Sorry for the terrible delays >.< And thanks for the comments, they are always appreciated! 
Part 21 - Breaking PointsIn the Minrathous Circle Tower there was a growing silence.
The two Imperial Edges ripped from the thrall’s body with a sound like wet leather tearing then swooped up, around and down in two powerful overhand arcs as the elf dropped to his knees. The blades landed on either side of their victim’s unarmoured neck, metal shearing deep from shoulder to mid-chest. There was no outcry of pain, the slave simply jerked and went limp, his brands and eyes ceasing to glow, his face empty.
Xai Merras released the hilts and took two steps back; the dead elf slumped forwards, his head hanging, until the tips of the blades stopped him from falling any further and metal scraped softly against the floor. Blood poured from the wounds into an expanding crimson pool.
Zevran couldn’t see the Warden’s face but he could tell just by observing the stance, the rapid breathing, how he was staring down at the dead slave, that the human, the
Crow Master, had been knocked badly off-balance. Before he could come to a decision on whether he should say or do something, Xai’s head lifted and he seemed to notice the surrounding mages for the first time. He retreated a third slow pace, turning a circle as though hunting for an avenue of escape, then froze to complete stillness when his eyes found Zevran’s…and stood waiting.
He was pale, though that could have been an after-effect of the blood control spell, and while his expression wasn’t exactly showing fear Zevran thought he could pick up a distinctly
cornered feel, just as he had from Ciela on the floor above.
Zevran was the avenue of escape, and Xai knew it. Was counting on it.
Had been counting on it all along.
The copper bit finally dropped.
“Say something,” Ciela breathed.
Of course…bring him back to himself, as he had perhaps done after that display with the templar upstairs, as he had tried to do for Ciela when walking down the mage-infested corridors…
The eyes of the two men remained locked a whisper of a second longer…
You need me. Hah, the Grey Warden, the Crow Assassin, the Craftmaster, always so confident and superior in your abilities over the fugitive elf…and what is this, hm? I would wager my boots you saved me upstairs for fear you could not make it out alone. I’d wager my gloves that the reason you gave for not being able to liberate me the first time Ezio took me to the tower was a complete lie……Xai’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“Say something!”
Hm. Something that would preserve the illusion of authority Xai had claimed while still giving them an excuse not to linger any longer than they had to...and something that would bring him back.
Ah…but of course.“Master,” Zevran said, in a voice that sounded shockingly loud in the quiet that had descended. But he spoke it confidently, and as easily as if Xai had still been a Crow Master rather than disguised as a Magister.
It had been Xai’s idea, after all, that Zevran and Ciela pose as his apprentices.
The effects on Xai were minute but instantaneous. His shoulders twitched back at the word, his posture both straightening and relaxing. When he looked up his expression was one of annoyance, like some thought of immense importance had just been interrupted. His gaze was sharp. “Apprentice?” he replied, coldly.
Zevran’s response was smoother than it should have been considering Xai’s tone, borderline insolent in fact, but he couldn’t help himself. “Master, our enemy’s assassin lies dead and we have an appointment to keep, yes? Your colleagues will be waiting.”
The human shot him a flat look that Zevran knew, from this man, was as good as a glare, then pointed at Kamator and snapped, “You. Retrieve those swords and clean them.” As the Rivaini jumped at once to obey, Xai added to the room at large, “I didn’t acquire a pair of enchanted Edges for my thrall to learn the Arvale only to have them sullied by the blood of a coward’s slave. That,” he continued, indicating the corpse with a jerk of his chin, “can be returned to its owner. With my compliments.”
Zevran was aware of Ciela keeping very close to him as the spell of silence broke and the observers began to murmur amongst themselves, several drifting away now that the show was apparently over, but the majority and the guards were casting glances to Magistra Phaedra, who had been tight-lipped since the slaughter of Ezio’s thrall. Her thrall kept both eyes on Xai as he stepped around the corpse to retrieve his mage staff, but the magistra had her head cocked to listen to the words of another finely-dressed mage who had gone to her side.
“Is that another magister,
mi ciela?” he murmured, trying to keep his lips from moving.
“Yes,” she replied softly.
Kamator, lacking anything more appropriate it would seem, had unhesitatingly cleaned Xai’s swords with his own robe. The blood left darker stains against the red cloth, but in a land where blood magic and rituals were the norm Zevran wondered whether such a thing on a slave’s attire would draw more than a passing glance. Xai himself had blood down his front but he didn’t bother calling for anything to clean himself up. He took the swords from Kamator when they were presented and, with barely a glance at them, as though it was unimaginable for the slave to have handed back anything but two perfectly spotless blades, returned them to the sheaths beneath his robe.
Phaedra was approaching Xai with a purposeful stride now, her thrall keeping protectively near, her magister associate hurrying away in the direction that led downstairs. “Brother,” she began, still in the King’s Tongue.
Xai spared her a glance and started towards Zevran and Ciela with the foot of his staff tapping impatiently against the floor. “My thanks for your timely aid, Sister, but I have no time for pleasantries. I am lodging at the Myan Irokh on Poplar Crescent if you require discourse. Good day.”
Phaedra’s eyes narrowed but she stopped and let him go on. Zevran kept half his attention on her and her thrall as Xai and Kamator reached them, the Rivaini’s lips moving in some inaudible prayer for deliverance.
“Let’s go,” Xai said tersely, looking at neither of them as he brushed past to lead the way, and no one moved to bar their path.
After a moment, when no call came for them to stop, Zevran muttered loudly enough for Xai to hear, “So is it me, or did we just get away with that?”
“It’s you.”
“Ah. Of course.” Zevran risked a quick glance back. Sure enough, Phaedra was conferring with some of the Circle Tower guards. After only a brief word to them, no fewer than seven soldiers and three mages were heading after the retreating group, accompanied by the magistra’s thrall. Phaedra herself departed in the opposite direction, heading back into the lofty heights of the tower.
“Well?”
“Seven soldiers, three casters and Phaedra’s thrall,” Zevran reported quietly. “Keeping their distance, or so it would seem. The magistra did not see fit to follow. I suspect she is going upstairs.”
Xai swore under his breath. “What’s her game?”
“Ah…” Zevran hesitated. “I spoke too soon, I fear. Some of our spectators are coming along after them…more mages. A fair number of them, in fact.”
Xai rubbed a hand over his eyes. “We have to get out of here fast.”
“Are you all right?” Ciela asked him. “You’re so pale,” she explained when he glanced her way, and Zevran hummed to himself. He would have expected the former master to have recovered his colour by now, but then Xai had been blood controlled by no fewer than three mages in under two hours, not to mention bound by that glyph, and they had barely paused to stop for a rest. If what had happened behind them was anything to go by, the damage and stress had to be stacking up behind that splintering mask.
“Not here,” was all Xai said.
“Later, yes?” Zevran practically purred, and the human was silent.
**
Shayle was beginning to feel uncomfortable fluttery sensations in the pit of her fleshy dwarven stomach. She’d decided it wasn’t hunger (although that, too, had been confusing when she’d first felt it), and she kept wanting to look in the direction of the stairs in the hopes of sighting the two assassins. Perhaps this was what they called ‘worry’? She hoped it wasn’t constipation; that didn’t sound nearly as pleasant.
The two golem-keeper mages were still talking, even though she was running out of things to harp about. They seemed more than content to argue the ethics of golem/dwarven slavery with each other as much as with her, which was something of a relief even if the sound of their prattle was driving her to distraction.
“It was a legal transaction made between the Tevinter and Dwarven Empires long ago! The dwarves themselves agreed to it, we have done nothing wrong!”
“Lady Cadash is right though…the dwarves were not forthright with what, exactly, the golems are.”
“Does that matter? The dwarves must have known, and I daresay we still would have purchased had they told us. Flesh or stone, slaves are slaves, and the control rods are even more effective than blood magic for keeping them in check.”
“Very true. Hah, can you imagine control rods for blood slaves? If someone figured out how to do that they’d make a fortune with the magisters.”
“I don’t know, I hear some of them enjoy the whole breaking in and training processes. The up close and personal touch. For the quarry gangs though…I can see that being useful. Rods instead of whips.”
Shayle’s fists itched. Her servitude to Wilhelm had been far from unbearable, no matter how much she liked to complain about it, and she’d heard and seen enough in the Imperium to know her situation had been, except for the chisel incident, pretty good. Indeed, until coming to Tevinter and becoming a dwarf again she hadn’t remembered what pain felt like. The first time she’d stubbed her toe or cut a finger she’d been so shocked it had been embarrassing, and
oh, she carried around a giant hammer and wore armour like a warrior, but the truth was she hadn’t been in a scrap since her change, and she knew what kinds of injuries meat creatures could sustain. One good cut in the right place and the all the bits inside could just tumble out into a squidgy puddle to be picked at by birds. The very idea was horrifying.
Wait…what had she been thinking about?
Oh, yes. Slaves. Whips. Flesh wounds.
She’d been down to the auction blocks once or twice and seen what those cruelly pronged lashes could do. In fact, her new body had several long stripes scarring its back.
She had decided she didn’t like people who liked whips. It was worse than being crapped on, and that wasn’t a comparison she made lightly.
“It mentioned ‘breaking in’,” Shayle interrupted their verbal diarrhoea (that was a term she’d heard back in Ferelden. Once she’d learned what diarrhoea actually was, she’d decided it was a very good term), “but I thought breaking in was what one did to a house or shop. How does one ‘break in’ a person? Is a hammer applied to its skull?”
“Breaking in refers to the breaking of a slave’s will, or spirit, my lady, and the methods vary from person to person,” one of the mages replied. “If slaves not born in captivity or familiar with their new role in Tevinter society, they must learn what is expected of them. Many are resistant, especially if they’ve come from nations where slavery is not practised and they believe freedom is some kind of Maker-given right for all and sundry.”
“In most cities the breaking in of slave gangs begins with the psychological,” the other explained, “taking away their hope. Physical lessons or executions are carried out if slaves continue to resist, publicly, so the others can see where defiance leads. Slaves that are properly broken in are pliant, agreeable, do what they’re told and don’t cause trouble.”
Shayle considered this. “It also mentioned some prefer a personal touch? What did it mean by that?”
“Well, certain men just like beating animals with clubs, but I was talking about blood slaves there so naturally I meant blood magic, my lady. You can’t get any more personal than that. Spells like blood control can force a slave to obey whether they want to or not, and if they try to resist the pull of their own lifeblood it’s incredibly painful—or that’s what it looks like. The magister simply keeps making use of the spell for as long as it takes for the slave to stop fighting it. Eventually they just start obeying commands because they’ve become so used to their bodies being beyond their own control, and their minds have become conditioned to believing resistance is an exercise both hopeless and agonising.”
“Conditioning thralls is a personal effort in most cases,” the other mused. “Some magisters find the whole experience long and tedious—too many castings in too brief a time span can kill, but ultimately necessary if you want it done right. Others, I hear they find the training process satisfying. First Enchanter Lysander once said the longer a thrall resisted, the more piquant the victory.”
“Hmph. He sang a very different tune before they handed him his dead master’s Circle Staff.”
“Indeed. And the Aequitarians fell for it and supported his elevation. Idiots.”
Shayle was alternately relieved and troubled when, at that point, she recognised the Crow and the Treacherous Warden emerging from the passage that led upstairs, accompanied by a female elf dressed as a mage and a male elf dressed as a blood slave. Behind them, practically hot on their heels, came a tattooed and white-dressed (barely) thrall, several warriors and a number of mages. Had they been apprehended? The party’s escort had gained instant attention from the guards stationed around the mock-throne, and even the golem-mages glanced over to see what was afoot. Some of the mages tailing the guards who were following Zevran’s group sidetracked, heading straight for the throne room’s guard captain.
“Your First Enchanter succeeded its master?” Shayle asked quickly, trying to keep their attention on her even as she shot the assassins several furtive glances, waiting to see if they would signal her, but the Warden’s dark eyes were fixed on the sunlight streaming through the door and Zevran looked like he was sweating. There was a dark patch staining the right shoulder of his robe. “Is it true the previous one was assassinated by an Antivan Crow?”
That made both mages stare at her, then one snorted inelegantly while the other laughed. “Er…no? He was challenged by another magister for his seat in the senate. Both magisters were killed in the duel, as was the thrall of the would-be usurper. The First Enchanter’s thrall fled into the tower proper and was eventually hunted down by Lysander, as responsibility for his master’s slaves fell to him. If that was meant to be an assassination attempt, I can’t say it’s any different to the usual squabbles between the powerful.”
“That’s why it’s safer to be a guard,” his companion said wryly. “Important enough that you’re needed, but not so important that anyone wants to bother killing you.”
Shayle only listened with half an ear, the rest of her attention on the others as they headed for the huge front door of the tower. Behind them, the guard captain was pointing to where the golem-mages stood with Shayle near the threshold, and he suddenly yelled something in Arcanum. Shayle had heard the phrase a few times and knew what it meant:
“Identify! Mages or mundanes?”One of the mages Shayle was with glanced to where the captain was indicating, Zevran’s robe-swathed party, then reached within his own garments to extract the Golem Control Rod. “Excuse me, Lady Cadash,” he said, and canted his head back to look up at where his golem towered far above.
Shayle looked at her companions; still no signal.
Zevran didn’t know Arcanum, but Xai should have reacted by now. Their thrall and guard escort were looking back though, in surprise, like this hadn’t been expected.
“Golem! Identify that group of four. Mages or mundanes?”An enormous steel head swivelled to stare downwards.
Shayle decided not to wait any longer, and unshouldered her two-handed hammer. She’d been looking forward to this.
“Mundanes.” The golem’s leaden tone reverberated through the chamber.
This was followed by a sharp cry of surprise and pain, then a skidding noise as one of the golem-mages slid across the marble floor on his back, clutching at his crushed chest and gurgling.
Shayle picked up the control rod he’d dropped, weighed the runed blue crystal thoughtfully in one hand, then remembered the second golem-mage who was backing away with a slack-jawed expression while groping for her own rod.
“Golem! Crush that mage!”
“Argh, no! Golem, protect m—!”
CRUNCH.**
People screamed and ran for it. Those who’d been heading into the tower fled back out into Minrathous’ central square, those who’d been heading for the door scrambled backwards and away, at first because of the red smear that had once been a mage, but then because the warrior guards were drawing their bows and the mage guards were beginning to weave the Fade into visible streamers of light. Zevran, Xai, Ciela and Kamator, on the other hand, roused by the sudden flurry of activity and shouts, broke into a mad dash for the exit. The thrall who’d been following them abruptly ditched his astonished guards and gave chase, desperation written across his face.
“Archers, take that dwarf down! Mages, apprehend those impersonators!”Shayle ducked behind the solid steel leg of her golem as arrows pinged off or shattered against the metal. She gripped the rod tightly, wishing she could break it here and now, but spoke the command instead and hoped the spirit within the construct would forgive her once it was free: “Golem! Destroy my attackers!”
The golem reached both massive arms up, seized the stone masonry forming the arched top of the doorframe and hauled. With a great screech of metal joints and cracking of rock, the keystone and several feet of gold-veined granite was torn from the wall and, without pause, thrown effortlessly across the room at the archers. The ensuing crash and cloud of flying shrapnel killed or injured a third of them, threw more off their feet, and even struck some of the incanting mages, causing spells to fizzle.
But one caster got a spell off. The thrall chasing them got hit. An arcane bolt slammed into his back and he tripped, falling with a cry,
“Wait! Mercy! Please, take me with you!”“GO!” Xai roared when Ciela started to slow and look back. He shoved the girl and Zevran ahead of him, eliciting an agonised snarl from the Antivan and a protest from the Fereldan, then dropped his staff and drew his swords, cracking the hilts against each other to jolt the dweomer runes to life. He headed back for the thrall.
“SHAYLE!”“Golem! Protect my allies!”
Another section of wall took out half the remaining guards, then the golem lumbered from its post by the door. Shayle ducked and scampered across the entranceway before the remaining archers could recover and draw beads on her, diving for the corpse of the mashed golem-mage and retrieving the second control rod. It was intact. These things had been crafted, funnily enough, to withstand a golem’s strength.
“Golem!” she shouted, brandishing the device even as she darted behind the steel legs for cover. “Kill those mages!”
Zevran, Ciela and Kamator cleared the threshold of the Circle Tower, barely avoiding falling chunks of stone as they sprinted out into the afternoon sunlight. They ran for the crowd of spectators gawking at the golems’ rampage through the rising cloud of dust and were barely given a second glance, for they were no more than a lucky trio who had managed to slip safely past the madness. They weren’t left wondering for long before Xai and the thrall emerged at speed, the latter being propelled ahead by the Warden, whose gait was hampered by a limp. Finding Zevran in the crowd with his eyes, the former master made a single small Crow sign with one hand:
Fly.“We have somewhere to be,” Zevran said aloud, but quietly. He led the two other elves to the rear of the swelling crowd and then, after getting his bearings, towards the street he recognised would ultimately lead them to where Shianni waited with the horses. After a minute, somewhere behind them there was ghastly crescendo of crashing brickwork, accompanied by a chorus of shrieks.
Zevran glanced back a couple of times and saw Xai and the thrall following at a distance, but no sign of Shayle. The dwarf had arranged for an alternate way out of the city if it turned out the golems would be needed, and was paying for the passage with lyrium.
“This way, my friends,” the Antivan said, and led his companions deeper into the city.
Towards freedom.
It's a skilful dodge how you involved his story into your chapter. So I have the feeling to "know" him and his death appears more tragic.
Retour en haut
? 
I'm really trying to keep Shianni realistic, since some stuff just doesn't go away in a hurry, and "Now you'll be awesone!" montages tend to irk me, hehe. Also:
