Max stared at the clock at the back of the small classroom as it ticked down its last seconds. When it hit eight on the dot, he raised his fist and shook it, a triumphant grin on his face.
"Lillian, mark this day. This hour. This second. I have been waiting for this moment ever since I transferred to Denerim."
"Waiting for what?" Lillian asked absently, paging through the stack of debriefs as the five trainees took out their notepads.
"Cullen Rutherford is late. I didn't think he had it in him." Max chuckled.
"So far he's only twenty seconds late," Lillian pointed out. "I'm guessing he won't be much longer."
"I know. So we'd better hurry. Come on, let's start the class and make him interrupt us when he gets here." He raised his voice. "Good morning, everyone. Since Agent Cullen Rutherford has not seen fit to join us in a timely manner—" he punctuated this with what he knew was a shit-eating grin, and was rewarded with similarly amused smiles from the trainees—"I guess we'd better get started. Agent Folmas, let's cover the most common mistakes from the scenarios last week, shall we?"
Cullen being Cullen, Max had no doubt that he would be there within the next three minutes. But the door at the back of the lecture hall stubbornly remained closed.
At five minutes after the start of class, Max was amused—had the ever-organized Cullen Rutherford slept in, or Maker forbid, forgotten?
At ten minutes after, he began to worry.
At twenty minutes after, he knew something was very wrong.
Max could feel the unease growing among the trainees, too. Cullen might be a stern and uncompromising taskmaster, but he was never an unpredictable one. The idea that he might be late almost had to signal some kind of catastrophe. Or a broken alarm clock, Max reminded himself. Cullen was only human, after all.
He took a breath and forced himself to focus on the lesson. "Taura. You were the only one who neutralized Agent Folmas in the simulation."
Taura's severe features arranged themselves into a satisfied half-smile, and she practically glowed as she anticipated the coming praise. Max forced his own expression to be neutral; Taura was competent, but he didn't care for her mean streak. "Can you tell us how …"
Max's question was cut off when the door at the back of the room exploded off its hinges.
His first, ridiculous thought was, Wow, Cullen's really upset that he's late. But then he heard the unearthy scream of rage, and saw the shape fly into the room, and reality hit him like a hammer.
"Abomination!" Lillian yelled.
The creature looked at her and shrieked, its twisted mouth opening so wide that its jaw seemed almost unhinged. There were still hints of human in the possessed mage, but only hints. The demon within had molded his shape to its will, lengthening the fingers into claws, stretching the skeleton to over eight feet tall. The tattered remains of a blue Enchanter's suit clung to its form. The bulging muscles at its shoulders only served to emphasize how stooped and thin the rest of its form was—but then it wrenched a desk from its bolts and threw it directly into the middle of the room, and its strength became clear.
"Trainees! To the back of the room, now!" Max barked.
He drew his sword and began moving forward. Behind him, he heard Lillian take the safety off her trusted sidearm. Since Lillian couldn't use the Templar arts, she alone at this Circle carried a gun. Max found himself simultaneously envious and relieved as he ran to face the monster toe-to-toe. He had fought an abomination once, long ago, at a Harrowing gone badly awry—but then he'd been one of five Templars sent to watch over the ceremony. Two-on-one odds might sound good, but not when the one was a magically infused monster.
Faster than Max could believe, the abomination charged forward and swept its claws at him. He barely parried in time and had to shake the creature's grip from his blade before he could regain his footing. The abomination glanced down at the cut on its long fingers, then turned its gaze to Max and shrieked anew, its breath strangely cold against his skin.
He heard the bark of gunfire and the abomination flailed, howling in pain and grabbing for its eye. Max rushed forward and stabbed his blade into the creature's heart, twisting to cause maximum damage. The blue fabric of the Enchanter's suit tore as he did, and his stomach clenched as the abomination fell to his feet, dead.
Max was torn between relief and sorrow—but only for a moment. Half a heartbeat later, another monster charged through the door.
As Lillian swore and tried to find a good shot, the new creature reached for Max, trying to seize him in a ghastly embrace. Max danced away, slashing to create more distance, and began planning his next swing—but before he could strike, Taura leapt into the fray.
With a confident battle cry, she charged forward, a Smite exploding from her hands. The creature shrugged it off, seized the trainee by the head, and snapped her neck.
With an enraged scream that rivaled the monster's, Lillian pulled the trigger three times. All three bullets found their target, tearing holes in the creature's chest. As the abomination reeled back, Max swung his sword as hard as he could. The second abomination toppled over, its head neatly severed from its body.
Max knelt by Taura's side, but he knew what he would find—no pulse, no breath, no hope. And outside the room, he could hear a new swell of screams echo through the hallway, could hear heavy footsteps and feel the rush of twisted magic nearby. There were more, and they were close, and coming closer. Max stood and slammed the door; it rattled and barely held its latch. That won't keep them for long.
"Trainees!" he barked, turning to face them. "As the ranking Agent in this room I am initiating emergency protocol. Agent Folmas will lead the way to the designated safe zone as quickly and quietly as possible. Do not attempt to use the Templar arts against these creatures—abominations are best fought with blades and guns, so until you get one of those, you stay out of the fight. Evacuation is your priority. Understood?"
A pause. Finally, a ragged chorus of voices responded. "Understood."
Max lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it. "Good. Lillian, you take point. Lead the way down the fire escape. I'll bring up the rear, if I can." The classroom was on the third floor of the building, and while Max knew they would be vulnerable as they climbed down those ladders, he could see no alternative, not with what he suspected awaited them in the hallways. He felt a sudden rush of anger at whoever had decided to bolt these desks to the floor—there would be no making a barricade.
Lillian looked over at him, her chest rising and falling with a deep breath. She knew what he was really ordering her to do, and her dark eyes filled with mingled sorrow and respect as she nodded.
The dwarf opened the window and climbed out, and the students followed her, stunned into silence by the entire ghastly scene. As the last student left, closing the window behind him, Max gripped his sword, listened to the creatures' screams as they drew closer, and prepared to buy the others some time.
Cullen. Was this how you died, too?
Marcus had tried to steel himself for what had to come. But he had not succeeded. His stomach threatened to turn to acid and chalk as he walked down the hallways of the Circle's eastern wing, past the broken bodies of the Templars who had been caught unawares by the abominations.
"They are efficient allies, are they not?" Uldred murmured beside him.
Marcus forced himself to look down as he stepped over a body—an older woman, kind for one of them, who always brought the mage children treats on Satinalia. If he had wished to spare a Templar, he might have chosen her.
This is the price. Do not be a coward, Amell. You knew what you chose. Face it, because it was necessary.
"Yes. Very efficient," Marcus said faintly. He tore his eyes away from the female Templar's corpse.
Screams from inside the Templar classroom quickened Uldred's footsteps. Marcus scrambled to keep pace as they walked down the hallway. Was it his imagination, or had Uldred's physical abilities changed? The demon inside his mentor had not shown its face, not yet. But he could sense a change in Uldred, and not one that entirely inspired confidence.
Maker, let him keep his wits long enough to carry off this plan.
A glance through the doorway told him that the team of abominations had done Uldred's bidding—though not without cost. Two of the creatures lay dead in front of the door—along with a Templar trainee—and another lay dead near the front of the classroom.
The Templar responsible, Max Trevelyan, was shaking as he stood before the remaining monsters, his feet planted firmly in front of the fire escape. He was bleeding through a nasty gash in his chest, and his dark skin was ashen and damp with sweat; he was clearly in pain. But the man was still standing. Marcus had to give him credit. He looked around the room and noticed that, aside from the single woman near the door, there were no Templar bodies. Trevelyan must have closed the window and stood his ground to allow them to escape.
Marcus felt saddened by the man's imminent death for a moment—but only for a moment. Of course he would defend his own. He never would have done the same for one of us.
One of the abominations took a swipe at the Templar, its claws moving faster than Marcus could believe. Trevelyan parried, preventing further injury, but stumbled—a broken leg, Marcus realized. Before Trevelyan could notice the two still-human mages at the back of the room, Uldred let loose with a whip of magic. Trevelyan stiffened, then fell, still clutching his sword as he did.
"Bring him here," Uldred commanded, his eyes glowing yellow. The abominations hissed their disappointment, but one—a desire demon, oddly lovely in her host's twisted body—picked up the big man as if he weighed nothing.
Marcus frowned. "We could have just killed him. Will you put him with Rutherford and the others?" He struggled to keep his face neutral as he remembered what Uldred had said about that group—"our allies require amusement."
"No. Not Trevelyan." Again, that yellow gleam. "That arrogant idiot has family in every Circle in Thedas. I have much more interesting plans for him."
As Marcus tried to puzzle out what that meant, a motion outside the window caught his eye. No, he was not imagining it—a car was pulling up to the visitors' entrance. Even from this high vantage point, Marcus could tell the vehicle was a wreck; the red rust on its bumper was visible from three stories up.
"We have visitors," he told Uldred, motioning him to the window.
Uldred's face went slack with shock as he raced to see who was interrupting them. But when he saw two men exit the car—one a slender, silver-haired figure, the other a young man with his hands shoved deep in his pockets—the Senior Enchanter began to laugh.
"Detective Fenris Leto, with none other than Alistair Guerrin in tow."
"Guerrin—the Grand Enchanter's son!" Marcus felt his face pale. Maker, does he know? Do they know?
If Uldred shared his anxiety, he did not show it. "Indeed. How convenient." His grin was somewhere between predatory and triumphant when he smiled at Marcus. "Come. Let us prepare a little welcome for our guests."
Walking through the door of the Denerim Circle was a deeply strange experience for Alistair. On the day when he'd looked Knight-Commander Greagoir in the face and told him thanks but no thanks, the Knight-Commander had glared at him and said, "This is not something to throw away lightly, Guerrin. There will be no coming back here."
Alistair being Alistair, he'd immediately replied, "Is that a promise, sir? Because that's actually sort of the point of not taking the commission."
And yet, here I am. The Maker certainly has a sense of humor.
I hope I don't run into Greagoir. That's going to be awkward.
As the door closed behind him, Alistair opened his mouth to greet the Tranquil who usually sat behind the desk at the visitor's entrance. But his awkward greeting died in his throat when he realized there was no one there.
"Huh. That's … odd. And awkward. I'm not sure where Fiona's office would be. I don't really want to go knocking on the senior Enchanters' doors." Alistair narrowed his eyes, as if staring might make a Tranquil appear to help them.
Fenris frowned thoughtfully. "An odd absence. I thought the Tranquil were … reliable, in that way."
"Yeah, if you take away someone's emotions, they tend to become pretty compliant." Alistair felt his mouth turn down in a grimace. The idea of turning a mage Tranquil had been the thing he hated most about the Circles, and his future as a Templar.
"Detective Leto?"
Alistair and Fenris turned towards the voice with a start. A slender human mage was walking out of the Circle's west wing, his smile friendly and his hands turned up apologetically. Alistair remembered his name half a second before he spoke.
"My name is Marcus Amell," the mage said. "I'm afraid it's a complicated day at the Circle. But please, follow me."
"I. Um. I also have a meeting?" Alistair said hesitantly.
The mage inclined his head. "Of course. I will be happy to escort you to, ah, her, once I've seen the Detective to his destination."
The little knot in Alistair's chest loosened. She did expect him, after all. Arrangements had been made, people had been informed. Within minutes, he would be sitting in the same room as his mother.
My mother. A mage. An elf. None of those were things he'd thought he held in his heritage. He'd spent a good five minutes looking in the mirror that morning, wondering if his elven mother was the reason he couldn't grow more than a rather thin goatee. He'd almost asked Fenris Leto about elven facial hair before some unearned wisdom stopped him.
Trapped in his thoughts, Alistair did not realize how wrong things were until Marcus reached for the door. Only then did he feel the pulse of magic behind that door—sour magic, oddly scented, metallic and harsh.
"Detective! Marcus! Watch …"
The door burst open, nearly knocking Marcus to the ground.
Alistair had sat through several slide shows on abominations during his time at the Templar academy. They did not prepare him to see one in person. Let alone three of them, lunging directly towards him.
Marcus Amell began pulling a spell together; Alistair could feel the magic coiling from his hands. Detective Leto was even faster to leap into action. He lunged forward, his expression grim and his limbs flaring blue, and thrust his hand into the chest of the nearest creature. He twisted his forearm and the abomination screamed; it struck at Leto with its long arms, opening a gash on his cheek. The Detective hung on grimly, and after what seemed like an age, the monster went limp. Leto dropped it and stepped away, wiping at the blood.
Alistair's heart leapt in hope as the other two abominations hissed and kept their distance. Surely with the three of them standing together, they could escape.
But then Marcus unleashed his spell—not at the monsters, but at Detective Leto. The Detective jerked once, then his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he began to fall.
Only half thinking, Alistair leapt over Leto's prone form and punched Amell with all the force he could muster. "What did you do to him?" he roared, surprised by the fury in his voice.
Amell stumbled, a hand to his cheekbone, but he did not respond with magic the way Alistair expected. Instead, he looked through the cracked door expectantly.
A voice echoed through the entry hall. "Do you want the elf to live, Mr. Guerrin?"
Alistair froze at the metallic echo in that voice. It sounded so deeply wrong.
"I will slit his throat and drink the lyrium as it drains from his veins," the echoing voice said conversationally. "Unless, of course, you are willing to barter for his life."
Slowly, a figure began walking through the door. Senior Enchanter Uldred stepped into the door frame. As he stared at Alistair, his eyes shone with a deep golden glow. Alistair's breath froze in his chest as understanding slowly dawned.
Oh, Maker. Fiona's enemy was a powerful enchanter carrying a demon in his head.
Uldred stepped forward, extending a hand towards Detective Leto's body. "I can crush his lungs in the time it takes you to flex your fingers," he said. "Or, you can offer Marcus your hands and let yourself be held in comfort, like a good lad. We have no intention of hurting you. We simply need to have a, ah, conversation with your mother." He chuckled. "She has been … reluctant to meet with us."
"Really? I can't imagine why," Alistair shot back. "Is it the demons? I think it might be the demons. And probably the murder too." He was guessing about the murder, but it seemed like a reasonable conclusion given the demons.
The yellow-gold light flared from Uldred's eyes, licking his brows and cheekbones. Next to him, Alistair saw Marcus Amell flinch; the younger mage's eyes remained an ordinary brown.
"You know nothing about our nature or our purpose," Uldred hissed. "Hold your wretched tongue, boy. Do you wish this elf to live, or not?" A spell began gathering at his fingertips—a nasty one, if Alistair had to guess.
"Leave him alone," he blurted. "Just—just let him go." That was a stupid request, he knew. Detective Leto was too deadly, too dangerous. Uldred would never simply set him outside the Circle door and wait for him to wake up. Even so, he held out his wrists to Marcus Amell, praying that Andraste would force the mages to honor their implied bargain. "Don't hurt him. You can—can't you just keep him unconscious?"
As Marcus began to bind his wrists, Uldred watched Alistair's face for a long moment. He let out an ugly chuckle. "Oh, we can. But I have much more intriguing plans for your friend. With that lyrium in his veins, we are eager to see what kind of host he might make."
Alistair's mind reared like a frightened horse, kicking out in every direction. What? Only mages can be hosts for demons. Everyone knew that. Could the Detective's lyrium really …
"Marcus," Uldred snapped, his eyes shifting to his ally. "Take the boy away someplace safe. Do not harm him. He might be our only key to Fiona's cooperation once we catch her."
Alistair's heart eased just a fraction. They don't have her. Not yet.
Uldred's gaze remained focused on Marcus as the mage took Alistair by the upper arm. "And Marcus? It is time to choose your side."
"I've chosen time and again!" Amell protested, his voice low and tight with fury. "We've worked side by side for months, Uldred. I found a way to get Fiona here. And now you question my commitment?"
"Without the power our allies offer, you cannot stand against the Templars when they come for us." Uldred's voice rumbled with a metallic echo that made the hair on Alistair's neck stand up. "You need to choose. Will you stand triumphant with us when the Circles are shattered? Or will you be an early casualty?"
Marcus stiffened, but said nothing. With a sigh, Uldred turned away. "I can wait only so long for your answer, Marcus. But in the meantime, keep the boy safe—and awake. I hope we will need him soon."
Marcus Amell took Alistair to one of the offices on the second floor of the mages' wing. He wondered for a moment if this was Amell's own office, but the room looked too dusty and depersonalized—a vacant office, then. Alistair wondered if it was significant that Marcus didn't want to use his own office for a temporary kidnapping. It's not like he can go back to it after this is all over.
Amell tied his wrists to the arms of a rickety office chair, one that was a bit too narrow for Alistair's broad frame. The mage, however, did not seem to mind that the bind put Alistair's shoulders at an awkward angle.
Then, with a glare in Alistair's direction, he left.
Alistair immediately began testing his bonds. The knots Amell had tied were more than tight enough, he soon realized to his dismay. But his thrashing revealed something else. The old chair had one loose armrest.
Slowly, carefully, mindful of injuring himself and wrecking his chances at an effective escape, Alistair began working to break the armrest free. He pulled at it, twisted his frame, braced his body with his legs. Every motion pulled the screws a bit looser; every tug seemed to make the arm move just a little bit more.
He was just about to pull it free when he heard the doorknob turn. Marcus Amell entered the room again, carrying two slices of bread with some cheese shoved between them.
"Here," he said, tearing off a piece and shoving it towards Alistair.
Alistair leaned his head away. "Uh. No thanks. Not hungry." He tried to hold his arms very still so he would not give away the chair's vulnerability.
"Suit yourself." The mage tossed the sad little sandwich onto the desk. "If nothing else, it might pass the time."
"I'm so sorry kidnapping me has bored you," Alistair said, with all the disdain he could muster.
The mage did not reply. Alistair decided to continue filling the silence. "So. Um. You're planning to join a demon army. That seems fun."
Marcus's handsome face darkened. "Shut up," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm not—you don't understand."
"You threatened me to get Fiona here. Now you're going to … what, kill her so that Uldred can have her job?" As Alistair said it, he knew that wasn't right. There were much subtler ways to kill one woman. "No. You want something bigger than that." Smashing the phylacteries? Lots of dead Templars? No, that couldn't be it—why bring Fiona here for that? "Something big enough to risk bringing every Templar in Thedas down on your heads."
He sat back as the pieces fell into place. "Maker. That's exactly what you want. You'll kill the most important mage in Thedas, unleash a crew of abominations onto Denerim, and the Templars will have no choice but to send everything they've got at you. You want this to be the first battle in a war."
At first Marcus seemed to have no answer. He was staring out the window, barely seeming to pay attention to Alistair. Then, grudgingly, he responded. "The plan is somewhat more subtle than that. But, yes. We mean to see the Circles destroyed, and the Templars along with them. We mean to see mages freed."
Alistair couldn't blame the man. He might have wanted the same thing in his shoes. On the other hand, he sincerely doubted that making demons into "allies" was going to get Marcus much in the way of freedom.
But it was a moot point in any case, because as Alistair shifted his weight on the chair, the armrest came free.
Before Amell could react, Alistair stood—as much as he could with his left arm still tied down—and flung a Smite directly into his face. It was a half-formed one, and he could practically feel Cullen Rutherford seething at his poor technique, but it had the desired effect. Marcus's attempt to grab for his magic was interrupted, and he toppled back, knocked unconscious by the blow.
Frantically, Alistair began untying himself from the remains of the chair, keeping half an eye focused on Marcus as he did. The mage was just beginning to stir when Alistair ran from the room, trying to keep as quiet as he could while still moving at top speed.
Phone. I've got to find a phone. We're going to need help.