Chapter one
THE RITE OF PASSAGE
Like thunder gathering high above him, the cheers of all in attendance grew to a fevered pitch. The shouts and screams of riotous clamor filling the great Orlisian Coliseum with a joyous anticipation; the like of which threatening to rival his own.
Spurring his mount onward, Tristan Pentaghast lifted his sword high into the air in acknowledgment of the crowd as Nevarra custom warranted. Making his way to the center of the arena he sheathed his blade and saluted all present.
"I have to admit, the use of the Inquisitor's helmet was a nice touch," Ambassador, Lord Dorian Pavus said looking down on the spectacle below. "Your champion doesn't look half bad considering."
"Considering what, sparkles," Lord Varric Tethras said, biting into a haunch of boar meat, allowing the juices to run down his fingers.
Offering the dwarven commissioner a handkerchief, "His association with you for starters," Dorian sighed. "I guess the fact he's listed among some of the best warriors in Thedas should also bear mentioning."
"The helm was a gift from the Inquisitor himself," High Lord Seeker, Cassandra Pentaghast said, seated next to the Venatori Ambassador and Kirkwall's Provisional Viscount on the lower balcony of the coliseums' high stands. "He thought it would help the boy's confidence. Yet, it may only serve to add undo pressure. Surely Tristan is anxious enough; given the notoriety of those in attendance."
Sipping Orlesian spice wine, "Not everyone cringes in fear of a little recognition Lord Seeker," Varric said. "Besides, you should have more faith in our abilities; we did train him after all."
"I for one think he'll do fine given his showing thus far. It is no small feat for a boy of sixteen to have won a place on the closing list among men twice his age and with untold combat experience."
"Yeah, but he did it with his skills in archery Dorian," Varric stated. "That said; if he can manage to avoid Du'pont until the end…he may outlast the others in the final melee. With any luck, that bastard will be eliminated before our boy enters the inner circle."
"I pray the Maker your right Varric," Lady Cassandra said turning her attention to the field. "It will devastate Tristan should he be expelled too soon."
"They seem to favor you, boy," Sir Donavan Hoggal Trillius said hearing the crowd swell at Tristan's approach.
Removing his helm, clearing long wet strands of raven-black hair from his eyes, "Then I shall not disappoint them, Sir," the young knight said patting his horse's neck; the chestnut colored Fereldan Forder snorting loudly as it veered away from Sir Donavan's dracolisk.
Sitting atop a Basking Longma dracolisk, the lizard like mount adorned in blood red battle armor to match its master; Sir Donavan wore a helm crafted to resemble a cretahl. A hideous ancient beast, cretahl's were known for smashing their prey with a horned head before consuming both flesh and bone. Unmistakable, the level of Tevinter craftsmanship was apparent; Tristan noting the various scrollwork engraved in the enormous knight's helm, gauntlets, pauldrons and gardbrace above his right shoulder.
Warriors all, the twenty plus men and women competing in today's purging ceremony were some of the finest combatants in Thedas. Soldiers, mages and freelancers alike, all had been lured into the contest with the hope of wealth, prestige and honor; many backed by noble houses seeking favor and recognition amongst their peers. A three-week tournament drawing anyone of note to Orlais in the Exalted Plains, the games were a way to unite Thedas after the defeat of Corypheus. Established by the Chantry three years following, the games were held to celebrate the end of the Time of Attrition. The period of time when the arcane Tevinter Magister threated to bring about the end of the world for what many believed to be his second attempt. Looking up at the large rainbow like ribbon slashing the sky, a reminder of the fade rift that almost destroyed the world ten years earlier, Tristan recalled the various stories Lord Varric had recounted during their endless training sessions. Centered on the dwarven lord's time with the Inquisition, Tristan found his tales to be somewhat farfetched; given Lord Varric's penchant for embellishment. Only a child of five years during the great cataclysm, the young knight could still recall the many letters sent to his father by his aunt Cassandra. Wishing to spare the family the worry and concern they felt; given the reports and rumors surrounding the death of the Divine Justinia, she had been elusive in her description of events. In her correspondence she made little mention of the blight covering the land and the fall of Corypheus. Sheltered from any knowledge regarding the breach in the sky, Tristan never knew how close the end of the world had come.
With a deafening cheer, the noise of the arena ascended far above previous heights. Turning like all present, Tristan watched the field of participants part for a second time. Unable to hear the announcement of the next contestant named over the roar of the people, only the blast of several conch horns alerted all gathered that the highest ranking warrior was entering the arena.
Luminous in the noon sun, seated atop a soft blue Tirashan Swiftwind, Sir Xavier Benoȋt Du'pont made his way toward the front of the list to the eruption of the masses. A champion of several royal tournaments and duels, the noble knight was considered one of the finest swordsmen in all of Thedas. Named, The Silver Halla, he was thought to be a thing of beauty on the field of battle. Taking top honors in the last three of five melee events over a two-week span; the elder knight was easily favored to win the tournament's final showing. Greeted with unbridled admiration from the crowd, he was adorned in silver plated reinforced Orlesian armor accented with gold mail underlay. The silver haired Orlesian glimmering like a diamond; the sight causing many on the field to look away. Around his neck, draping his shoulders, a red fox-fur cape with the royal Orlesian symbol hung past the crop of his mount's flanks. The knight saluting all seated in the upper stands as he trotted slowly toward the list.
"Oh my, now there is a sight to behold," Lord Dorian said stroking his mustache.
"Calm yourself sparkles, that there is the enemy."
"Don't worry Varric, the man is all show, a true champion requires no such antics," Lady Cassandra said, gulping wine nervously. "Tristan will find a way to best him should they meet, I'm sure of it."
"If that were you down there, I'd have little doubt of today's outcome Lord Seeker," Dorian said captivated. "But, the odds aren't exactly leaning in our young champion's..."
"What say we make a friendly wager Ambassador," Varric interrupted. "Our boy outlasts your crush before all is said and done. What say you, one hundred gold pieces?"
"You're on, my impetuous little Provisional Viscount."
Like most children growing up in Nevarra, Tristan had developed a deep appreciation for art, music and literature. His homeland devoted to all forms of artistry had always celebrated the long and illustrious history of Thedas in its culture. Most of the buildings in the cities and towns had been constructed by combining both ancient and modern Thedas architecture. The streets and under tunnels of the breathtaking principalities littered with lush green gardens, colossal statues, and elaborate carvings depicting heroes and creatures of legend. Only the silent tombs of the dead rivaled them in beauty, and only one thing overshadowed his people's profound respect for their dead; their love of combat. Above all else, understanding the art of war was essential in surviving a family renowned for slaying dragons; of all things. Being born a Pentaghast; with an aunt that helped to save the world on several occasions, he was expected to attain a moderate amount of greatness of his own. Examining his competition, looking at the warriors arrayed around him, Tristan supposed today would be as good a time to begin.
Nodding graciously, acknowledging Du'pont, "A pleasure to meet you Sir…," Tristan had begun to say.
"We shall see," Sir Du'pont interrupted with a thick Orlesian accent as his hart nudged between Tristan and Sir Donavan's mounts.
A deer like animal, Du'pont's hart was armored in silver plate with small hoops of gold decorating its large antlers. Majestic and proud, much like its owner, it demanded attention to the delight of the crowd.
"Today, I think you shall learn a fine lesson, my young friend," Sir Du'pont continued, causing his mount to curtsy. "A lesson taught in equal part skill and grace, yes?"
"I don't know; the boy hasn't done half bad, all things considered," Audius Burdock said, never looking up. The dwarven pirate lord sitting a miniature Fereldan Bay on the opposite side of Tristan. "And some might argue; you could use a lesson in manners…or humility."
Amused, "Preposterous, do you truly believe an instructor to be found amongst this rabble," Sir Du'pont laughed. "Or will you…or perhaps this child, discipline me in the fine art of victory dwarf?"
An adventurer and sailor, Captain Audius Burdock was one of the most famous dwarves in Thedas only second to Lord Varric. Rumored to be a smuggler and pirate for the Carta, the dwarven criminal guild, it was said Captain Burdock had been born at sea and had never ventured underground. Even given his stature most found the dwarven pirate to be an intimidating figure. Wearing no armor, only deep blue padded leather pants, boots and vest; his face was hidden under a thick orange beard braided to mid chest. Covering his arms and clean shaven head strange arcane symbols were seared; the noon sun causing the bizarre shapes to glisten and seemingly slither beneath his dark amber skin. His weapon, a dragon bone war hammer sheath to his back, made the dwarf appeare to be as dangerous as any man on the field of battle.
"I was thinking more of losery; but yeah, I think he could," Burdock said flatly. "I saw your last two matches Du'pont, a bit underwhelming to say the least. Could be, you've lost a step in your declining years."
"You, you dare insult me," Du'pont said reaching for his sword.
With another blast cutting through the uproar of the crowd, all in attendance turned their attention to the main tower dividing the northern coliseum's high stands.
Outwardly enraged, "May the abyss have you both," Du'pont said glaring at Tristan before spitting on the ground. "I pray Andraste we meet in combat this day, boy," he finished, releasing the hilt of his sword as he adjusted himself in his saddle.
"I think he means to kill us both," Captain Burdock said, never looking up. "But, I'm sure he'll begin with you."
Seated in the upper balconies of the Queen's Spire, overlooking the populace assembled below, the wealthiest nobles and dignitaries of Thedas viewed the ceremonies. The Orlesian Empress, her royal court and guest occupying the highest terrace of the three that encompassed the lofty ivory tower. Following a series of trumpets and short pauses, silence washed over the crowd as a hush blanketed the arena. Stepping forward from the shadows of the tower into the light, the Orlesian Empress Celene Valmont spoke; her voice amplified by the use of several kuldol-fish shells anchored to the upper balcony's railing.
"It has pleased us to bear witness to your many deeds over the course of these marvelous games," She said addressing her audience. "For this honor, we thank the Maker and our Divine Victoria; by whom he has purposed this auspicious occasion. One in which; many fine and capable warriors have fallen in defeat, to our despair…but, delightfully, you have all risen. Truly, you have entertained us and won our hearts, and will be celebrated forever. Nevertheless, as always, only one may be our champion. Prepare yourselves brave men and women of Thedas; for the culling begins again…may the Maker strengthen and cloak you in his grace."
"Culling, really," Varric said applauding. "An interesting word I guess; but I'd have gone with…oh say, bloodletting. Sure, it leaves less to the imagination, but really grabs the attention of the listener."
"I suppose, but it's far less civilized," Dorian said. "And we do know how much our Orlesian friends covet their civility with their bloodshed."
Peering down onto the arena, "Enough you two, the tournament will begin soon," Cassandra said standing. "I do so wish I could attend him on the field. If only to remind the boy not to drop his guard as he tends to do when lunging."
"Relax Cassandra, you're making me nervous and I'm not even competing," Varric said. "He'll be fine, with all the Chantry's Circle Mages and Templar Knights overseeing the combat; I doubt he'll walk away with a chipped tooth as a souvenir."
"Yes, our beloved Divine Victoria has rather made a name for herself over these past few years," Dorian said. "Who could have foreseen mages and Templars working hand and hand? It's like something out of one of your romance novels Varric."
"Not even close, I'm not that good Dorian. My plot twists are too subtle and unlike Vivienne, I'm painfully predictable when pairing romantic leads."
"I find little fault with, Divine Victoria," Cassandra said taking her seat. "…at least not in this instance. She has found a way to bring two fractured factions together. The Templar Order was never founded to suppress mages, but rather assist them in controlling their abilities. Perhaps it was the Inquisition that won our Divine her appointment; nonetheless, it shall be her decisions that shape her legacy. Those looking to criticize the harshness of the her initial reforms can hardly scorn the results thus far."
Sipping wine, "The lady is shrewd, I'll give her that," Varric said. "She alone decides where these games are to be held throughout Thedas; the nobles cater to her for the chance to host in their territories every year. My own counsel has partitioned her on numerous occasions to consider Kirkwall. Not that she ever would."
"No one can hold that against her," Dorian interrupted. "Kirkwall is hardly suitable for as grand an event as this."
"Yeah, well every spring the woman has my staff running around like mice performing deeds in the name of the Chantry in spite of that fact. And who gets all the credit for the good I do throughout the year…our Divine, that's who."
Gesturing to the coliseum floor below, "Not to mention, with the use of this new arm of the Templar Order, the Dunrosha, she exhibits her control over the Templar and mages rather effectively," Cassandra said.
Marching into the coliseum as the combatants cleared the list and took the field; a legion of Dunrosha took up position around four rings of blue lyrium stones embedded in the arena floor. An elite group of Templar Enchanter Knights, the men and women of the Divine Guard, had become what most now called the Chantry's, Grey Wardens. Trained and led by members of the failing order of wardens, the Dunrosha was ever vigilant in their investigation of darkspawn and supernatural corruption throughout Thedas. Outfitted in white Grey Warden armor with gold underlay, black leather accents and boots, the divine knights presented white staffs adorn with jewels of blue lyrium. Standing motionless, surrounding the four smaller rings constructed at equal distances outside a much larger sphere of lyrium stones, they awaited the proclaiming of the first horns. Gathered inside the smaller rings, divided into groups according to their rankings, Tristan and the other warriors assembled themselves with their weapon bearers. Their attendants caring for their last minute needs before the competition began.
Dressed in white robes, a vast choir of Circle Mages entered the grounds singing as everyone looked on. With the soft resonance of, "The Dawn Will Come" filling the air, a hymn sang after the fall of Haven by the survivors of Skyhold, the crowd immediately joined them. Together, like the calm before a great storm, they sang in unison. The once fevered pitch of excitement briefly quelled in the somber reflection of the song being carried on the wind.
"Are you nervous," Callum inquired, adjusting Tristan's armor, the elfish boy pounding his fist on the breast plate of the purplish-blue suit. Crafted to fit like a second skin, the ancient design of the armor appeared to be that of the enlightened armor worn by elven sentinels of old. The appearance favored by Lord Dorian had been the Venatori Ambassador's contribution to what he called, a rite of passage for the young knight.
"No, not really," Tristan whispered checking the weight of his shield.
"There…I believe you're ready. Remember, trust your training and if you can, keep everyone in front of you; and be mindful of the lyrium stones. Also, don't forget to raise your shield when you lunge; you tend to drop it slightly before striking."
Shoving Callum away playfully, "You sound like Lady Cassandra," Tristan said in jest.
"I advise you to heed me either way, it's among one of your greatest flaws and could be ill-used against you," Callum replied, placing the Inquisitor's helm on Tristan's head. "Regarding Lady Cassandra, you know I'll only take that as a complement."
"As you should…even if not intended. My aunt is a great warrior; I only wish to make her proud. Thank you for helping me do so, your aid has been invaluable; I won't forget it."
His best friend and sparring partner for more than four years, Callum was Lady Cassandra's charge by way of Lord Dorian. Purchased after the death of his mother by the Tevinter lord, Callum had been sent to be trained at the Hall of the Seekers in New Haven. Two years younger than Tristan, with wheat colored hair, the thin wiry boy stood a head taller. Half elven and human with long rounded ears, he was gifted in the use of spirit magic and fast becoming a healer under the guidance of Sage Seeker Armmon.
"The woman of the Free Marches is the only mage you face this round, but her magic is strong, be mindful of that," Callum said studying the other competitors inside the ring. "The elf and the large Orlesian will undoubtedly try to eliminate you first before focusing on the woman. I'd suggest you seek to divide them and injure the weaker of the two before they can regroup. If the woman is wise, she may even assist you; they'll certainly turn on her should you be defeated."
As in the other rings, the five to six competitors preparing to compete would naturally try to eliminate the highest ranking combatant at the start of the conflict. Although only one would be permitted to enter the larger inner circle from each ring; in the past, lesser warriors often collaborated before turning on each other. Some warriors believing a partnership gave them the best chance to emerge victorious as champion. Ready to take their leave with the blowing of the first horns, all armor and weapon bearers collected their things and prepared to depart the field.
"Lotesse i' Arda osta i' anar collo i' sul karna swift lle lakilea, Mellonamin," Callum said patting Tristan on the shoulder, reciting an elven prayer of protection while leading away the young knight's mount.
Sliding his sword from its sheath and presenting his shield, Tristan watched the other participants spread out and reposition themselves. Outside the stone rings the Dunrosha Knights stepped forward and raised their staffs into the air. Shouting an incantation, they constructed a dome barrier of dispelling magic enclosing the rings and warriors within. Eyeing Tristan as they glanced at each other, the large Orlesian warrior wielding a great-sword stood to the right of a hairless elven rogue brandishing dual blades. Both dressed in fine fitted armor, one wore the mark of House Fairchild of Orlais and the other that of House Celsius from Antiva. Maneuvering away from them, the cloaked woman of the Free Marches stood at the ready holding a wooden staff with a large glowing bloodstone in its center. Dressed in a shimmering reddish-orange enchanter's robe, she displayed no distinguishing marks of any house. The strange garment, woven in a material unlike any Tristan had ever seen; appeared to flicker in the wind like the flames of a great camp fire.
"Are you frightened boy," the elf said striking his blades together. "As faint as it is; I can still smell your fear from here."
"You needn't worry, this will be over soon enough," the warrior finished, displaying his weapon.
With the sounding of the second horns, the large warrior rushed toward Tristan with his great-sword dragging the earth causing dust to ascend from the arena floor. Girding himself, tightening the grip on his shield, Tristan allowed his sword arm to fall to his side. From the corner of his eye he saw the rogue disappear, the assassin's trick seemingly causing the elf to vanish instantly. Lost in his blind-spot, an optical defect most creatures possessed in their peripheral vision, Tristan shifted in an effort to locate the tall slender elf. Turning suddenly hearing the gasp of the crowd as he deflected the slicing blades of the assassin with his sword, Tristan lashed out with his shield.
A pincer attack, obviously designed to leave the young knight's backside exposed, had only been a distraction. Fixed against the wild strikes of the elf, Tristan planted his feet firmly into the earth unmoving. The elf's opening gambit meant to drive him back giving the Orlesian the opportunity to deliver a clean finishing blow. Warding off the brunt of his attacker's assault as the elf glided away, the young knight quickly repositioned his guard stance. With a loud yell the warrior lifted his sword and sought to bring the colossal weapon down on the boy's head; no doubt ending any chance he had of winning or walking away with his life. Stepping back spinning suddenly, closing the distance between the large man and himself, Tristan knelt as he raised his shield overhead. The sudden movement causing the warrior to shorten his strides and readjust as he brought the weight of his weapon down in an awkward arch leaving himself off balance. Redirecting the force of the blow off the side of his shield, Tristan drove the spiked pommel of his sword into the man's foot. Rolling away, hearing the sickening crunch of metal plate, broken flesh and bone; the young knight leapt to his feet braced behind his shield. Around him the arena came to life with applause. Although he couldn't be sure their affection had been meant entirely for him or another, he beat his sword against his shield in acceptance. Watching, keeping her distance away from the conflict, the cloaked woman studied him, her approval sensed beneath her hooded robe.
"Well, I dare say your nephew is somewhat of a showman, Lady Cassandra," Dorian said fully invested in the games. "No doubt a trait picked up while training with Varric I'd wager."
Delighted, "No Dorian, the ringing of his shield is a custom of House Pentaghast," Cassandra said proudly. "It is how we honor the dead and tempt death in battle."
"I can't wait to hear the logic behind that, Lord Seeker," Varric said, pouring more wine. "I always assumed you did it because you're such a badass."
"I hardly portray myself as a, 'badass', Varric. Besides, it's not that complicated. Only the living can tempt the dead and the boy is simply telling all in attendance; he's having the time of his life."
Moving behind the knelling warrior as he sought to stand using his sword, the elf disarmed him; kicking away the weapon as he put a dagger to the large man's throat. Voicing their disapproval many in the crowd hissed and chanted slanders as the elf circled the fallen man taunting him.
"What say you, is he still a danger," the elf asked Tristan, slicing beneath the man's armpit. "Should I end him or will he stay down? Do you yield," he said taunting, slicing the man's other armpit? "There, now he won't be such a distraction while we sort things out."
Grunting, unable to lift his arms, the large warrior moaned and crashed face first into the dust. Without warning the assassin sprinted toward Tristan. Feeling blades ring against his guard, Tristan lunged forward deflecting the strikes with his shield; causing the elf to give ground. Countering and jabbing with a series of attacks aimed at the elf's face, Tristan watched the rogue glide away effortlessly, putting distance between them once more.
"Oh well, it was worth a try," the rogue said smiling. "Guess I'll have to…"
Rushing toward the cloaked woman as she lowered her staff, the assassin tried to halt his momentum. Feeling the air around him grow cold as the woman uttered an incantation, Tristan swiftly brought his shield up to his face. As though summoned from the abyss itself, a wall of fire rose up in front of her. The glow and heat intensified by the magic enclosure as dispelling magic drew the inferno upward seeking to extinguish the flames. In an effort to protect himself, the elven assassin bound back and covered himself; the heat of the enchantment lingering in the air as the woman raised her staff strengthening the spell. Charging forward, rushing toward the recoiling elf, Tristan drove his shield into the assassin's back. Dropping his guard slightly in an effort to locate his target as he brought his sword across his body; a blinding flash of light forced the young knight to lift his shield instinctively.
"Very clever bastard," the assassin grunted, slowly retrieving one of his fallen blades. "Next time, I take your eye, boy."
Discarding his helm, retreating as searing pain caused him to stumble back, Tristan blinked repeatedly seeing the elf stagger to his feet through half lidded eyes. Visibly shaken and disoriented as he gathered himself, the elf was caught off guard by what followed. Hearing the woman cast another spell, he sought to sprint away before falling forward; crippled by Tristan's attack as his legs gave way beneath him. Like a fish drawn from water, twisting midair, the tall slender elf's body was ablaze in a ball of fire. Crashing admits cries and screams as he thrashed on the ground; the mage's bright flames engulfed him as they sought to consume him entirely. With cheers and laughter filling the arena, everyone in attendance seemingly approved as the assassin rose then fell. The dispelling barrier once again siphoning off the flames as the smoldering elf lay motionless between Tristan and the cloaked woman.
Twirling her staff in a display of skill, "Yield and I will spare you his fate, child," the woman said, stopping to aim the long wooden weapon.
Of all forms of elemental magic fire was the least commonly displayed among novice mages. The enchantments, although the easiest to utilize, were fueled by focusing intense emotions such as hate, fear, rage or love in order to manipulate the veil. Because of this, any mage practicing fire magic drew the attention of spirits within the fade and ran the highest risk of spiritual possession by darker entities. It was due to this, that inexperienced mages tended to shy away from fire magic until skilled enough to control the emotional strains that accompanied it. The use of such magic often indicating the level of skill and mental determination acquired by the summoning practitioner.
Feeling blood flow down his face, "I extend the same offer to you," Tristan said darting to his right as the woman tracked him with her staff.
Stopping abruptly, as the large bloodstone at the center of the weapon suddenly came to life, he steadied himself. Without making a sound, electricity erupted from the cloaked woman's weapon. The wide arching wave of light heating the air as it popped and crackled. Bringing his shield up as the glowing blue arc exploded against it, Tristan fought to maintain his balance; the force of the blast pushing him back as his heels dug into the earth.
By the Maker, this woman's magic is incredible, he thought hiding behind his guard.
Warming his body, causing his muscles to spasm as it danced along the surface of his armor, the electrical current bled off gradually. Crafted to protect him against a degree of all elemental magic, Tristan's armor was enchanted to dispel mage fire; the intensely hot demonic veilfire that burned three times hotter than normal flames. Another gift from Lord Dorian, the hidden wards had been carved on the inside of the armors' quartz plating. The Tevinter lord unwilling to deface the elven armor with what he felt was garish scrollwork and etchings. Regaining his composure, Tristan carefully began to circle the woman as she stared at him cautiously. Sensing her confusion as to how he still stood after her attack; more than likely the strongest amongst them he hoped, Tristan sought to bait her.
"My offer still stands," he said lowering his shield.
"I would be lying to say your skill is not without merit, boy! But, you'd be a fool to ever believe me at your mercy!"
"Then the time has come, as Lord Varric would say; 'to lay our cards on the table."
Lifting his sword like a dagger drawn from its sheath, Tristan heaved the weighted weapon with all his might. Chasing in behind the heavily slung sword, he danced from left to right before sliding to a dead stop. Surprised, the woman raised her staff to deflect his sword that threatened to sever her head from her body. Grunting, gnashing her teeth as she turned away, the impact of the weapon forced her to stagger backwards; the sword driving her staff into her chest as she slammed into the enchanted barrier. Observing the woman bounce off the magic enclosure, tossing away his shield, Tristan released a hooked chain from the housing inside his gauntlet with a flick of his wrist. Casting the thin veridium linked chain outward as he pulled against it, he ensnared the woman's waist and stood. With all his strength he pulled, taking the mage off her feet as her staff fell from her grasp. Disarmed and lying face down beneath him, Tristan pressed his boot into the woman's spine.
"Yield," he demanded, pressing harder. "Yield or be broken."
Patting the ground vigorously, "I yield, I yield," the woman wailed.
Raising his hand, claiming victory to the delight of the crowd as they applauded and sang his name, Tristan helped the woman to her feet. Over them the shimmering dome of blue dispelling magic dissolved as Circle Mages rushed into the ring to attend the fallen warriors. Allowing himself a brief moment to enjoy the adoration of the crowd, Tristan turned his attention to the larger ring. Being cared for by their attendants, Sir Du'pont, Sir Donavan and Captain Burdock awaited him, all looking none the worse for wear.
"You did well," Callum said retrieving Tristan's sword. "The woman was very proficient; I wasn't sure you'd best her."
Wiping sweat from his brow, "Compared to Lord Dorian she wasn't that menacing," Tristan said. "How long have they been waiting?"
"Sir Du'pont finished first, to no one's surprise. His match was rather uneventful given the level of competition he faced. Actually, he fought with a ferocity I hadn't thought him capable of. Second to conclude was Captain Burdock; you should take care to avoid his war-hammer, it's enchanted or perhaps protected with runes. Upon striking it, the swords of two foes shattered like glass during combat. Truly a sight to behold; given Lord Hess axes appeared to be conjured from veilfire. Sir Donavan was third; and he simply overpowered everyone on the field. Do not underestimate the man's speed given his size, he moves like a great bear dressed in silks."
"Yes, his armor is enchanted, I took note of it before the purging began."
Gathering Tristan's discarded shield, "Come, we have little time to prepare; I should see to your face before the final event," Callum said. "Lord Dorian and half the maids of Haven would never forgive me if I left it marred."
"No magic, I wish to keep the scar," Tristan said wincing. "Let it be a reminder to never lower my shield."
"Very well; perhaps the elf did you a favor in that regard. Applying Master Armmon's mixture of spindleweed, elf-root and dawn lotus won't improve your looks, but should close the wound and dull the pain quite nicely."
Removed from the field on horse drawn carts, the wounded were taken to a sanatorium beneath the arena. With the ringing of bells, the choir of mages returned to sing once more. Singing songs written to celebrate the festivities; lively tunes from across the narrow sea never heard in Thedas, they appeased the crowd. In the low stands; jugglers, merchants, minstrels and dancers moved throughout the people plying their trades. The entertainment designed to grant the remaining participants as well as the onlookers a brief respite before the final melee.
"Well, the lad made it to the inner circle. That has to account for something."
"He did not train in hopes of being second, Dorian," Cassandra said standing, looking over the arena.
"Don't mind him, Lord Seeker; I think the realization of actually losing our bet is starting to set in," Varric said smiling. "Du'pont looked a little distracted during that last match, rushed; that could cost him against the likes of Donavan and Burdock. So like I said; with a little luck our boy could out last them all."
Admiring the festivities, "I hardly think dispatching your opponent in near record time qualifies as being, 'rushed' Varric," Dorian rebutted. "An impressive feat in and of itself, given the prowess of his foes. That said, and our wager notwithstanding; it would be a pleasure to see the lad win…however unrealistic his odds may be."
"The games will begin shortly, then all speculation will be put to rest one way or the other," Lady Cassandra said pensively.
Making his way over to a small bench and table placed within the large circle, Tristan removed his gauntlets, pauldrons and breastplate. Allowing Callum time to tend his wounds he set and was given water and Sage Armmon's sour honey wine. After patching him up, Callum inspected his armor for any defects suffered during combat, the fair-haired boy weaving a minor restoration spell taught to him by Lord Dorian as he pounded out small dents.
I wonder what Lady Cassandra truly thinks of my showing thus far, Tristan thought, turning to study the other remaining contestants. She would never tell me if she thought me ill prepared to face this challenge. Nor discourage my desire to surpass her in deeds and renown.
"Sir Donavan has changed his armor," Tristan said seeing the large man stretching with the help of several attendants; trying to adjust to a new black suit of obsidian armor. "He looks the part of a black porcupine or cactus," the polished black suit adorned with countless spikes covering the enormous knight's back and legs.
"I believe his first suit was damaged during battle," Callum said examining his own handiwork. "Could be; the magic protecting it was weakened or corrupted by some enchanted weapon. This should do, although I can't be sure Lord Dorian's spell worked."
Dressing, Tristan gathered his sword and shield. Sparring lightly with Callum who used a wooden practice sword, they carefully recounted the events of his last match.
"What advice would you give me," Tristan asked stepping away from Callum's attack.
"None, I'm hardly qualified to assess the skills of any of these men you'll face shortly. But, I will convey a message from your aunt, 'You are Pentaghast, crafted of fire and steel…"
"…tempered with blood…shed of just men." Tristan finished, sheathing his sword.
Walking over to the bench, Callum retrieved a small wooden crate decorated with elaborate scroll work.
"What is that," Tristan asked.
"A gift from Lady Cassandra. She commanded I withhold it until you won your purging round. I believe she intended to bestow it herself; if you were somehow defeated during your last match."
Opening the box Tristan glanced at Callum and then into the high stands. Removing a piece of crimson silk, he uncovered an extremely short short-sword; the leaf shaped weapon extending about the length of his forearm. Exquisite in design, the blade had been crafted using silverite, the extremely rare metal gleaming in the sunlight as elven script glowed blue like veins beneath its skin.
"Callum, can you read what is written on the blade," Tristan asked carefully taking the weapon out of the crate.
"No, it's an ancient dialect unknown to me. I doubt even the Dalish of Valletta'darth could translate it. The craftsmanship is remarkable all the same. It's a wonderful weapon, Lady Cassandra must have spent quite a bit to obtain it. You should honor her and give it a name after the contest."
Spinning the weapon, examining the script, "Yes, mayhap it will prove itself during battle."
Bringing an end to the respite, the sounding of first horns blared. Offering Callum his old weapon, testing the weight of the new, Tristan sheath the sword. Taking up his shield and thanking Callum once more, fire and steel, the young knight thought refocusing himself.
Slowly, the combatants gathered at the center of the ring as attendants and mages carried away all items littering the field. Hearing a brief announcement as an arbiter presented them to the crowd, the squat round man igniting everyone present, Tristan and the others prepared to take their places on the battlefield.
Passing the young knight, "Truly, the Maker has heard my prayer boy, I will have my satisfaction…and your head," Sir Du'pont whispered.
"How long do you think you can last against him," Captain Burdock asked, examining daggers fixed to his waist belt.
"We shall see."
"Judging from your previous matches, I'd give you thirty seconds. Sixty, before you pissed him off."
Turning toward Burdock, "They were your words that enraged him, not mine, pirate!"
"Yeah, but it's your age that insults him," Burdock said smiling. "Not to mention, you remind the old goat his reign as champion is quickly coming to an end."
"You sought to use me as a decoy?"
"No, I seek to use you; figured we'd meet again. I'm thinking you'll come in handy before Du'pont or Donavan waste you. The way I see it; someone has to win; hell, why not me? But, I would feel bad watching that old bastard gut you like a red-tail-mud-trout, so I suggest you follow my lead or die. The choice is yours of course, but we both know; you don't stand a chance against the Orlesian or Venatori knight alone."
Falling in behind Burdock, Tristan took his place alongside the pirate on the field; the act indicating the two would compete under an informal truce until only they remained active in combat. A partnership uncommon in the final round, the chatter of whispers from the crowd could be heard throughout the arena.
Sitting up in his seat, "Well, now that's unexpected," Dorian said sipping spice wine. "Surely the boy doesn't believe he can trust the likes of Audius Burdock. The dwarf is a known smuggler and thief with suspected tides to the Qunari high counsel, the Ben-Hassrath."
"It is a wise move," Cassandra rebutted. "Against all three men, Tristan would stand little to no chance of winning. Perhaps with the aid of Burdock, he may be victorious."
"If you seek to protect the boy, I will have you both dwarf," Du'pont said, unfastening two rapier blades from his sides. Pointing one of the extremely thin weapons toward Sir Donavan, "And you; if you choose to interfere…I'll peel that ghastly armor off your Venatori hide!"
Bowing, "Eliminate them, and you'll have your chance," Sir Donavan said, planting his great-sword into the ground next to him.
Encircling the ring, the Dunrosha enclosed the inner circle in dispelling magic.
With the blasting of the horns, Tristan watched Sir Du'pont gracefully make his way across the ring toward Burdock and himself. The silver knight saluting the crowd before quickening his pace.
"Assume no stance until he moves in closer," Burdock said as Tristan prepared to defend himself. "It only serves to reveal your intent. Your armor will be useless against him, trust the strength of your sword and shield. And whatever you do, don't take your eyes off him."
Pushing Tristan away, Burdock detached his war-hammer from his back. The head of the large dragon bone weapon resembling a fist with rings of emeralds, rubies and sapphires adorning each finger; the back spike of the weapon an axe blade. Widening the distance between them the pirate captain maneuvered as if to flank Du'pont; the elder knight halting briefly before advancing once more. Smiling, quickening his pace, Du'pont sprinted across the field with weapons in hand. Rushing in to meet him under the objection of Burdock, Tristan watched the elder knight glide to a stop as he began his attack.
Like the tongues of two silver serpents, his swords hissed through the air stabbing at Tristan's guard almost playfully. The thin weapons probing his defenses as Du'pont searched for any and every weakness.
Stepping away, noting the position of his foes, "Bravo boy, your shield play is excellent," Du'pont said. "No doubt your teachers would be proud. Now I look forward to witnessing your use of that magnificent sword."
In a flash of silver and gold, the elder knight resumed his attack; forcing Tristan to give ground. Dipping in, sliding forward making the younger knight defend himself using his sword and shield, Du'pont pressed his advantage. Parrying away a series of attacks that caused him to open his guard, Tristan sought to repel various assaults aimed at the joints of his armor. Advancing behind powerful stabbing strikes, Sir Du'pont skillfully struck at his legs, arms, shoulders and knees.
His speed is extraordinary, Tristan thought seeking to retreat, feeling the weight of each blow as he warded off several strikes. He intends to exhaust me, but he shall find; I do not falter easily.
In his time spent training with Lord Varric and his aunt, Tristan had been pressed to his limit many times. Often defending himself against multiple knights as they sought to flank and corner him; each attacking from all sides using numerous strategies and techniques. For what seemed like hours, they pounded at his guard alternating between the lot of them in order to weaken his resolve. Religiously conditioned, trained and instructed in the art of breathing as well as foot work, he found more times than not he could outlast them all.
Deflecting several throwing knives hurled at him, Sir Du'pont hastily disengaged his attack. The elder knight circling away from Tristan as he sensed Burdock approaching.
"Are you a fool boy," Burdock said, cautiously stalking Du'pont. "The goat will have your head and my title if you should fall too soon. I said follow my lead!"
"No, follow my lead pirate; for I will have the measure of this man," Tristan said charging.
Deftly redirecting Du'pont's blades as he pushed the silver knight's swords aside, Tristan jabbed with his shield driving him back. Delivering a series of strikes that slid off the arm and shoulder of the retreating knight, Tristan sought to press his advantage using his shield to mask his attacks. Gracefully darting away, Du'pont evaded slashes meant to disarm or end him. The young knight directing his attacks at his wrist, chest and throat as his weapon glowed a strange blue, the aura elongating the tip of the sword.
"Du'pont is toying with him," Lady Cassandra said furiously, watching the Orlesian Lord pass up obvious strikes against his much younger opponent. "His movements are only faints meant to seduce Tristan, to draw him in closer!"
"Yes, and I doubt our young champion is even aware of it."
"Our champion Dorian; I thought you'd be happy to see that silver haired demon winning."
"There's no honor in humiliating a lesser foe Varric, even if that foe is oblivious to the insult."
Switching his weight and adjusting his stance, Du'pont allowed Tristan inside his guard. The elder knight casually deflecting his attacks while bringing them both face to face.
"You're as reckless as your name suggests," Du'pont said forcing Tristan back as they fought for leverage. "Like all Pentaghast, you throw yourself into flames assured you won't be burnt; believing yourself immune to the inevitable. Given time, you may have become a worthy adversary boy; but, as you will soon learn, time is an unfaithful mistress."
Grappling, unlocking weapons as he sensed Burdock at his back, Du'pont quickly spun away rolling around Tristan. Ramming into the young knight from behind, the elder knight prepared to thrust his sword through the back of the boy's neck. The arching design of the Inquisitor's helm leaving the spine exposed above the armor's high gorget lowered at the back of his neck.
Propelled forward, raising his shield at the last minute as he braced himself, Tristan felt all strength leave his body; his guard buckling under the force of Burdock's assault. Allowing himself to go limp, fighting to stay conscious the young knight could barely hear the sudden gasp of the crowd ringing in his ears. Like a lightning strike smashing into his shield, drowning out the unnatural sound of disintegrating metal, the pirate captain's war hammer shattered the disk into glistening fragments of shimmering veridium. The sudden explosion of energy and magic launching Tristan back as several shards of metal pierced his thigh.
"Don't get up on my account," the dwarven captain said smugly, approaching with his weapon thrown over his shoulder.
Disoriented in a heap on the arena floor, Tristan could feel Du'pont struggling to free himself from beneath him. Grabbing the elder knight, their limbs entangled, the young knight pinned him to the ground. Attacking Tristan with an armored fist, Du'pont pounded at his side; the elder knight's free hand outstretched groping for a fallen blade just beyond his reach. Lifting his hammer above his head, spinning it as he brought the back spike down, Burdock severed the Orlesian's hand from his arm. Kneeling, hearing Du'pont cursing as his screams swallowed up the cries of everyone in attendance; Burdock whispered into the mutilated knight's ear. Patting the ground with his remaining hand, Sir Du'pont conceded as his blood stained the earth around him. Smiling as he stood, Burdock gathered the severed limb and placed it in a pouch fastened to his waist belt.
"Can you fight," Burdock said looking down on Tristan. "We've got unfinished business, so tell me; will you be useful?"
Seeing Burdock touch the hilt of his dagger, "Will you," Tristan said pulling away from Du'pont before standing, taking up his sword.
"Good, very good. I didn't take you for a quitter boy; a fool perhaps, but not a quitter. That stunt…"
"He was toying with me. His plan was to draw you in closer by using me as his shield. His fear of your hammer was his undoing."
"How did you know your armor would hold and I wouldn't kill you?"
Stepping away from Burdock, "Despite your best efforts, you didn't and it did," Tristan said pulling the largest of three metal shards from his thigh.
Brandishing his long sword above his head, Sir Donavan made his way across the field. Studying his strides, it was obvious to all; his armor did little to impede the unnatural ease in which he moved. The enormous man appearing to be a living shadow sauntering across the battlefield as the sun sank lower in the sky behind him. Stopping, coming to a halt in the middle of the ring as he lodged his sword into the earth once more, he beckoned toward Burdock.
Shouldering his hammer, "He's mine boy, stay out of it," Burdock said walking toward Sir Donavan.
Watching the dwarven pirate traveling toward the obsidian clad knight, the stark contrast almost seemed amusing in an odd way. Towering over Burdock like a demon or dark spirit birth from the Fade itself, Sir Donavan threatened to block out the sun. His strange armor somehow diminishing the brilliance of light as it seemingly drank it in. In the stands, the anxious anticipation of the crowd could almost be felt; apprehension filling the air with the sound of rushing wind as all inhaled. Readying his sword as he moved in, Tristan tried to suppress the pain and discomfort of his throbbing leg, back and head. Poised outside the range of Burdock's hammer strike, he was convinced such a blow would be the dwarf's only hope of escaping Sir Donavan at close range. Watching the pirate as he lowered his hammer to the ground facing the large knight, he appeared to unfasten the pouch containing Du'pont's severed hand. Presenting it to Sir Donavan as the man removed his helm, the dwarf allowed him to examine it.
"I don't understand," Lady Cassandra said watching what was taking place below her.
"Isn't it obvious Lord Seeker," Varric said smiling. "Burdock is a ringer, a mercenary hired to thin the herd to assure Donavan wins. To be honest, I'm kind of jealous I didn't think of it myself."
"I'm sure you have Varric," Dorian said flatly. "It's only my guess, but, the detached limb of Du'pont was a bonus. I have no doubt it will find its way in the application of blood magic, many Venitori and Qunari have been known to dabble in such things."
"This is unconscionable; this man has disgraced the spirit of the games."
"The spirit of the game Lord Seeker, is war," Varric said listening to the crowd wailing and cursing, becoming aware of Burdocks betrayal. "And as you know, in war; everything is permitted on the battlefield."
"Which is why you've always fared so well, Varric," Lady Cassandra said not trying to hide the venom in her voice.
"Why we, Lord Seeker…why we've always fared so well," Varric said sipping wine.
Pointing toward Tristan while speaking to Burdock, Sir Donavan took up his great-sword. Halting the large man, Burdock placed a hand on his hammer while continuing to speak. Quarreling, looking at Tristan before finishing their conversation, Sir Donavan nodded in agreement.
Knelling before patting the ground, "Good luck boy, may your Maker…or whoever brings you fortune serve you well; you'll need it," Burdock said yielding."
With jeers and hissing the crowd littered the field in protest of Sir Donavan and Burdock's duplicity. The dark knight smiling as debris bounced off the large dispelling barrier falling harmlessly outside of the center ring. Conjuring bladed weapons of all types from the Fade itself, the Dunrosha turned facing away from the center ring toward the crowd. The act itself bringing order in an instant as the chaotic uproar fell silent.
"The dwarf has failed to kill you and Du'pont," Sir Donavan said. "I've assured him I would finish what he did not; if challenged. So tell me; will you assent or must I kill you?"
"You Sir, are without honor or courage," Tristan said adopting a defensive stance. "And I am compelled to defy you."
Placing his helm on his head, "I told the dwarf you'd prefer death," Sir Donavan sighed. "After all, you're a Pentaghast."
Drawing back his weapon, the large knight charged. The dark knight crushing the earth beneath his feet like an enormous armored bull. Opening his stance and guard, taunting Sir Donavan, Tristan braced himself as tremors resonated throughout his armor. Throwing himself forward as Sir Donavan cut the air above him, the wake of his attack causing dust to swirl around them, Tristan rolled and leapt to his feet. Rushing in behind the large knight slicing at the back of his legs, the young knight barely avoided the spikes embellishing Donavan's cuisses and greaves. The obsidian spikes jutting out like ebony long swords covering his outer thighs and calves. Turning, splitting the ground at his feet with his sword, Sir Donavan forced Tristan to withdraw. The young knight diving and rolling out of harm's way with his weapon held at the ready. Carefully, circling the arena as his weapon began to glow, Tristan studied the large knight's armor.
This suit was designed to keep Sir Du'pont at bay, he thought watching Sir Donavan beckon for him. The spikes where meant to negate the elder knight's speed and skill. Both of which, I'm hard pressed to duplicate with any effectiveness. Void of my shield, any frontal assault against such raw power would leave me at a profound disadvantage. A fact, I have little doubt Burdock considered before shattering it. If I will defeat this villain, I must separate him from his sword.
"Come now, I long to see what you're planning," Sir Donavan said extending his sword toward Tristan. "I assure you, it will not work boy."
Attacking, bobbing from side to side as he rushed the large knight, Tristan whirled, releasing the hooked chain from his gantlet. The thin silver links lashing out like a whip as they snapped through the air. Bringing his sword up securing the chain instantaneously, Sir Donavan pulled against it, jerking the towline to himself. Taken off his feet as if weightless, Tristan fought to detach the length of chain from his gantlet as he slammed into the ground. His attack targeting the small slits in Sir Donavan's visor in an effort to blind him.
Leaping through the air, bringing his weapon down where the young knight lay, Sir Donavan's sword bit deep into the arena floor. The force of which crushing earth and stones alike. Flipping to his feet mere seconds before the weapon cleaved a trench along the ground, Tristan sought to attack the dark knight again. Hurling a shard of metal taken from his thigh, hidden beneath the tasset of his armor, he drew closer to his adversary. Surprised, turning away from the spark that temporarily blinded him, Sir Donavan howled as the chunk of metal lodged in his left eye.
Drawn to their feet, those gathered in the high and low stands cheered in unison. The arena erupting with deafening applause as the noise shook the very pillars of the coliseum itself.
Wounded, Sir Donavan swung his weapon wildly as he staggered back flailing at nothing; growling as he sought to clear Tristan away. Like a great fan stirring dust and wind, his sword thrashed; the force of the flurry knocking him off balance. Ducking under the flaying sword with unsteadied strikes, the young knight slashed and hacked at the large warrior's arms; his ebony gantlets glowing red as Tristan's sword threatened to melt the armor. Gathering himself, trying desperately to locate his enemy, Sir Donavan turned quickly; the spikes aligning his suit stabbing into the young knight's arm as he slipped beyond their reach.
Feeling his arm going numb, poison, Tristan thought as his fingers refused to make a fist causing him to retreat.
"I wonder, will the lad be able to take the man's life when the time comes," Dorian said standing like those around him. "It's no easy thing to ask of one's self."
"If he must; Tristan will do what needs to be done," Cassandra said looking on. "Trust and believe Dorian, he is fully aware such is the price of combat and the duty of the vocation he selects to pursue."
Tempering his voice, "Yield and lay down your weapon," Tristan said displaying his sword, holding the hilt with both hands. "I have no desire to take your life Sir Donavan; do not give me cause."
"You're delusional, you little shit," Sir Donavan said seeing Tristan's hands trembling. "Do you really think this scratch will keep me from splitting you in two? I can see from here you've discovered the gift meant for that arrogant bastard Du'pont. Soon you'll be unable to lift that toy sword boy, and once I kill you; I'll rape your corpse, drain your blood and take your eye to replace my own. Now tell me, how handsome shall I be with your soft doe eye winking back at me in my mirror?"
Charging with reckless abandon, Sir Donavan attacked; the dark knight shouting as he flung his weapon, the black great-sword slicing through the air like a colossal wheel spinning above the ground. Reacting without hesitation, Tristan flung his own weapon aside and held his ground. His legs unable to move as the poison coursing through his veins caused his limbs to weaken.
'Were you afraid of him,' Tristan heard his aunt Cassandra asking. Her words spoken after sparring with him at Lake Justinia outside New Haven.
Only seven years of age at the time, No, aunt Cassandra, Tristan lied; his arm broken the night before after tripping as he retreated from Sir William. The thin small boy challenging the ill-mannered knight to a duel in his aunt's honor.
'Fear is permitted you know; according to my first instructor, Sir Kellen, it was downright required; but only in regards to battling him,' she said smiling, the crisp predawn air causing her words to ascend in vapors while she spoke.
'He often said, "Fear was the companion that accompanied all righteous men into battle, and the enemy that caused all cowards to flee. That on the battlefield, every sane man wishes to abscond from conflict." In my life time, I've seen so-called brave knights do just that; as well as the lowest of warriors defy all definitions of defeat with courage. It's only beyond fear that the miraculous can be found; that faith can have its fullest manifestation when tested. Do not hesitate to embrace it, far too few have the courage to do so…and forfeit victory in the process.'
Does running from Sir William make me a coward aunt Cassandra, Tristan asked.
'No dear nephew, she said messing his hair. 'Only denying one's convictions could ever do that.'
With long powerful strides, Sir Donavan chased after his sword. The fury of the large knight blinding him to all but the, "would be champion", who stood motionless before him. A foolish child, the boy was unable to move as an extract of Wyvern venom shut down every motor function in his body with the beating of his own heart. Watching his sword reach the boy mere seconds before him, the large Venitori knight drew back his armored fist.
Standing, counting his breaths, Tristan willed his body to respond turning slightly. Pivoting on his heels as Sir Donavan's sword traveled passed him. Using every ounce of strength left to him, he grabbed the weapon's hilt. Spun by the swords momentum, hearing the large knight expel air, Tristan buried the long black blade into the chest of Sir Donavan up to the guard.
Spitting blood into the back of his helm as the smaller knight faced away from him; punching air with an open fist, Sir Donavan's enormous fingers sliding down the young knight's back. Sighing, as both warriors fell to their knees balanced on the hilt and blade of the great sword, neither ever bore witness to what followed as sight and sound fading beyond their recognition. The champion of the thirtieth Tournament of the Divine collapsing into a sea of darkness upon the arena floor as the world around him ceased to exist.