the Grey Wardens had found him, he was clearly accustomed to expressing his every thought and feeling. After so many years spent in the court, Maric might even find such company a refreshing change.

"Duncan, seeing to the King's needs will be your responsibility," Genevieve said, her tone making it clear there was to be no argument on the matter.

"You mean, like fetching him chamber pots and cooking his meals?"

"If he wishes, yes." As the lad scowled, she smirked with no small amount of amusement. "Think of it as your punishment. If you fail to acquit yourself in the King's service, he can always elect to have you thrown in prison when we return."

Duncan looked helplessly at Maric, his sullen expression saying, Please don't make me fetch your chamber pot. Maric was tempted to laugh, but kept himself under control. There weren't likely to be many chamber pots in the Deep Roads, after all. This would be no plea sure trip.

"Allow me to introduce you to the others," Genevieve continued. "This is Kell, my lieutenant. He has a sensitivity to the darkspawn taint, and will be our tracker once we're in the Deep Roads."

The hooded man who stepped forward had the most strikingly pale eyes Maric had ever seen. He bore a grim expression, and moved with a deliberate caution that spoke of an acute self-awareness. From the thick leathers and the longbow strapped to his back, Maric would have taken him for some kind of hunter.

Kell inclined his head politely but said nothing.

"And this is Utha, recruited from among the ranks of the Silent Sisters. She will not be able to speak to you, but most of us understand the signs she uses."

The dwarven woman who stepped forward wore a simple brown robe covered by her Grey Warden tunic. Her coppery hair was twisted into a long, proud braid that went down almost to the middle of her back, and she carried no weapons that Maric could see. He seemed to recall that the Silent Sisters fought with their bare hands - was that true? Despite her small size, she looked solid and muscular enough that he wouldn't want to tangle with her, weapons or no.

"These other two gentlemen are Julien and Nicolas. They have been with the order almost as long as I have."

Two tall men stepped forward, each dressed in the same kind of heavy plate armor that Genevieve wore. Both of them had burly mustaches in the typical Orlesian fashion, though otherwise they couldn't have been more different. The first, Julien, had dark brown hair cropped close to the skull and a short beard. He had a reserved air to him, his eyes shadowed but expressive, and he gave Maric a curt nod. The other, Nicolas, had blond hair almost to his shoulders and no beard to speak of. He clasped Maric's hand and gave it a vigorous shake, grinning boisterously.

Julien had a greatsword strapped to his back that was almost as large as he was. Nicolas, meanwhile, had a spiked mace strapped at his waist and an enormous shield on his back adorned with the griffon symbol. They both walked with the quiet confidence of warriors who had used those weapons often.

"And this is Fiona, recruited from the Circle of Magi in Montsimmard just over a year ago."

The elven woman who stepped forward was dressed in a chain hauberk and a blue skirt, clutching a white staff at her side. He wouldn't have picked her out as a mage if he'd seen her else where without her staff, and it had nothing to do with her being elven.

Most of the mages he'd ever encountered had been more like First Enchanter Remille: men, and the sort used to getting their own way. She was pretty, too, even if she had a chilly expression as she looked at him, and her bow was so slight it could barely have been called one at all.

First Enchanter Remille approached, distinctly discomfited.

He clutched at his yellow robes nervously as he bowed several times to Maric. "Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but time is of the essence. We should be under way to Kinloch Hold as soon as possible."

Genevieve nodded. "The Circle has offered us some magical assistance prior to heading into the Deep Roads. We have very little time, but I believe this will be useful."

"Why so little time?" Maric asked.

"We have never heard of a Grey Warden who wasn't killed by the darkspawn on sight." The thought made her grow silent, and her eyes became distant for a moment. Then she brusquely turned to walk to the great doors at the end of the hall. Maric followed her, the others falling in line behind them. "The fact that he is still alive is remarkable enough, and speaks of something unusual. We need to reach him before they take him farther into the Deep Roads, and before any information they might get from him spreads."

"And if it does? What then?"

"Then we kill every one of them that knows," she said somberly.

He believed she meant it. The idea that this small band could be a threat to the darkspawn, rather than the other way around, seemed surprising to him, but perhaps it shouldn't be. The Grey Wardens only recruited from among the very best, so the story went. Even though there hadn't been a Blight for centuries, their legend had lived on. They were held in high regard by the people, and had a presence in every nation outside of Ferelden.

That regard came with wariness in some circles, however. In other nations the Grey Wardens were often treated as an order that had outlived its purpose, the traditional tithes given only reluctantly.

Even so, they were never openly disrespected. For all their small numbers in current times, their ability was unquestioned.

"I do have one question for you, if I may," he asked.

"By all means."

"Who is it that we're looking for, exactly?"

Genevieve stopped before the doors, turning to face Maric directly. He saw her hesitate once again, considering exactly how much she should tell him. If he was going to travel with them into the most dangerous part of all Thedas, one would hope that eventually the Grey Wardens would trust him enough to let him in on their secrets. Loghain certainly wasn't wrong about the order having its own agenda, at least.

"His name is Bregan," she said, her tone curt."He is my brother."

And so is the Golden City blackened

With each step you take in my Hall.

Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.

You have brought Sin to Heaven,

And doom upon all the world.

-Canticle of Threnodies 8:13

The powerful stench in the air reminded Bregan of rancid meat.

There was a strange humming off in the distance, a sound he could just barely hear but which filled him with dread. He moved his hand carefully and found he was lying on stone. It felt oddly grimy, however, as if covered in a layer of soot and grease.

He was still in the Deep Roads. The sense of the miles of rock above him was strong, as if there were an invisible weight pressing down on his body. He took a deep, ragged breath and immediately gagged as the smell of decay overpowered him. He rolled over and retched uncontrollably, his empty guts roiling, but nothing came out but ugly gasps. Sharp pain stabbed through him, reminding him of the injuries he had suffered.

As Bregan brought his agonizing heaving under control, shaking and sweating as he did so, he felt blindly for those injuries. His armor was gone, as were his sword and shield, but they had left him his robe and his tunic, encrusted with blood and filth as those were. His injuries, meanwhile, had been dressed. In the utter darkness he couldn't quite tell what they had been dressed with. Some sort of poultice, it seemed, bound with a rough cloth that felt similar to burlap.

But who had brought him here? Who had tended to his injuries?

He remembered reaching a ruined thaig. He remembered being swarmed by darkspawn in the Deep Roads, overwhelmed by their numbers from all sides, and then...? Nothing. He recalled the feeling of their black blades slicing into his flesh, remembered their talons puncturing his armor and digging into his shoulders and legs. By all rights he should be dead. Darkspawn showed no mercy; they didn't take prisoners.

Bregan closed his eyes and carefully reached out with his senses.

There were darkspawn all around him. Not in the same room, perhaps, but nearby. He could feel them tickling at the edge of his mind. As always, the sensation came with a feeling of foulness, as if a poison had seeped under his skin.

He closed his eyes and attempted to force the awareness of their presence back out. How he had always despised it. Every Grey Warden gained the ability to touch the darkspawn from afar, and most considered it a gift. He had always thought it a curse.

The humming continued. Behind that sound, however, he could hear other things. There was movement, things slithering against rock. The sound of sloshing water. All of these things were muted and faint, but they were there. From time to time the quality of the smell would change, as well; it would become something burnt and charred. He would feel a strange pressure against his mental senses, as if something were... pushing against his mind. And then it would pass.

Apprehension tugged at him, and his heart began to beat more rapidly. Moving awkwardly, Bregan got up off the ground and onto his hands and knees. He felt around blindly to discern the limits of his environment. He felt some kind of fur pelt, dirty enough that he was glad his captors hadn't decided to toss him onto that instead of the bare floor. He felt smooth walls, definitely a place that was built and not a natural cave.

His hands came across something soft and sticky, like a putrescent growth that spiderwebbed its way across the rock. The darkspawn corruption. He forced down his revulsion. Best not to think too hard about it.

Then a new sound began. Footsteps, boots on stone and not faraway. Bregan turned to face the source, the first hint of direction he'd had since he awoke, and sensed a darkspawn approaching. He crawled away from it, his alarm giving way to terror. Was there a door there? Would he even see whatever was approaching him? His inability to adjust to the utter blackness around him was maddening.

The steps grew louder, echoing until they were ringing in his head. And then came the grinding sound of a metal door being opened, and suddenly there was light so bright it seared his eyes.

He shouted in pain and recoiled, covering his face as he did so.

"My apologies," came a male voice. It was soft and oddly resonant, with an unearthly timbre, yet not unpleasant. The words seemed clipped, as if the speaker was unaccustomed to using them.

Bregan sat back up, blinking hard and holding up a hand to block out the worst of the light. It was difficult to make out anything, and his eyes watered from the painful effort. He could make out a vague shadow within the light, carrying what appeared to be some manner of glowing rock. The shadow moved into the room but maintained a respectful distance.

"The light is necessary," the cultured voice continued."I suspect coming in the darkness would have been unpleasant for you. I am correct in assuming that you cannot see in the darkness, yes?"

Was this a darkspawn? The emissaries were capable of speech, but he didn't recall any record of a Grey Warden having actually spoken to one. They were the spellcasters of the darkspawn, and he had heard one on occasion taunting the front lines, or crying out in anger as the Grey Wardens pressed the attack. He had even heard of them delivering ultimatums from across the battlefield, but never anything like this. He felt with his mental senses, and yes, this was indeed a darkspawn before him. The very same sense of foulness touched his mind.

"I shall wait," the voice said. "Your sight shall return in time."

It took only a few moments of rubbing for Bregan's vision to finally begin to clear. What he saw in the light of the creature's glowstone did nothing to assuage his confusion. It was an emissary, a darkspawn who might have been mistaken for a human were it not for its corrupted flesh and wide, fishlike eyes. It had no hair,and its lips were peeled back from its sharp fangs to reveal a permanent, hideous grin. Instead of the usual assortment of decayed leathers and pieces of armor that the darkspawn wore, however, this one had a simple, soot-covered brown robe. It carried a gnarled black staff in one hand and the glowstone in the other.

It also seemed quite calm, studying Bregan with its eerie eyes.

He shuddered, not sure how to react at first. His instinct was to rush it, to snap its neck and get away. An emissary had command over magic, but like any mage it needed time to summon its power.

If he moved quickly enough, even its staff would do it no good.

"Have your injuries healed?" it asked quite suddenly. "I understand humans have the power to heal magically, but alas, that is not something I am capable of. Even our knowledge of your medicines is... limited."

"I don't understand," Bregan stammered.

The creature nodded, seemingly sympathetic to his plight.

Bregan was having difficulty resolving the fact that civilized behavior was coming from such a monstrous being. All the lore of the Grey Wardens, centuries upon centuries of knowledge painstakingly gained throughout the Blights... nothing suggested that the darkspawn ever did anything but mindlessly attack and infect any living creature they came across.

"What is it you do not understand?" it asked patiently.

"Are you... a darkspawn?"

It did not seem surprised in the slightest by his question. "Are you a human?"The strange timbre of its voice seemed to roll around the word human as if it were a foreign word. Bregan supposed that, to a darkspawn, it probably was. "I think you are not," it continued.

"I think you are a Grey Warden."

"I... I am both of those things."

It blinked at him, but Bregan couldn't tell if that indicated surprise or disbelief or something else entirely. Were darkspawn capable of emotions? They were capable of coordinated action.

They were known to make repairs to their armor, even build crude weapons and structures from the remnants of dwarven supplies they found in the Deep Roads. There had just never been any evidence of actual motivation behind what they did, beyond the dark forces that drove them. Perhaps the Grey Wardens were wrong.

Or perhaps they had known all along, and it was yet another of the secrets they kept, even from someone as high ranking as himself.

It wouldn't be the first time, he thought bitterly. Slowly Bregan sat back, keeping a wary eye on the emissary - assuming that was what it was. If it had meant to kill him, it would already have done so. What Bregan couldn't be sure of was whether that boded something far worse for him.

The darkspawn shifted in its dirty robes, leaning on its staff in a manner that Bregan found disturbingly human. "Our kind can sense a Grey Warden, just as a Grey Warden can sense us. And you know why this is." It looked pointedly at him, but he declined to say anything.

"There is a taint that is within the darkspawn," it supplied its own answer. "A darkness that pervades us, compels us, drives us to rail against the light. It is in our blood and corrupts the very world around us." The creature gestured toward Bregan with a withered, taloned hand. "It is also within your blood. It is what makes you what you are, what you sense in us and we in you."

Bregan felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He said nothing, and avoided meeting the darkspawn's alien gaze.

"You take that darkness into you," it continued. "You use it to fight against us. Your immunity to its effects are not complete, however. When the corruption takes its inevitable toll, you come into the Deep Roads. Alone. To fight against us one last time. This is why you came, is it not?"

The question hung in the air. Bregan still didn't look up at the creature, a powerful foreboding making him wary. The idea that the darkspawn could communicate in such a fashion was one thing.

Дата добавления: 2015-09-27 | Просмотры: 521 | Нарушение авторских прав