Chapter 17: Baptized in Blood and Fear
Marcus Trevelyan always had nightmares. He dreamed about the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the destruction of Haven, the Battle of Adamant. He dreamed of red lyrium, of demons and abominations, of holes in the sky disgorging terror. Mostly he dreamed of death, of lives he had taken and the lives of friends lost. Since the Dragonborn had come to Thedas, his dreams had taken on a different hue. He no longer dreamed of fears past, but of shadowy images of a future not yet taken shape. Through the mists of the Fade he glimpsed the savagery of a land transformed, of desolate earth and a scorched sky. Legions of armored warriors bearing bloody swords and shields and lines of men and women in chains as far as the eye could see. Upon waking all of it would fade away into something insubstantial, something just beyond his grasp. The details in his mind would melt away the harder he tried to grasp them, and he would be left with nothing but an abstract sense of unease.
This dream was nothing like those. This dream felt far too real.
Darkness was creeping into his room. Slowly and silently it slipped in under the pane of his windows and through the cracks in the walls. Oozing like blood from a wound it covered every surface. It was coming for him. Marcus tried to move, but his limbs were paralyzed. He tried to cry out, but his voice would not obey. The darkness pooled around his feet, he felt its warm stickiness on his soles.
"Wake up!" he screamed.
Marcus' eyes snapped open as the dagger arced down toward his chest. He rolled on pure instinct, crying out in pain as the blade's edge slashed his back and he tumbled onto the floor. He scrambled on all floors, trying to put as much distance between himself and his attacker as he could. He reached out to grab his sword, but his legs tangled in the bed sheets and he fell flat on his face, the tips of his fingers just brushing the hilt. He felt his assailant walking calmly toward him. He reached down and grabbed hold of his mana, weaving the first spell that came to mind. Flames crackled between his fingertips, and without looking he rolled onto his back and let the fireball fly. The assassin burst into flames as the mage-fire struck him squarely in the chest. It barely slowed him down. He paused a step and flicked his wrist as if he was swatting at a fly, and all at once the fire extinguished. Marcus felt his blood chill as he took in the black armor, the expressionless mask, and long dagger held bare in one hand. The assailant walked toward him and all Marcus could do was stare.
The door to his chambers burst open and six guards stormed in, swords at the ready. Two grabbed Marcus under the shoulders and pulled him back, the other four surrounded the attacker who stopped mid-step, turning his head slightly to take in the new threat. Marcus got to his feet and grabbed his sword from where it leaned against the bannister. The four veterans of the Inquisition, who had faced demons and worse, seemed to falter and pause as they warily circled this new adversary. One of them found his courage before the others and stepped forward.
"Drop your…"
The dagger moved so fast Marcus didn't even see it, all he saw was the eruption of blood from the gash in the guard's neck. The other three lunged forward simultaneously, but their blades found only air. The assassin didn't even parry a single stroke, he just danced around the slashing and thrusting blades, twisting his body into impossible shapes with unnatural speed. Another guard fell, and then another. The two who had pulled Marcus to safety raised their swords to charge into the fray.
"No!" Marcus yelled, "Back, fall back!" The trio turned and sprinted out of the chamber into the hallway just as a muffled scream signaled the final guard's demise. Marcus pumped his arms and legs as fast as he could, his only thought being to get out of the narrow hallway and into the great hall. He turned a corner and practically crashed into Cullen at the head of three more soldiers. The commander was dressed only in a night shirt and loose pants, barefoot with a naked sword in his hand.
"Marcus!" he cried in surprise.
"Run!" Marcus yelled, "Get to the great hall, all of you, now!"
"He's coming!" One of the guards yelled. It was one of Marcus' companions who had just saved his life. He and the other guard turned and raised their swords. "Get the Inquisitor out of here!" he shouted. Just then the black-clad assassin rounded the corner, walking at an almost leisurely pace. He casually raised his hand palm outward. The ground under the guard glowed blue, his scream cut off as he was suddenly encased in solid ice. The other guard charged forward, Marcus and the others were already running again. Steel clashed behind him, followed by a sickening tear, and then silence.
They reached the great hall, Cullen and one of the other guards slammed the door behind them and shoved an iron bolt into place.
"What in Andraste's name was that?" Cullen gasped.
"Inquisitor! Cullen!" Marcus turned and saw Blackwall running toward them from the undercroft, four more soldiers in tow. "What in the bloody hell is going on?"
"Assassin," Marcus said. Blackwall grimaced and drew his sword.
"Let's get him before he escapes!"
"No!" Marcus said, "He's not trying to escape." Blackwall's eyebrows arched in surprise. He looked at the bolted door and the pale faces of Marcus, Cullen, and the other soldiers.
"Just one man?" he asked.
"This is no man," Marcus replied. He turned to one of the other guards. "Go, sound the general alarm, we need more soldiers in here, now! And mages too, as many as you can find!" The guard nodded and sprinted from the hall.
"Inquisitor, you need to get out of here," Cullen said, "We'll hold him as long as we can."
"You know bloody well that's not going to happen," Marcus. Cullen looked about to argue, but instead nodded and readied himself.
"Fan out," Cullen ordered, "Crescent formation, hit him from every side at once." The nine men circled up, weapons ready and stances wide. Outside they heard the alarm bell start to clang as all hell broke loose.
The door exploded outward in a shower of flame and splinters. The assassin landed in a crouch, a second dagger appeared as if by magic in his empty hand. Marcus went straight for him, and had not taken more than three steps before a sound like a sudden wind emanated from behind the mask.
Fus.
Marcus felt like he had run into a brick wall and stumbled backward onto one knee. The assassin leapt at him, twin daggers whirling. Cullen and Blackwall interposed themselves at that last possible moment, each of them parrying a dagger. Their opponent quickly flipped away, his lighting quick blades slashing across Cullen's ribs and opening Blackwall's shoulder before either of them could strike. The other guards threw themselves into the fray, and the air became a flurry of flashing metal. Marcus regained his footing and rallied Cullen and Blackwall, the three of them adding their swords and battle cries to the dance of death.
The assassin was inhuman. He moved and parried and slashed as if every one of his opponents was moving in slow motion. He seemed to know where they would be before they did. One by one the soldiers fell to the ground, until Marcus, Cullen, and Blackwall were all that remained. Each of them was plastered with sweat and bleeding from a half dozen dagger wounds. They backed up, panting, their backs pressed together. Once more the assailant walked toward them calmly, seemingly in no hurry to finish them off.
Suddenly he arched his back and screeched like a massive bird of prey and spun away from Marcus and the others. A crossbow bolt was buried between his shoulder blades, and more were hissing through the air around him. Marcus turned and saw Varric in the open doorway of the great hall, his crossbow Bianca planted firmly in his hip, firing off bolts as fast as he could pull the trigger. Bull barreled past him, his great-axe raised over his head, covering the distance between himself and the assassin quickly.
The assassin spun and dodged the arrows with the same ease with which he had danced between the swords of the Inquisition. In mid-air he let fly one of his daggers, striking Varric below his collarbone and dropping the dwarf to the ground. Then he reached out toward Bull with his empty hand and clenched it into a fist. The massive axe clattered to the floor as Bull screamed in pain. His entire body went rigid, surrounded by a pulsating red light.
Marcus saw his chance. With the assassin's attention focused on Bull, Marcus lunged toward his exposed back and drove his sword home. Again the assassin screeched like something out of a nightmare. The red light surrounding Bull vanished and he dropped limply to the floor. In an instant Cullen and Blackwall were next to Marcus, thrusting their blades into exposed ribs. His body pinned between three swords, the assassin thrashed and staggered to one knee as the blades were pulled free one by one. Marcus watched him crawl, pulling himself away with one hand, the other grasping at his ruined midriff.
"Die!" Marcus screamed, "Just die damn you!" Slowly the assassin raised a quivering hand, and tendrils of light began snaking down his arm from his open palm and wrapped around his body. Marcus watched in disbelief, and despair gripped him as the assassin stood. The arrow seemed to push itself out of his back, his wounds sewed themselves shut, even the holes in his armor closed. The light blinked out, and the creature turned. An evil glow spilled out of the eye-slits of its mask as it stared at Marcus.
"Oh, come on," Blackwall groaned. Marcus felt his legs give out from under him and he collapsed to his knees. Blackwall stood to his right, his sword wavering in front of him. Cullen stood to his left, his hand on Marcus' shoulder, trying to steady himself, weak from loss of blood. Pure energy cascaded down the assassin's arms, and Marcus braced himself for what was to come.
"Enough!" a voice boomed. Marcus turned to see Solas striding toward them, only it wasn't Solas. His eyes were bright like two miniature suns, and his entire body seemed to be wreathed in Veil-fire. A massive shadow towered above him, stretching up into the rafters of the great hall. The assassin whirled and let out another high-pitched shriek, dropping to all fours like an animal. Solas stopped a few yards away. "You are done here, servant of the dragon gods."
"Dreamwalker," the assassin hissed. Solas cocked his head to the side.
"You know me?"
"We know you, and now we see your face."
"Then you know how this ends," Solas replied.
"We see you," the creature spat. The shadow above Solas darkened, thunder clapped from somewhere deep inside it, and for a moment Solas' face appeared as that of a fearsome wolf.
The assassin sprung forward with none of his former grace, his hands outstretched, reaching for Solas' throat. Solas held up one hand, and what seemed like a hundred lances of blue light shot out of the assassin's body. There was a blinding flash and a blast of wind that sent Marcus sprawling onto his back. Then silence.
Marcus blinked to clear his vision and forced himself upright. Cullen and Blackwall groaned on either side of him, trying to regain their wits. Solas stood leaning against the wall breathing heavily, the terrible maelstrom that had surrounded him had vanished. One hand covered his eyes and he looked very pale. Cullen got to his feet first and staggered to Marcus, grabbing his arms and pulling him onto his quivering legs.
"Inquisitor," Cullen said shakily, "Are you…?"
"Yes," Marcus said, "See to Blackwall." Cullen nodded and went to help the other man to his feet. Marcus stumbled toward Bull, who was on all fours and swaying back and forth.
"I'm alright, boss," Bull said weakly. "Varric." Marcus looked toward the door where Varric lay still, curled into a fetal position, a large pool of blood spreading underneath him. Marcus hurried over and rolled Varric onto his back. One look at the wound told him all he needed to know.
"Varric," Marcus whispered, gently slapping his friend's face. "Varric stay with me." Varric's eyes fluttered open and he smiled weakly.
"Ruffles, you're alright." Varric raised a trembling hand and Marcus grasped it tightly. "You're alright." Varric's eyes closed as his head lulled back. Marcus felt him shudder as he exhaled a single long breathe. Then he was still.
Marcus checked for a pulse and found none. He stared at Varric's pale face and slowly released his friend's hand. He crawled backwards in a daze until his back hit the heavy wooden door and he began shaking uncontrollably between ragged sobs. Blood oozed towards him, thick and dark. Marcus tried to move, but his limbs were paralyzed. He tried to cry out, but his voice would not obey. The blood pooled around his bare feet, he felt its warm stickiness on his soles.
"Wake up," he whispered, "Wake up, Varric."
His friend's eyes did not open.
.