And Rise: Chapter 4
"You were down there." She stared at him with brows furrowed and lips drawn tight, and he met her gaze. "You were down there when the stairs collapsed."
"Yes, and I saved your life. You should be grateful." He looked to her blade. "I don't take well to threats, ser knight."
The echo of her earlier words made her alternately want to laugh or strike at him. She did neither. Slowly, Cauthrien lowered her arm. "I want answers," she said.
"As do I. Perhaps trading them would be more amenable to you?" He advanced on her, small and slow steps at first until he was too close for her to easily get her sword between them again. He crossed the last remaining gap with a few quick strides, and she slid one foot back, her only concession. He didn't touch, didn't do anything more than look into her eyes, but he was close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips. He was trying to intimidate her. It didn't work to send fear into her stomach, but she did swallow as his lips parted and he asked, "If I answer a question, will you answer one of mine?"
She hesitated, then inclined her head a fraction of an inch. "Deal. Tell me what you were doing down there. Tell me why you were following me." If he had been the one to grab her, to pull her free of the collapse and then throw her into darkness, then he was the one who had dogged their steps.
"That's two questions," he said, voice deep and quiet, honeyed with a sharp edge. "Pick one."
They were of a height, and when she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, it brought them that much closer together. She refused to flinch of back away, though she shifted her grip on the hilt of her sword. "What was down there that you wanted?" she asked, her own words pitched low.
"Entrance into my father's estate," he said without hesitation. "Your men have it locked down from without even now. Now tell me, why is that?"
It was true enough; after Rendon Howe's murder and even after the Blight, she had kept men occupying it. The new Arl of Denerim had yet to be chosen, and nobody inhabited those walls. That was no secret, and she snorted. "To keep it from being looted while it is between owners."
He didn't respond at first, and then he shifted forward, as if to loom, as if to touch - before he rocked back half a step. He opened his mouth to speak, and she shook her head.
"No. My turn again. Wh-"
She was interrupted by a pattering, and then a pounding, on the ceiling above. She growled and stepped back, looking up to the rafters and then to the window. There was a flash of shadow, and she swore. Another shadow, and a hand slammed against the glass. It was attenuated, wasted but with too-tight skin, bone and claw and unnatural sinew.
There was a crash as something hit the door.
"What in Andraste's name are they!" she hissed, looking back to Nathaniel. He stood facing the door, no blade in hand, no weapon at all. He didn't look away from the wood that now rattled and banged in its frame. "Howe!"
The name spurred him into action, and he dropped to a crouch, moving to the exit. He motioned for her to follow, and she took up a position behind him. When the door opened they would have just a moment, just a split second to force their way out, but it was all they had. It would be enough.
"Beasts," he whispered, hand against the frame trembling. "Beasts you released."
"I released-"
"When the stairs collapsed." He cast a glance over his shoulder, a hardened glare.
And then the door burst open, splintering and swinging wide on its hinges, and Nathaniel burst forward. In the dim light that was still far better than in the tavern, she could see him dodge under a swiping claw, moving so fast she could barely track his feet. She didn't have time to watch him more, and she ducked a strike and, gripping the blade and hilt hard, struck the side of the creature's head with her pommel. Her hand ached but she felt only the barest trickle of blood as she sidestepped the now-prone body.
"Come on!" she called, and Nathaniel was at her side, eyes bright and alert, hands still empty. They fell out onto the street and this time it was Cauthrien who led the way, weaving west and south through the alleys. Rendon's estate was a glowing beacon in her mental map of the city, and she made for it without giving herself time to think. There was nowhere else to go, and if that was truly where these things were coming from, she would fix it.
There was scratching and howling behind her, claws on stone and wood and brick and thatch, too much noise and too much blood on the air for her to order her thoughts. They had to get out. They had to be safe-
Her forward hand slammed into the steel of a dropped and battered portcullis. "Flames!" she hissed and turned to lead them down another alley. It was too late. Four of the beasts advanced towards them, two at an inhuman lope, two in a more sedate stride. None looked human. They were twisted things, wrong things, not darkspawn and not men.
Nathaniel was again the first to move, blinding fast in the gloom, and she barely saw him as he came up behind one of them, caught its wrist and pulled back, halting it and snapping the bone as if it were nothing. She dropped to one knee, slashing up as the other loping beast tried to strike her. The blade caught its chest, cutting deep until she could feel the sickening thud of steel on bone. She pushed forward and ducked, hoping its momentum would carry it over her.
It didn't, and it pulled her blade free from her hand, falling upon her with a screech. Its teeth went for her throat and she shouted, driving a knee into its gut and then higher, catching the hilt of her sword and shoving it deeper. The creature faltered and she took the advantage, fist connecting with its face as she rolled them both. Three more strikes and a wrenching pull of her blade and its breathing shuddered and stopped. She staggered back to her feet, fresh blood on her face.
There was only one beast still on its feet, and as she rounded on it, she saw Nathaniel close with it. He had taken two down with his bare hands already, all speed and cleverness as far as she could tell, but she still sprinted to join him. He flashed her a feral grin before diving low, and she slashed high, over Nathaniel's head and down the other side. It would have worked. It would have taken its head from its body just as Nathaniel struck its kidney. But the moonlight flashed bright off her blade and she blinked.
It caught her blade in her momentary faltering and ripped it from her hands.
She staggered back and the night air was filled with an all-too-human scream. Nathaniel would have fallen to his knees, but the blade skewering him kept him upright. He reached for it, but his hands grew weak, his muscles faltered, and he fell forward.
Cauthrien snarled and lept, taking advantage of the moment when it threw back its head and howled in triumph to strike it in the jaw, then kick its knee. It thrashed and she barely dodged the blow, instead taking it down with an arm around its neck. A pull and the bone snapped.
Quiet fell once more. It was broken only by her ragged breathing - and Nathaniel's gasps behind her. She turned. He barely held himself from the ground, staring down at the blade run through his abdomen. He reached up a hand to touch the hilt.
"Don't-" she said, but it was too late; he pulled it clean out with trembling hands and tossed it aside, collapsing to the ground.
He laughed, a weak thing, and she muttered a curse and a prayer, staggering to his side. "Howe," she said, and he convulsed with another bark of laughter.
"Nathaniel," he rasped. "Call me Nathaniel."
"Don't talk," she said, staring at the wound uncertain of what to do. She was no field medic. A six-inch long slash on a man's arm she could tend to, a head injury, something simple. Not this. Not this gaping, bleeding hole in his stomach. It pulsed and shifted with every breath he took, and she could hear all too clearly the patter of blood on stone beneath him. "Maker's mercy-"
"Cut your hand," he whispered.
She froze, hands hovering over his stomach.
"What?"
"Cut your hand," he repeated. "And give it to me. I-" He groaned, hands twitching against the ground. "Trust me. Damn you, trust me-"
He shouldn't have been able to speak, let alone demand, and she hesitated as she reached for the bloodied blade beside them. He snarled, his hand curling to a fist and thumping the ground. "If you want answers," he hissed, "do as I say!"
"I don't respond well to threats," she whispered, fingers curling around the blade and lifting it, positioning the edge against her palm where it was already scratched.
"It's a bargain!" he gasped.
She watched him, watched him twitch and breathe with shuddering, aching slowness. There were ghouls dead all around them, unanswered questions, and Nathaniel Howe who should have been dead was dying before her very eyes.
She slid her hand along the edge, her cry a wordless whimper.
"Give it- give it to me-" His voice was fading, and she extended her trembling, twitching hand to him. He managed to lift a hand of his own, wrapping gloved fingers around her wrist and pulling it close. Her jaw clenched as she felt his tongue snake out and lick along the cut. The sliding heat was too much, foreign and wrong, and she nearly pulled away.
And then a flash of pleasure spiraled up her arm as he sucked, drawing her blood into his mouth. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught in her lungs. She could feel the bruises all along her body, could still see the jagged slash of Dragon's Peak against the moon, but all her world condensed to where his lips and tongue touched her flesh. She moaned. Her other hand gripped tight to her thigh, and she looked around for anything, anything else at all to distract her and ground her.
What she saw was the wound in his stomach, no longer quivering as it knit back together before her eyes.