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DRAGON AGE: THE CALLING 3 страница

That they were capable of knowing such things... that was quite something else.

He waited, considering if he shouldn't try to get out while he still could. Did it matter if they killed him? He had come into the Deep Roads to die, after all. What was the worst they could do, other than knock him out again and put him back in this cell?

The idea weighed down on him, made him hang his head low.

The strange humming seemed to be everywhere. He could feel the greasy slickness of the taint inside him now; it permeated every membrane and filled every orifice. He wanted to scratch at his face, peel off the flesh from his bones. He wanted it out of him.

"Yes," he slowly admitted. "The Calling. That's what we call it when it's our time to come, to make an end to it."

"The Calling," it repeated, nodding as if in approval. "You wish a glorious end rather than succumbing to the taint? Is that what happens?"

"I don't know!" Bregan snapped. He looked up at the creature and was taken aback to find that it was staring at him with a strange clinical curiosity.

"No? Has it never happened before?"

Bregan lurched to his feet, ignoring the dull jabs of pain from his wounds and the nauseated rumbling of his stomach. The humming got even louder, and for a moment he swayed on his feet as light- headedness overtook him. "What are you?" he cried. He stormed toward the creature, got close enough that he could smell its carrion flesh, see its pale pupils watching his every movement.

It didn't retreat. "Why have you brought me here? Maker's breath! I should be dead!"

"Is that truly why you came? To die?"

"Yes!" Bregan screamed. He grabbed the emissary by its robes,pulling it toward him as he reared his fist to strike. It didn't fight him. Bregan's fist shook as he gritted his teeth and stared the darkspawn in the face. He should hit it. He should kill it. He had no reason not to; why was he hesitating?

"I think," it whispered, "that you came because you felt you had no other choice."

Bregan let it go, shoving it away from him. The darkspawn stumbled back, almost falling to the ground, but righted itself with its staff. It seemed unconcerned. He turned away from it, shaking with fury. "I'm not going to give you whatever it is you want," he growled. "So you may as well go ahead and kill me."

For a long minute he heard simple rustling, the darkspawn smoothing its robes and regaining its composure. The humming thrummed in the distance, and behind it he could sense the other darkspawn. He could faintly make out the sounds they made, the unnatural rattling and the dry hiss that had haunted his dreams ever since the Joining, when he had taken their dark essence inside himself. He could feel them pressing in on the wall of his mind.

Relentless. He broke out in a sweat and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the mad rhythm of his heart.

He had known. When the ceremonies for the Calling were done and the dwarves had all finished paying their solemn respects, they had opened the great seal on the outskirts of Orzammar. He had looked out into the Deep Roads and known it couldn't possibly be this easy. Better to fall on one's sword, end it quickly and cleanly no matter what the Maker might think of it. Better that than to walk slowly out into a sea of darkness and be drowned in it.

Yet he had gone. It didn't matter what he wanted. His entire life it hadn't mattered what he wanted; why should it be different now?

"The answer to your first question," the emissary intoned, "is that I am the Architect."

"Is that your name?"

"We do not have names. That is simply what I am. The others of my kind do not have even that much. They are simply darkspawn, and nothing more."

He turned slowly back, puzzled."But you are? Something more?"

The darkspawn held up a finger. "What if I told you that there could be peace between our kind and yours? That such a thing is possible?"

Bregan wasn't sure what to think of the question."Is that something that we would even want? I mean, peace with the darkspawn? It's... hard to imagine."

"The Grey Wardens have never been successful in wiping out our kind. Four times we have found one of the ancient dragons slumbering in their prisons beneath the earth, the beings you call the Old Gods."The Architect looked off into the distance, its demeanor melancholy."They call to us, a siren song we cannot resist. We seek them out, and when they rise up to the surface, we follow. We cannot resist. And when your kind drive us back down, the cycle begins anew."

Bregan frowned. "Then the only way there can be peace is if the darkspawn are destroyed."

The Architect stared at him with sudden intensity in its pale eyes. "That isn't the only way," it said, the resonance in its unearthly voice making him shiver.

And then Bregan realized what the darkspawn sought from him.

In a flash he ran forward, shoving the startled creature out of his way as he snatched the glowstone from its hand. The Architect stumbled against the wall of the cell, its staff clattering loudly to the ground. Not waiting for it to start casting a spell, Bregan darted out into the hall. He slammed the metal door behind him and it closed with a resounding thoom.

The hall was worse than the cell, overgrown with what looked like organic tendrils and sacs of black mucus. There were other doors, some rusted shut or all but covered in strange, barnacle- like growths. He ignored them and started running, holding the glowstone before him.

Already he heard the hue and cry beginning around him, angry hissing and the sound of creatures running in all directions. The darkspawn were connected to each other by the same dark force that the Grey Wardens used to sense them- the Architect had been completely correct about that much, though Bregan didn't want to know how it knew.

His attention was focused on expanding his senses, trying to discern where the darkspawn were moving. It was difficult. Their taint was all around him here, and every time he tried to push outward with his mind, the infernal humming noise just became stronger. Homing in on individuals when he was surrounded by such filth, it was as if every breath of it flooded him.

As he rounded a corner, he almost ran into a small group of darkspawn - real warriors, tall hurlocks with mismatched heavy armor and wicked- looking blades. They bared their fangs, hissing as they reared back in surprise.

Bregan didn't give them a chance to act. He charged the nearest, grabbing hold of its curved sword and kicking it in the chest. The creature was startled enough to let go, issuing a shout of dismay.

He then spun around, slashing the blade across the neck of a second darkspawn. It fell, clutching at the black ichor that fountained from the wound.

The third darkspawn let out an ululating cry, bringing its blade swinging down on him hard. Bregan dodged to the side at the last moment, letting the creature overbalance, and then knocked it on the head with his sword's pommel. Tossing the sword up, he reversed his grip on the hilt and then stabbed down into its back. It let out a gurgling cry as he wrenched the blade about in the wound.

The darkspawn he had kicked was already recovering. It barreled into him with a roar, knocking him away from his sword, and bit hard into his arm. The fangs sank deep into his flesh, and he could feel the dark corruption oozing into his blood. If he were anything other than a Grey Warden, that would be the end of him right there. He would contract a wasting illness, bringing madness and delirium and eventually an agonizing death.

But Grey Wardens paid a heavy price to become what they were. And for good reason.

Bregan fought hard against the hurlock, gritting his teeth as it emitted a rattling screech right over his face. He could smell its fetid breath, see the glistening black tongue rolling behind its long fangs. Already the cries of other darkspawn were drawing near.

They struggled on the stone, and then he got a hand free and jutted it hard under the creature's chin. It squealed in rage as he pushed its head away from him, harder and harder until it was stretched back, struggling to maintain its leverage.

Finally, when it let go of him, he shoved. It hit its head against the passage wall, hard enough for there to be a muted cracking sound. Before it could re orient itself, he snatched up the sword and jumped to his feet in one smooth motion. As the darkspawn attempted to rise, he hacked down. Once. Twice. And it was done.

He paused, gasping for breath, and leaned against the wall. A wave of weakness came over him, and he let the sword drop to the ground. The smell of the flowing ichor was pungent, overwhelming even the stink that surrounded him. The humming grew more strident, more insistent. It threatened to block off all other sounds.

For just a moment he pressed his forehead against cool stone and closed his eyes.

He heard a reverberating hiss nearby, and as Bregan opened his eyes and turned, he saw another heavily armored darkspawn running at him with a spear. Barely pausing to consider, he grabbed the shaft of the spear behind the tip and pulled it hard into the wall.

The darkspawn stumbled toward him, and he lifted his elbow to connect with its face. There was a sickening crunch of teeth and bone, and as the creature recoiled, he snatched the spear away. He spun the weapon around and thrust the point through its abdomen. Not waiting for the creature to fall, he let go of the shaft and turned to leave. He had to get out. Quickly. Scooping up the fallen sword, he ran into a large open chamber. It was filled with many pillars, some half crumbled, others reaching to a distant ceiling.

All of them were covered in black fungus and corruption. The glowstone sent shadows dancing everywhere.

As he raced through the room, he saw more darkspawn run in ahead of him. Some of them were short genlocks, with their pointed ears and toothy grins. When they spotted him, they raised their bows and began firing arrows. Two whistled by him. One struck his shoulder, but he ignored it and began charging toward them. With a loud cry, Bregan raised the sword and slashed it down hard as he moved through the darkspawn line. He wasn't even paying attention to individual targets, just slashing hard and then spinning and slashing again as he ran past them. Ichor sprayed across his face, and for a moment the dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, but he bit down hard and fought it back.

The genlocks tried to rally their numbers, but there was nothing they could do. Some of them were falling back, trying to reorganize, but he was already through. He turned a corner into another passage, and as a larger hurlock roared and raced toward him, he cut it down without another thought and kept running.

There had to be a way out. There had to be. This was some kind of fortress, long abandoned by the dwarves when their ancient kingdoms were overrun by these creatures. If he could just find away out, get back into the Deep Roads, he could...

He stopped midway down a flight of cracked stairs. He could hear the darkspawn not far behind him, as well as more ahead of him. It was like an anthill stirring to life. His shoulders sagged and he dropped his head low, breathing heavy. He tried to ignore the sweat pouring into his eyes.

Even if he got out of here, where was he supposed to go? He was supposed to be dead. Rightfully, he should let the darkspawn kill him, if they even would.

He stared at the sword in his hands. The blade was tinged with soot, irregularly shaped, with a sharp and curved point at its end, not unlike a large saber. The hilt was crude, wrapped in a leather that Bregan didn't really want to know the origin of. Poorly made, to be sure, but effective. That point could tear his throat out easily; just put it up to his neck and with one swift jerk it would be done.

There would be no way they could get the location of the Old Gods from him then. No way that he would be responsible for the beginning of another Blight, another invasion of the surface lands by these monsters. He had to assume they couldn't just read his mind somehow, or they would have already done so, but who knew what tricks the Architect had? Best that the knowledge died with him here.

Gritting his teeth, he raised the sword, the curve of the point covering his throat almost perfectly. Heading out into the Deep Roads to die fighting hadn't been his idea. It was centuries of Grey Warden tradition that had been forced on him, and he had reluctantly agreed, as he had agreed to everything in his life. It was better this way.

The blade wavered. A despairing wail escaped him and he began to shake. He let the blade drop to his side, closing his eyes as the sobs racked his body.

Darkspawn began to pour toward him from both ends of the passage, but he barely noticed. He stood numbly on the stairs and waited, the blackness closing in on his mind. The humming sound reached a crescendo, an urgency that tugged on the edges of his consciousness and stretched it thin.

It was inside him.

All at once, the darkspawn swarmed over Bregan and pulled him to the ground. They bit into his flesh, and several sharp objects poked him painfully. He didn't cry out and didn't resist. The glowstone was borne away, and as the darkness became total something struck him on the back of the head.

It was better this way.

Those who had been cast down, the demons who would be gods,

Began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth.

And the men of Tevinter heard, and raised altars to the pretender-gods once more,

And in return were given, in hushed whispers, the secrets of darkest magic.

-Canticle of Threnodies 5:11

Duncan sat in the small boat, quite miserable and certain that it would tip over at any second and spill everyone on board into Lake Calenhad. The journey west from Denerim had taken them several days, and he wasn't even sure why they were bothering. If First Enchanter Remille had wanted to give them something, why hadn't he brought it with him to the capital? It seemed pointless to drag the Grey Wardens all this way, even if the entrance into the Deep Roads was supposedly not far from here. If time was as tight as Genevieve kept claiming, it seemed like it would make more sense to go after her brother now.

But no. Instead he was forced to squeeze into a boat that had room only for the King and the burly fellow with the oar, freezing as they navigated their way across the lake. The wind howled fiercely, and with each gust Duncan shivered. Really, he couldn't stop shivering, even with the fur cloak the King had given him to wrap up in. Was everywhere in this country cold?

Chunks of floating ice thumped against the boat with alarming strength and regularity. The oarsman was forced to concentrate on his task, sweating with the effort. Sometimes he would do little more than push the ice away from the boat with his oar. Other times he would start paddling furiously, only to reverse their course a moment later. What happened if the lake froze over completely? Did people just walk to the tower, then?

Only the King seemed unperturbed by the entire experience. He had been quiet since they left the city, mostly keeping to himself and asking very little of his appointed keeper... something Duncan heartily approved of. Once or twice the King had asked some probing questions about the Grey Wardens, questions Duncan had warily answered. Genevieve had warned him that the King might do so, and in the same breath had said that Duncan should tell the man as little as possible. The King had merely shrugged at the responses. He didn't appear to expect more.

It did make for several days of quiet, however. They had left Denerim by the North Road, traveling quickly along the Coastlands. It wasn't very busy at this time of year, according to Genevieve, and that meant less chance of them being either followed or recognized.

Once the snows came, most traffic resorted to the sturdy ships that sailed the Waking Sea. They'd seen only a handful of others, merchants bundled up in woolens pulling their carts, and pilgrims forced to wait until almost too late in the season to travel. None of them had so much as glanced their way.

Dwarves didn't ride very well, but Utha did her best to suffer the indignity quietly. Really, Duncan thought she rode far more gracefully than the few other dwarves he had seen do it. Usually her people preferred to ride in carriages or carts, and not on the animals themselves, though he'd heard that in Orzammar the dwarves sometimes rode oxen. He'd asked Utha about it once, and from her grin he could tell she found the question amusing. Maybe it wasn't true? He didn't know; he'd never been to Orzammar.

Kell retrieved his warhound, Hafter, as soon as they'd left the palace. He was a giant of a dog, all muscle and teeth and shaggy grey hair. Duncan had no idea what breed of dog Hafter was supposed to be, only that he could tear out a man's throat in defense of his master. In fact, Duncan had seen him do so. Hafter bounded merrily along beside the hunter's horse, long tongue hanging out of his mouth. One would never guess the happy hound could transform into a killer at the slightest command.

Julien and Nicolas kept mostly to themselves, as they often did.

Duncan supposed they had fought back to back for so long they were simply more accustomed to each other's company. Sometimes Genevieve rode with them, but usually she rode up front with Kell. There she kept her gaze intently fixed on the horizon, as if by sheer will she could somehow bring it closer.

Normally Duncan would have ridden with Fiona, and they would have chatted amiably during the trip as the quieter Grey Wardens shot them dark looks. He had come to know the elven mage fairly well in the months since he'd joined the order. Now, however, she mostly stayed away. On the few chances he did get to speak to her, she seemed agitated, and as soon as King Maric returned to Duncan's side, Fiona would scowl and move her horse away. She didn't trade a single word with the man, and brusquely ignored any of his attempts to make conversation.

The King had glanced at him quizzically, and he'd shrugged in response. Who could tell why the elf did anything? Not him.

The first night they spent in a village had been uncomfortable, to say the least. Genevieve hadn't liked the idea of being exposed, but they had left the city too hurriedly to properly equip themselves. A tense night had been spent in an inn, the King hooded and kept far from prying eyes. Duncan had rested on the wooden floor next to the King's cot, shivering and swearing at the icy Fereldan weather that seeped through his threadbare blankets and made for an unbearably sleepless night.

After that they'd avoided most of the small hamlets that dotted the road, skirting the edge of the central Bannorn as they headed westward. Only once had the King insisted they stop at a particular farmhold on the outskirts. It seemed unremarkable to Duncan, just a holding made of cracked and worn whitestone and fenced pastures given over mostly to goats and sheep.

Who was within was anyone's guess, and the Grey Wardens waited outside for the King to finish his business. Fiona had bristled at the brief delay even more than Genevieve, and her scowl at King Maric once he returned left little to imagine as to what she thought of the entire business. He ignored her, and she spent the next hour whispering an angry complaint to the Commander loudly enough for the rest of them to hear. Duncan assumed that they were meant to.

Afterwards Genevieve had driven them double time, stopping to camp only when it was absolutely too dark to ride and mercilessly stirring them all as soon as the first sliver of sun was sighted on the horizon. Duncan was happy to do the majority of the complaining, not that anyone listened to him. They were all exhausted and tense. The more time that passed, the more agitated Genevieve became. Finally reaching the shores of Lake Calenhad had been a relief.

Now King Maric sat not a foot away from Duncan in the small boat, staring out across the lake with his eyes half closed as the wind washed across his face and ruffled his blond hair. He seemed to take plea sure in it, Duncan observed, and even after giving up his fur cloak didn't seem the least bothered by the cold.

The King apparently noticed that he was being watched, and regarded Duncan in return. Duncan should probably have felt self-conscious at being caught, but didn't. For a king, this fellow was a very odd man. Who had ever heard of a king just up and leaving his palace, heading off into possible danger without so much as a send-off? The group of them had snuck out of Denerim like criminals, and not even Teyrn Loghain showed up to give them a proper scowl. It was very likely nobody even knew the King had left. The man deserved to be stared at.

"Are you curious about something?" he asked Duncan, slightly bemused. His breath came out in a plume of fine mist.

"Is that silverite?" Duncan asked, pointing at the King's armor, as fine a suit of plate as he'd ever seen. It seemed light as well as comfortable, and reflected the dim sunlight with a brilliance that he couldn't help noticing. The amount that such a suit of armor would fetch on the black market boggled his mind.

"It is. I haven't worn it since the war, however. I'm surprised it still fits. Have you seen silverite before?"

Duncan pulled out one of his daggers and showed it to the King, who raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was made of silverite,as well. "I have two of these," Duncan explained.

"You're full of surprises. Should I ask where you got them?"

"You can if you want, but I won't tell you."

The King smirked. "Aren't you supposed to do what I ask? I seem to recall that being mentioned at some point."

"Fine. I bought them with the vast fortune that was left to me by my parents. They were once the ruling Prince and Princess of Antiva until they were unfairly deposed, and one day I will return to claim my throne."

King Maric chuckled gamely, and for a moment Duncan thought that maybe this King wasn't such a bad fellow after all. Then, as another chill gust of wind blew across the boat and set Duncan's teeth to chattering, the life drained out of the King's smile. A shadow passed behind the man's eyes, and he turned to stare out grimly over the water once again.

"I wouldn't recommend it," he muttered.

It was proving difficult to reconcile Maric the Savior - the man who, according to everyone, had single-handedly wrested his nation back from the Orlesians and then set about rebuilding it into a force to be reckoned with- with the sad fellow that sat across from him. Perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned anything about a throne? Maybe thrones were bad.

"My chances are pretty bad anyhow, I'm told." Duncan smiled apologetically. "And Antiva is a terrible place. All full of assassins and... Antivans. So maybe I'm better off."

The oarsman glanced back, huffing and puffing from the exertion as he rowed, but made no comment on their exchange. Duncan wasn't certain the man knew he was ferrying the King of Ferelden across the lake, to be honest. Genevieve had made all the arrangements and had already gone across with the First Enchanter.

The King was silent for several minutes, simply staring out at the lake. Just when Duncan thought that he should probably go back to shivering in his furs, however, the man abruptly turned and asked a question. "What are the darkspawn, exactly?"

"Don't you know?"

"I've seen them," he admitted, "and I was told a little about them back then, but you people are Grey Wardens. Your order has been dealing with them for centuries. You must know more about them than anyone."

Duncan chuckled. "They're monsters."

"And?"

"And what? I've been a Grey Warden for six months, maybe."

"So that's it? That's all you know? That they're monsters?"

Duncan rubbed his forehead, trying to think. It was hard when it was this cold. It snowed in Val Royeaux from time to time, but when it did everyone stayed indoors and the market district all but shut down. Those were difficult days to be a cutpurse. "Well, let's see. You know about the magisters, I assume?"

"I know what the Chant of Light says about them. It says that the mages of Tevinter grew bold enough to open a portal into heaven so they could usurp the Maker's throne, but instead corrupted it with their sin."

He nodded. "And were corrupted in turn, right. The first darkspawn. What's wrong with that story? Not enough for you?"

The King peered at him curiously. "Doesn't it seem, I don't know... a bit pat?"

"Don't let the priests hear you say that!" Duncan laughed.

"But there must be more to it. Why are there so many? How do they live?"

Duncan spread his hands helplessly. "You're talking to the wrong Grey Warden. All I know is that the darkspawn spend all their time searching for the Old Gods."

"That's it? Nothing else? They must be boring at parties."

"That's pretty much it. They don't think, exactly."

King Maric gave him a significant look."But they take prisoners."

He shrugged, avoiding the man's gaze. "Apparently."

For another hour they sat in silence, Duncan watching Kinloch Hold loom larger and larger before them. The thin spire appeared to rise out of the middle of the lake, and he wondered faintly how the mages had built it out there. Had they used magic to pull it up out of the rock? This tower looked elegant, at least from afar. Up close it was weathered and stained, the wider structure at the base standing on a rocky island almost completely covered in snow.

The only sounds were the low whistling of the wind and the rhythmic sloshing caused by the rowing. They passed directly under what had once been a giant causeway that led from the shore all the way out to the tower. Now it was just a crumbling arch, one of several. The fact that it was even partially standing after so many centuries was probably a tribute to the skill of those who had built it, Duncan supposed. He couldn't begin to guess why they didn't repair the bridge so that these long ferry rides weren't necessary.

Maybe they didn't know how any longer? Maybe they forgot why they built a giant tower out in the middle of a lake, as well. That thought brought him no small amount of amusement.

"Have you ever been here before?" he asked the King.

"Once during the war. Then again for the last First Enchanter's funeral, though we didn't go inside. Otherwise the Chantry objects to me coming here, just in case."

"Just in case of what?"

"Just in case there are mages within who have learned a spell or two that they shouldn't have. Wouldn't do to have the King of Ferelden having his mind controlled, would it?'

Duncan's eyes went a bit wide. "They can do that?"

"I think it's more important that the Chantry believes they can."

Duncan had heard of blood magic. That was how the ancient magisters bent all of Thedas to their will, using the blood of their sacrifices to fuel their magic and open up portals into heaven. They were responsible for the Blights, according to the Chantry.

Andraste had thrown down the magisters with that accusation, claiming that magic was meant to serve rather than rule. It was a rallying cry that had spread across all of Thedas. It was the reason such towers as the one to which they were now rowing existed.

In such places mages could be trained, and, more important, watched closely. If blood magic meant the mages could actually control someone's mind, maybe the priests had good reason to be so suspicious.

"I've been to one of the Circle's towers once," Duncan explained. "It was the one outside of Montsimmard, but it was nothing like this one. More of a fortress. That's where Fiona was recruited."

The King looked at him quizzically. "Fiona. That's the elven woman?"

"That's the one."

Duncan stared up at the tower again, which now loomed large and blotted out most of the sky. They had rowed into its shadow, and Duncan could make out the cave they were headed for amid the sharp rocks. Supposedly the base of the tower was in there, as well as a place to park the boat. If not, they would no doubt crash on the rocks and drown. Seemed simple enough.

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