The Calling

19

Duncan watched Genevieve die.

After being struck by Bregan, Fiona had quietly helped Duncan back to his knees just in time to see Genevieve struck by the emissary’s spell. He had listen to her agonized shrieks, watched her spasm and writhe like an insect being consumed by black fire. It twisted him up inside to see it. Despite everything she had done, he had still managed to reach her in the end. When he had shouted to her, she had looked at him, and in that moment he had seen the woman he knew before this madness had eaten her up.

Then, as the fight began between Bregan and the Architect, Duncan noticed that the First Enchanter was merely standing to the side, waiting. He knew then that he couldn’t dwell on his grief. They had watched helplessly until now, chained and unarmed, but this was the moment to act.

Stretching out with his leg, he was suddenly glad that First Enchanter Remille was so engrossed with the combat. He strained hard until his boot caught the edge of the wrapped bundle that Bregan had so quickly tossed aside, the one with their weapons. Maric and Fiona watched him with wide eyes, nodding as they realized what he was doing. With effort he dragged the bundle closer, close enough that he could reach it.

Maric’s dragonbone blade was the key. It was enchanted, and he was willing to bet it could cut through the manacles. Duncan stared at the First Enchanter, willing him silently not to turn around as he pressed his restraints down hard on the sword. It was an awkward position, and once his hands slipped and the blade cut sharply into his arm, but then he tried again. He clenched his teeth, shaking with the effort, until finally the manacles snapped. The edge sliced open the side of one hand, but he pulled away quickly before he lost it entirely.

Ignoring the pain, Duncan moved fast. He reached into his belt and found his lockpick. It took only seconds for him to undo the lock on his chains and slip out of them.

“Hurry!” Maric whispered urgently.

Fiona gasped as the chamber filled with a bright flash of light. The peal of thunder that followed hit Duncan with enough force to knock him over, and briefly he wondered if the First Enchanter had noticed him after all. He jumped back to his feet and saw that, no, the mage had turned on Bregan and the Architect.

“What? Are all mages such evil bastards?” he wondered out loud.

“I’m a mage!” Fiona snorted.

Good point. Duncan worked quickly to undo their restraints. As soon as they were free, Maric jumped to his feet and snatched up the bundle off the floor. He handed Fiona’s staff to her and passed the black-bladed dagger to Duncan. The moment Duncan touched it, he felt a strange pulsing deep within the metal. It was cold and strangely … off. Yet it had never felt like this before. What could be happening to it?

“I can, and I shall,” came the First Enchanter’s pronouncement. Duncan saw the mage lording over the terribly wounded Bregan and the Architect. Frankly, they both deserved to die, but at the moment there was one madman mage to deal with.

Fortunately Maric felt the same way. “I wouldn’t count on that!”

First Enchanter Remille turned around, scowling as he saw his prisoners freed. Black energy swirled around his fingers. He was surrounded by an aura of power that chilled the air.

“You needed to announce our attack?” Fiona whispered, annoyed.

“Sorry,” Maric sighed. Behind them, Duncan could hear a great crashing sound outside the chamber. It almost felt as if the entire tower was being torn apart; he could feel the vibrations in the floor. Men were shouting to each other in the far distance, and he heard the sounds of battle. Was this Teyrn Loghain, then? Had he broken into the tower by somehow coming through the walls?

“I don’t suppose you’ll stand down quietly?” Maric asked gravely, raising his sword at the mage and trying to ignore the commotion behind him.

“No,” Remille snarled.

“I didn’t think so.”

Maric rushed at the mage, swinging his longsword around him so quickly that the magical runes left a trail of bluish light in the air. Remille snorted with derision and held up a hand. White energy formed and circled around him and he cast a spell, the same spell that Duncan recognized from the night they arrived out of the Deep Roads.

As the First Enchanter launched the spell at Maric, it suddenly hit an invisible wall directly in front of him, its energies dissipating harmlessly. The mage shot a withering look at Fiona, who had just finished casting a counterspell and now watched him warily.

“I see,” Remille snapped.

Maric slashed at the man, slicing through the material of his Circle robes, but the mage jumped aside too quickly for the strike to be lethal. He waved an arm at Maric, a surge of power sending the King hurtling away to crash into the rows of empty benches in the gallery. Then he turned his attention more fully to Fiona.

She brandished her staff, the tip of it forming a ball of flame that was slowly growing as she concentrated. “What a pathetic waste,” she growled. “It is men like you that ruin our reputation!”

He snorted. “The mundanes fear us, as they should.” Holding up his hand, a surge of black energy surged out of him and lanced toward Fiona. It was the same power that had slain Genevieve, Duncan saw. Fiona responded by shooting a bolt of flame from her staff. The two energies struck each other, creating a whirling inferno of shadow and flame in the center of the room, each struggling to push through the other. It became a duel between the two mages, each of them concentrating to pour more power into the magic racing forth from them.

Duncan gripped his black dagger tightly and crept around the First Enchanter in a wide arc. He didn’t want to be noticed, and clearly rushing at the man as Maric did was not going to do anything useful. Glancing toward where he had seen Maric land, he saw the man slowly regaining his feet—not dead, then. Perhaps the King was almost as lucky as he claimed.

The contest between Remille and Fiona continued, and Duncan saw that Fiona was slowly losing. Her jet of flames was diminishing, and she was struggling. Sweat poured down her brow. The First Enchanter was pressing his advantage, his face twisted into a scowl from the effort.

Perhaps breaking his concentration wouldn’t be such a bad idea, Duncan thought. He had managed to flank the mage without gaining the man’s notice, so he brandished his dagger and swiftly darted toward the man, his boots not making a sound. One slash to the neck, that was all he needed. Or the armpit. With an unarmored opponent, there were so many choices… .

Before he could get close enough, however, Remille noticed his approach. The mage’s eyes had turned pitch black. Inky liquid spilled from them like tears. “Thought I’d lost track of you, little guttersnipe?”

“I was hoping!” Duncan raced as fast as he could, intending to stab the man before he could manage another spell. He leaped into the air, his dagger poised for the strike, but it was too late.

Remille raised his other hand and a jet of dark shadow poured forth from it. It struck Duncan in the chest and propelled him backwards. He crashed to the ground well away from the mage, screaming in pain as the shadows spread over him like a blanket. It felt like a million ants crawling over his skin, each one biting and tearing away a piece of flesh. He flailed and swatted at the blackness with his free hand, but it was insubstantial. Like a ghost, his hand simply passed through it even though he could feel it consuming him.

Desperate, he stabbed at the shadow with his dagger. Better to carve off his own flesh than be eaten whole by this magic. To his surprise, he didn’t stab himself. The moment the blade so much as touched the shadows, they recoiled from it. He began pressing the blade with frenzied haste against his body wherever the darkness touched him, and each time it retreated.

Within moments he had escaped, backing against a wall and breathing rapidly. Terror raced through him as he stared at the inky black pool that lay just a foot from him, now sizzling. That could have been me, he thought. He was covered in sweat. The leather armor on his legs was torn up, the skin beneath it covered in slick blood, but he was whole.

The dagger almost pulsated now. He stared at it as realization slowly dawned on him. He had stolen this from the First Enchanter’s quarters, something the man had hidden away, but not from thieves, surely. How many thieves could there be loose in the Circle of Magi’s tower? He’d hidden it from the prying eyes of the templars and the other mages. It was made of the same magic that the Architect had taught him!

This was why Duncan hadn’t been affected by his brooch like the others had. His skin had never corrupted, he’d never heard the Calling, all because the dagger’s enchantment had protected him.

He shakily got to his feet. The First Enchanter was pressing the attack now, his shadow magic almost reaching Fiona. The stream of her flames had been forced back until it was now only a few feet from her, and she was beginning to falter. Suddenly she fell back. “Maric!” she cried out.

Maric appeared, as if summoned from nowhere. He leaped into view, hurtling his longsword with both hands at the First Enchanter. The blade spun end over end, bright runes flashing, making a low and ominous whup-whup-whup sound as it flew. Remille’s eyes went wide in surprise and he was forced to dodge to the side. The sword missed him and clattered to the ground, but his spell was interrupted.

Fiona collapsed and Maric raced over, catching her before she hit the ground. She looked pale and drained. Maric turned his head, searching. “Duncan!” he called.

“On it!” Duncan replied.

He tried to ignore how shaky his legs were and the pain that was flaring throughout his body. With dagger in hand, he charged at the First Enchanter once again. So much for stealth, he thought.

The mage was on the ground, looking a bit drained himself. He noticed Duncan coming and his annoyance grew. “Come for another taste, insect?” he snapped, getting quickly to his feet.

“Looks like your fancy shadows don’t work as well as you think they do.”

Remille twirled his hands, summoning another black sphere in front of him. It grew rapidly, spreading a dark aura around the mage as he gathered the needed power. Duncan held the dagger out in front of him as he ran, hoping against hope that this worked. If it didn’t, he was a dead man.

The mage unleashed the sphere. It flew at Duncan, making a shrieking sound as it sailed through the air, and when it reached him he closed his eyes and swiped at it with the dagger.

The shrieking turned into a burst of sound that resembled a wail, and he felt a wave of coldness wash over his skin. It was like being dunked into a freezing pool of water, but he didn’t slow and he wasn’t hurt. When he opened his eyes, he saw the First Enchanter’s stunned expression—followed by a flash of recognition as he saw the dagger and realized what it was.

Too late, however. Duncan reached him and with a cry he shoved the dagger into the mage’s chest. The man tried to pull away from him, but Duncan grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close, thrusting the dagger even more deeply.

“How’s that for an insect?” he whispered into the mage’s ear.

Remille’s face was filled with wide-eyed shock, and when he opened his mouth, bright red blood gushed out and spilled down his chin and the front of his robes. The blood was streaked with black, Duncan noticed. He stumbled back and this time Duncan let him go, the dagger remaining in his chest.

The mage stared down at the hilt as if not quite comprehending what it was doing there. He pawed at it, then spasmed again as another spurt of blood came out of his mouth. He stumbled once, and then spun around—

—only to face Bregan before him. The ghoulish Grey Warden was limping weakly, covered in wounds seeping black ichor and clutching his chest. He glared at Remille in contempt, raising his sword up in his other hand.

“No!” the mage sputtered in protest, more blood streaming from his mouth.

Bregan snarled, and with one swing he beheaded the First Enchanter.

Duncan watched numbly as the head fell to the floor and rolled a short ways. The body fountained red blood from the neck, but only for a moment before it slumped quietly to the ground. Bregan stood there, staring down at the corpse. He dropped his sword onto the floor, where it landed with a loud clatter.

The sounds of many men rushing into the room made Duncan turn around. Fereldan soldiers streamed into the chamber, dozens of them in heavy armor with the king’s golden banner on their shields. A number of them were bloodied, and they spread out instantly as if expecting a fight from those within. At their head was Teyrn Loghain. The man made for an imposing figure in his dark plate armor, his blade covered in red blood, and he held up his hand to halt the advancing soldiers as his cool blue eyes took in what had occurred.

For a moment nothing happened. The chamber was silent as Maric slowly helped Fiona back to her feet. Loghain spotted the King, and his eyes widened in surprise to see him there. Then he scowled and strode purposefully over to the man.

“I see you’re not dead.” Duncan couldn’t be sure from the man’s tone if he was pleased or disappointed. Mostly he sounded annoyed.

“Good to see you, too, Loghain,” Maric chuckled tiredly. “How in the Maker’s name did you get here? How did you know?”

Loghain frowned. “Know you were here? I didn’t know that. What I knew was that the Orlesians would betray you, and I was right.” He shot a disgusted glance at the beheaded First Enchanter nearby, his eyes moving warily up to Bregan, who still stood over the body. Bregan made no move to go. “I have been watching for the fool to make his move, and he did. His Orlesian supporters took over the tower two days ago.”

“And that’s why you’re here?” Maric asked him.

“I have most of your army searching for you. The rest are here.” The Teyrn shook his head at the King. “It truly figures that you would wind up here, in the middle of things, and yet still unharmed. I expected to learn you were halfway to Orlais, in a box.”

He turned to the soldiers behind him and gestured toward Bregan. “Secure the chamber. Make sure that … creature does not leave.” The soldiers did as they were ordered, spreading out. Several rushed past Duncan to surround Bregan, though he did nothing to oppose them, merely remaining where he was.

As the soldiers moved, however, Duncan scanned the rest of the chamber and paused. “Where is the Architect?” he asked aloud. “And Utha? Where did they go?”

“Gone,” Bregan rasped.

“Find them!” Loghain barked. “Nobody leaves the tower!”

One of the lieutenants present nodded and waved to a number of the soldiers, and they ran out of the room in a hurry. Duncan could hear a large amount of yelling out in the halls. The sounds of battle, it seemed, were mostly gone. Had they won? If the Architect was really gone, did that mean this was over? Strange how it was difficult to tell. All the old stories claimed that victories came with blaring trumpets. Wasn’t this a victory?

Maric helped Fiona walk toward Bregan, Loghain following behind and studying the former Grey Warden with a dubious eye. The soldiers surrounding Bregan had their spears poised, ready to strike, most of the men looking frightened and no doubt certain they were in the presence of some horrifying darkspawn. Bregan ignored the spears and looked up at Maric and Fiona, his expression almost calm.

“Why didn’t you try to escape during the fight?” Maric asked him.

Bregan studied him with those bloodred eyes. “And where would I go, King Maric? Shall I return to the Deep Roads with the Architect?”

Fiona stared at him suspiciously. “So you’re really done with that?”

“I was blind.” He lowered his head sadly. “I think I know why the Wardens created the Calling, now. Better that than to let the taint fill you up, until all that’s left is hatred and bitterness and regret, until you start to think that’s all there ever was.”

Maric glanced at Fiona, and then licked his lips nervously as he looked back at Bregan once more. “And? What now? Will you help us search for the Architect? He will need to be found.”

Bregan closed his eyes. “With your permission, I would like to do what I should have done when I began my Calling. I would like to die with what dignity I have left. I would like to join my sister in the Beyond and … apologize.”

Loghain looked as if he was about to angrily protest, but Maric held up a hand to forestall him. The King glanced at Fiona, looking for her approval, and she nodded. With a wave of his arm to the soldiers, he gave them the command.

The soldiers carried it out, stabbing Bregan with their many spears.

He did not stop them, and did not cry out. He twitched once, ichor spilling out of him and pooling on the floor in the sunshine, and then he slowly slumped over. The soldiers pulled their spears free and his body fell to the ground, lifeless.

Maric turned and held Fiona, hugging her tightly in his arms as she buried his face into his shoulder. Duncan stared at the corpse on the ground.

He wasn’t certain if it was right to feel sorry for the man. Or for Genevieve. Or for Utha. But he did. Despite all they had done, he still felt grief like some gaping hole that had opened up inside his heart.

Perhaps that was what victory felt like.