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From the center of the dais, a figure rose, swirling in the air. He was tall. Enormously tall. His arms extended out farther than Hawke would have imagined possible. He spoke in a voice dry from disuse. "Be this some dream I wake from? Am I in dwarven lands? Why seem their roads so empty?"
Hawke stared at Corypheus—for it must be him—in fascination. Growths jutted from his face, as though he had been in the process of turning to stone. If only, she thought. And his features were twisted, deformed. What had happened to this man, if he had ever been one?
He pointed at her and her companions. "You! Serve you at the temple of Dumat? Bring me hence. I must speak with the first acolyte."
"Dumat was the first Old God to become an Archdemon," Anders whispered. "There haven't been temples to him since ancient Tevinter."
"You look human," Corypheus said, peering down at them with his burning eyes. "Are you not citizens of the Empire? Slaves, then, to the dwarves? Why come you here? Whoever you are, you owe fealty to any magister of Tevinter. On your knees! All of you!"
"Yeah … no," Varric said. He was already reaching for Bianca.
"Whatever you think you are, Tevinter's days of glory are long, long past. All you are now is a monster, and I won't let you go free." Hawke picked up the key from the floor.
For a long moment, Corypheus stared at her, studying her. She didn't like the sensation. "You are what held me," he said at last. "I smell the blood in you."
Hawke stepped in front of Bethany, to make sure he couldn't smell the blood in both of them. Whatever else happened, he was not getting anywhere near her sister.
Corypheus was no longer paying any attention to them, however. His eyes were on the sky above them. "Dumat! Lord! What waking dream is this? The light … We sought the golden light. You offered the power of the gods themselves. But it was black. Corrupt. Darkness … ever since. How long?"
"The Golden City. The first violation. The magisters who brought the Blight!"
Hawke stared at Larius. He couldn't be serious. No one could really have entered the Black City. That was mythology, nothing more.
"That's ridiculous," Anders snapped, echoing her thoughts. "There were no magical bogeymen who trespassed in the Maker's city. It's a story. Chantry propaganda."
"Where do you think darkspawn came from, then?" Bethany asked.
"Some creation of the Old Gods, no doubt." He looked up at Corypheus, who was still searching the night sky for answers.
"Dumat! Have you forsaken me? I am your faithful servant!"
"The darkspawn aren't just some conveniently explicit lesson on the dangers of magic," Anders protested.
"Unless Corypheus is for real, everyone who knows what actually happened is long dead. And I, for one, don't care," Hawke said. "We're here to kill this thing before it sends more people to kill us. That's what I care about."
"You don't think it's a little convenient? What does every sane man and woman in Thedas fear? The Blights. Why not pin those on mages, too?"
"Blondie, does this look like the time for the Manifesto?" Varric snapped.
Corypheus had turned his attention back to them, and he was watching them as they spoke, fascinated. "What manner of speech is this? How long have I slumbered?"
"Too long, and not long enough," Hawke said briskly.
"He tainted the world. He speaks to all who carry the corruption. He brought Janeka here, the darkspawn. He brought you …"
Turning to Larius, Hawke tried to reach what was left of his mind. "He's been calling the Wardens to free him, but he seems confused. Quickly—what's his plan?"
"He slept. While the seals held him, he could not wake. He knows nothing of the time that has passed. We must kill him now, before he comes to."
Hawke nodded. "Let's do it. But be careful," she warned the others. "We have no idea what he might be capable of."
"The city!" Corypheus cried. "It was supposed to be golden! It was supposed to be ours!" He rose into the air, stretching his arms out wide. "If I cannot leave with you, I will leave through you! I seek the light, and I will have it!"
He balled blue light between his fingers and shot it at Hawke's people, all of whom dove out of the way. Except for Larius, who lay enveloped in some kind of crackling energy. Hawke wondered if he was still alive, but there was no time to check, because Corypheus was far from finished.
The four of them ranged themselves around him, the others attacking him from a distance while Hawke sought every opening, every moment of distraction, to get close to him and attack with the sword. He was preternaturally good at dodging, alert to their movements in a way most people simply weren't, and it seemed to take forever to wear him down.
But at last they did, and he fell to his knees, panting, reaching weakly out for his magic but able to do little more than cause a faint glow around his fingers. Hawke didn't waste a moment finishing him off with the sword, and took a great deal of grim satisfaction in seeing him fall headless to the floor.
She looked quickly around for her people, checking them over. Scorches, cuts, exhaustion, but no major injuries, Hawke noted with relief.
They had done it. Corypheus was dead, and they were free to go home.