Give us more!
FanFiction/Art - Final Chapter (Aedan), (12/27) Interludes
Débuté par
Sisimka
, févr. 25 2010 05:06
#601
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 05:54
bob-san
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Just finished reading EVERYTHING you have posted thusfar Sisi and I must say..
Give us more!
Give us more!
Retour en haut
#602
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 06:45
Sisimka
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*laughs!* Thanks for the comment, bob-san! I'm working on it! Another Zev chap is in the works... should get it posted later today, I'm editing my horrible grammar out (or most of it, I hope) of it right now.
#603
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 07:20
Sisimka
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- 935 messages
Chapter Three
Zevran leaned out over the railing of the ship and watched Ferelden dip over the horizon. A bittersweet feeling washed over him. In the last three years Ferelden had become a home. He could not deny the excitement he felt at what lay over the opposite horizon though. It seems as if he could already smell Antiva city, the cooking, the warm eddies of air stirring up the dust from the cobbled streets, and the leather. He chuckled as he thought about the leather. Aedan had never quite understood where he came from on that one.
His back tensed and he looked over his shoulder. Juilden stood there leaning against the door that led below the deck. He walked well enough within the confined space of the ship, but Zevran planned to have him running by the time they reached Antiva. He entertained no doubt about the slender window of opportunity he might have to disembark the ship and find the shadows before the Crows began to circle.
“Come, Juilden, let us see if we can exercise some strength back into those limbs of yours.”
Juilden grunted but pushed himself away from the door and Zevran led him through a series of stretches before accompanying his brother on a walking tour of the long deck. They met no one but crew who acknowledged them politely enough, but carried on with their tasks. This was a merchant ship and Zevran and his brother were the only two passengers aboard. The captain had not been too happy about taking two assassins to Antiva with his cargo of trade goods, but a letter from the King of Ferelden accompanied by a generous pouch of gold has served to change his mind, if not purchase his good will. Zevran and Juilden had been invited to dine with the captain that night and every night they would be on board, a luxury the elf looked forward to. He’d hardly had time to eat at all in Denerim and the cook at Vigil’s Keep, while efficient, was somewhat uninspired.
Zevran’s thoughts drifted to the delicacies he would sample once he reached Antiva City and Juilden actually managed to surprise him, a sharp jab between the shoulder blades.
“Zevran? Can we take a break?” Juilden’s pale face glistened with sweat and Zevran gestured for him to sit. He sat beside his brother and berated himself for having lost awareness of his surroundings. This introspection and… daydreaming! Had he lost his edge? He sought a focus, his eyes landed on Juilden.
“So, Juilden, care to tell me why you came to Ferelden?”
Juilden raised a brow. “I think we have already had this discussion.”
Zevran waved a hand in the air. “The official version, yes, but I think there is something more to this.”
“Always the thinker, aren’t you, Zev?”
“That is how we were trained, or have you forgotten? Perhaps the Brethren do things differently?” Zevran raised a brow in question, inviting answer, but not really expecting one.
“You think me so broken I would willingly spill Brethren secrets?” A shadow crossed Juilden’s features, one not unnoticed by Zevran.
“So something has broken you, brother. I will listen if you…” Zevran hesitated. Since when did he listen to people? Another habit he had developed in Ferelden, all this talking and sharing and listening. Just as bad as the introspection and daydreaming. The closer they drew to Antiva the more Zevran felt his foreignness, as if he approached somewhere other than the country of his birth. He waved his hand through the air again before continuing. “Come, we’ve not the time to gossip like fishwives. Up, stand up. Let us test your stamina again.”
Juilden studied him seriously for a moment. “You have changed, Zevran. You are softer. I hope it is not your undoing.”
Zevran scowled at his brother and gestured him to his feet. “Let me show you how soft I am.”
He drew his weapons and invited Juilden to do the same. They circled one another for just a moment before Juilden attacked with both blades, the longer sweeping toward Zevran’s neck, the shorter jabbing for his chest. Zevran deflected both blades with a downward cross of his own and they stepped back to assess one another again.
“Oi! There will be none o’ that aboard my vessel!”
Both assassin’s straightened and regarded the captain who shrank back before their raised blades and piercing glares. The captain spread his hands and asked more quietly, “Please?”
“We simply spar for practice, Captain, no harm intended. Perhaps you have somewhere you would prefer us to do this?”
A surly youth was summoned to show them to an empty hold and he stood outside the door day after day, his mouth open and his eyes wide as the brothers continued with their practice.
And so the journey continued with Zevran limbering and drilling his brother, physically and mentally. He learned nothing concrete and only convinced himself further that Juilden hid something from him. A secret he guarded carefully. Finally the day dawned when the ship rounded the point of Salle and entered Rialto Bay. Zevran could not deny the mixture of apprehension and excitement that stirred him from within. Even the air smelled different.
Evening had stolen across the sky by the time the ship sailed into the harbor and the ropes were tied off. Zevran had spent the better part of the day leaning over the railing contemplating the horizon once more as Antiva City grew closer, spreading before him until it filled his eyes. So large a city! As the sun set the city glowed with thousands of lights and he could hear music spilling out across the water from the dockside inns and taverns. The first scent of Antivan cooking, a fish stew he thought, reached his nose just as they finished securing the vessel and his stomach rumbled.
He turned to find Juilden standing nonchalantly behind him. His brother had only been absent from his home for perhaps two weeks. He had discovered during their limited conversations that Juilden had worked mostly within Antiva, though the Brethren were based in Tevinter, because he naturally spoke the language and knew the customs. Zevran had wondered over this information at the time. Could it be possible that members of the Brethren, similarly recruited, stalked other cities of Thedas? Val Royeaux or Denerim even? The thought sent a shiver down Zevran’s spine and that in itself was quite an accomplishment.
He had been gone from Antiva City for three years, not a mere two weeks and these first sights and smells washed his apprehension away as he became caught up in the excitement of seeing his homeland once again. But excitement did not exclude caution and the two assassins were barely noticed as they slipped from the ship, hugging the convenient nighttime shadows of the harbor until they reached the dockside streets.
Zevran had two choices for accommodations. He could choose an obscure inn and hope to pass unnoticed or he could brazenly announce his presence by visiting an establishment where he was known.
“What is your suggestion, Juilden? Do you think the Crows are circling yet? Shall we invite them or avoid them?”
Juilden scoffed lightly. “You’re asking me? What is it you think I know, brother?”
Zevran studied Juilden’s plain face a moment before making his decision. An invitation suited his mood. Better to draw the Crows from the shadows than spend his time lurking there himself.
“Let us visit Cristina’s then!” His lips curved in memory of not only the establishment, but the patron, Cristina herself. The inn had come to mind as it fronted the harbor, not four blocks from where they currently stood. As they wove down the street the brothers both hugged the shadows, stepping away from pools of light formed by lampposts and avoiding doors and windows. Old habits die hard, and yet they did not stand out for this fact. Almost everyone seemed to move the same way. A city of assassins perhaps, or simply a city where everyone minded their own business.
They reached the tavern and Zevran hesitated on the doorstep just a moment before stepping through the doors. The dining room hosted a good dinner crowd and the smell of seafood, rice and wine hung thickly in the air. Zevran closed his eyes and inhaled only to feel the sting of a sharp slap across his cheek. He opened his eyes.
A diminutive woman stood before him, golden skinned and golden haired with deep brown eyes. Her hands rested at her hips and her brows were drawn down in fury. “Zevran Arainai! Three years! Three years without a word and you step through this door as if it were yesterday. You, my friend, can find yourself a meal elsewhere!”
“Cristina! I told you my last name?”
Juilden guffawed behind him and clapped him on the shoulder as he pushed past and caught the attention of a passing servant girl. “I think perhaps I’ll get myself a meal while you two get reacquainted.”
“Everybody knows your name, Zevran. They have sent more Crows after you than have been recruited in a single year. You are a wanted man.”
Juilden stopped in his tracks, his back stiffening and Zevran glanced from his brother to Cristina and back. “Only Tailesin caught up with me, and he failed.”
“More’s the pity,” Cristina murmured and Juilden continued toward a table.
Zevran cocked his head. “Ah, Cristina, my sweet, are you not happy to see me, not even a little bit?” He kept his tone light, but his mind whirled. They had sent how many crows after him? The way Juilden’s back had stiffened, he knew something. Perhaps this had something to do with the secret his brother held so tightly.
Cristina softened instantly and stepped toward him, her fingers rising to stroke the mark she had left on his cheek. “Zevran, I thought you were dead!”
He laid his fingers over hers. “You worried for me? I am touched.”
“Worried, no, Zevran, I never worry for you, you can do that for yourself. I missed you though.” She smiled a smile he remembered well and Zevran took a deep breath. Ah, it was good to be home! Familiar faces, familiar places!
“Well I am here now, you may miss me no longer! Now, can I join my friend for a meal or would you like to exchange some more slaps first?” He raised a single brow at her and Cristina laughed and drew her hand from his cheek.
Zevran felt he may have died and joined the Maker as he sopped the last juices from his plate with fresh crusty bread. Surely Cristina’s had never been known to serve such wonderful food? Zevran stretched his arms behind him. He felt languid, relaxed and sated. A flicker caught his eye and adrenaline surged. He elbowed Juilden gently and his brother said around a mouthful of bread, “Only just noticed have you? And here we thought my loosened limbs were all we had to worry about.”
Zevran sighed and shook his shoulders as if willing this crippling complacency to fall from them like a discarded cloak. He spoke to Juilden, his lips barely moving, his eyes studying the rim of gravy around his plate. “Why are they still after me Juilden? What are you not telling me?”
“I am no longer a Crow, Zevran. Just what do you think I might know about your petty organization?”
Zevran growled in frustration. His meal had been spoiled by both the lurking shadows and the stubbornness of the man he sat next to. “Why do you think I brought you back here, brother? Out of the kindness of my heart? If you expect me to keep you alive until our bargain is done, you are going to have to start answering some of my questions.”
“We are both dead men, Zev, it’s only a matter of time.” Juilden looked up and nodded toward the door.
A shadow fell over the room, blanketing both light and sound as the customers fell silent, one by one. The Crows had come calling. Zevran leapt to his feet and sprang lightly to the table top. From there he ran toward the wall and launched himself, his feet scraping lightly against the window sill, and then the sheer stone of the wall as he sought height and leverage, propelling himself toward the balcony that overhung the dining room. His hands grasped at the wooden railing, found purchase and he used his momentum to swing himself up and over. He dropped lightly to the floor on the other side and heard a grunt and a scrape behind him. He held out an arm and Juilden grabbed onto it gratefully and heaved himself over the same rail.
They turned and ran together toward the end of the hallway and threw themselves through the open window at the end. Zevran sent a silent prayer to the Maker that Cristina had not changed her habits since he’d been gone. This particular window was why he’d chosen this establishment as his favourite all those years ago. Cristina had merely been a pleasant bonus. The window overlooked the roofline of the building next door and had been used countless times as an alternative exit by him, and no doubt many others.
Zevran vaulted to the roofline and heard a soft ‘oof’ behind him as Juilden landed. They danced along the slate tiles, nearly soundlessly but for an occasional scrape and panted breath. Zevran angled upward toward a chimney and down the other side of the roof, dropping to a balcony, jumping to the railing and flinging himself across an alleyway to a neighbouring balcony without stopping for breath. His feet knew this course, he’d traveled it dozens of times. The familiarity of the actions, the chase, gave wind to his lungs and he threw himself up to the next gutter, swinging himself over, gaining his hands and knees, then feet and he ran once again. Juilden stayed close and required little help.
As they crested the next roofline, Zevran skidded to a halt. Three men waiting on the other side and all had their weapons drawn. Zevran glanced to either side at the adjacent roofs and saw one bowman on each. He knew without looking there would be more men down in the alleyway below and certainly more crept up behind him. A trap.
He drew his blades and set his feet lightly apart and heard Juilden doing the same behind him. His back itched, he hated having an unknown quantity at his back. Could he trust his brother? Deep down he knew he could not, but at the moment it seemed he had little other choice. He ducked instinctively as an arrow whistled over his shoulder and used the move to drive forward at his first opponent, taking the man on the far left, hoping Juilden would take his cue. Juilden appeared behind the same target and they flanked, ignoring or deflecting as best as they could strikes and blows from the other two men.
Laughter flew from his lips as Zevran countered and struck, throwing first one opponent and then the second from the roof. Finally, a fight against men who fought back, not these untrained darkspawn and bandits he’d had to contend with! Every time an arrow flew past he turned and caught it with a blade or backed his opponent into it. Every time a blade swung he jumped or ducked or parried with precision. He felt his skill rising to meet the challenge and he taunted his third opponent, laughing and insulting him as he and Juilden bested the man and another body tumbled to the ground below.
He ducked behind the chimney just as another two arrows crossed over the roof, one from each direction and he nodded toward his brother. “I’ll take this one,” he inclined his head to the right. “See you on the ground.”
Juilden nodded and melted away before his eyes and Zevran turned and ran directly across the roof into the path of the arrows, startling the archer as he leapt the gap between the gutters and swept his blades before him, slicing open the elf’s abdomen before he had time to reach for anything other than another arrow. The bow clattered to the slate tiles and the body slumped and rolled, joining the pile below.
Zevran followed the archer down, dropping to the gutter and clutching it with his hands before dropping again to the ground below. He stepped around the corner and froze. Though he kept his blades pointed before him and his stance at the ready, he knew he would not win this fight and that he would be lucky if he made it away without a back full of arrows.
“And people wonder why it is called a murder of crows.” He whispered to himself.
He lowered his blades and straightened his back. His eyes roamed over the fifteen elves and men assembled within the shadows until they came to rest upon a familiar face. “Sebastian.”
The slender, dark-skinned elf stepped forward and nodded toward him. “Welcome home Zevran.”
Zevran leaned out over the railing of the ship and watched Ferelden dip over the horizon. A bittersweet feeling washed over him. In the last three years Ferelden had become a home. He could not deny the excitement he felt at what lay over the opposite horizon though. It seems as if he could already smell Antiva city, the cooking, the warm eddies of air stirring up the dust from the cobbled streets, and the leather. He chuckled as he thought about the leather. Aedan had never quite understood where he came from on that one.
His back tensed and he looked over his shoulder. Juilden stood there leaning against the door that led below the deck. He walked well enough within the confined space of the ship, but Zevran planned to have him running by the time they reached Antiva. He entertained no doubt about the slender window of opportunity he might have to disembark the ship and find the shadows before the Crows began to circle.
“Come, Juilden, let us see if we can exercise some strength back into those limbs of yours.”
Juilden grunted but pushed himself away from the door and Zevran led him through a series of stretches before accompanying his brother on a walking tour of the long deck. They met no one but crew who acknowledged them politely enough, but carried on with their tasks. This was a merchant ship and Zevran and his brother were the only two passengers aboard. The captain had not been too happy about taking two assassins to Antiva with his cargo of trade goods, but a letter from the King of Ferelden accompanied by a generous pouch of gold has served to change his mind, if not purchase his good will. Zevran and Juilden had been invited to dine with the captain that night and every night they would be on board, a luxury the elf looked forward to. He’d hardly had time to eat at all in Denerim and the cook at Vigil’s Keep, while efficient, was somewhat uninspired.
Zevran’s thoughts drifted to the delicacies he would sample once he reached Antiva City and Juilden actually managed to surprise him, a sharp jab between the shoulder blades.
“Zevran? Can we take a break?” Juilden’s pale face glistened with sweat and Zevran gestured for him to sit. He sat beside his brother and berated himself for having lost awareness of his surroundings. This introspection and… daydreaming! Had he lost his edge? He sought a focus, his eyes landed on Juilden.
“So, Juilden, care to tell me why you came to Ferelden?”
Juilden raised a brow. “I think we have already had this discussion.”
Zevran waved a hand in the air. “The official version, yes, but I think there is something more to this.”
“Always the thinker, aren’t you, Zev?”
“That is how we were trained, or have you forgotten? Perhaps the Brethren do things differently?” Zevran raised a brow in question, inviting answer, but not really expecting one.
“You think me so broken I would willingly spill Brethren secrets?” A shadow crossed Juilden’s features, one not unnoticed by Zevran.
“So something has broken you, brother. I will listen if you…” Zevran hesitated. Since when did he listen to people? Another habit he had developed in Ferelden, all this talking and sharing and listening. Just as bad as the introspection and daydreaming. The closer they drew to Antiva the more Zevran felt his foreignness, as if he approached somewhere other than the country of his birth. He waved his hand through the air again before continuing. “Come, we’ve not the time to gossip like fishwives. Up, stand up. Let us test your stamina again.”
Juilden studied him seriously for a moment. “You have changed, Zevran. You are softer. I hope it is not your undoing.”
Zevran scowled at his brother and gestured him to his feet. “Let me show you how soft I am.”
He drew his weapons and invited Juilden to do the same. They circled one another for just a moment before Juilden attacked with both blades, the longer sweeping toward Zevran’s neck, the shorter jabbing for his chest. Zevran deflected both blades with a downward cross of his own and they stepped back to assess one another again.
“Oi! There will be none o’ that aboard my vessel!”
Both assassin’s straightened and regarded the captain who shrank back before their raised blades and piercing glares. The captain spread his hands and asked more quietly, “Please?”
“We simply spar for practice, Captain, no harm intended. Perhaps you have somewhere you would prefer us to do this?”
A surly youth was summoned to show them to an empty hold and he stood outside the door day after day, his mouth open and his eyes wide as the brothers continued with their practice.
And so the journey continued with Zevran limbering and drilling his brother, physically and mentally. He learned nothing concrete and only convinced himself further that Juilden hid something from him. A secret he guarded carefully. Finally the day dawned when the ship rounded the point of Salle and entered Rialto Bay. Zevran could not deny the mixture of apprehension and excitement that stirred him from within. Even the air smelled different.
Evening had stolen across the sky by the time the ship sailed into the harbor and the ropes were tied off. Zevran had spent the better part of the day leaning over the railing contemplating the horizon once more as Antiva City grew closer, spreading before him until it filled his eyes. So large a city! As the sun set the city glowed with thousands of lights and he could hear music spilling out across the water from the dockside inns and taverns. The first scent of Antivan cooking, a fish stew he thought, reached his nose just as they finished securing the vessel and his stomach rumbled.
He turned to find Juilden standing nonchalantly behind him. His brother had only been absent from his home for perhaps two weeks. He had discovered during their limited conversations that Juilden had worked mostly within Antiva, though the Brethren were based in Tevinter, because he naturally spoke the language and knew the customs. Zevran had wondered over this information at the time. Could it be possible that members of the Brethren, similarly recruited, stalked other cities of Thedas? Val Royeaux or Denerim even? The thought sent a shiver down Zevran’s spine and that in itself was quite an accomplishment.
He had been gone from Antiva City for three years, not a mere two weeks and these first sights and smells washed his apprehension away as he became caught up in the excitement of seeing his homeland once again. But excitement did not exclude caution and the two assassins were barely noticed as they slipped from the ship, hugging the convenient nighttime shadows of the harbor until they reached the dockside streets.
Zevran had two choices for accommodations. He could choose an obscure inn and hope to pass unnoticed or he could brazenly announce his presence by visiting an establishment where he was known.
“What is your suggestion, Juilden? Do you think the Crows are circling yet? Shall we invite them or avoid them?”
Juilden scoffed lightly. “You’re asking me? What is it you think I know, brother?”
Zevran studied Juilden’s plain face a moment before making his decision. An invitation suited his mood. Better to draw the Crows from the shadows than spend his time lurking there himself.
“Let us visit Cristina’s then!” His lips curved in memory of not only the establishment, but the patron, Cristina herself. The inn had come to mind as it fronted the harbor, not four blocks from where they currently stood. As they wove down the street the brothers both hugged the shadows, stepping away from pools of light formed by lampposts and avoiding doors and windows. Old habits die hard, and yet they did not stand out for this fact. Almost everyone seemed to move the same way. A city of assassins perhaps, or simply a city where everyone minded their own business.
They reached the tavern and Zevran hesitated on the doorstep just a moment before stepping through the doors. The dining room hosted a good dinner crowd and the smell of seafood, rice and wine hung thickly in the air. Zevran closed his eyes and inhaled only to feel the sting of a sharp slap across his cheek. He opened his eyes.
A diminutive woman stood before him, golden skinned and golden haired with deep brown eyes. Her hands rested at her hips and her brows were drawn down in fury. “Zevran Arainai! Three years! Three years without a word and you step through this door as if it were yesterday. You, my friend, can find yourself a meal elsewhere!”
“Cristina! I told you my last name?”
Juilden guffawed behind him and clapped him on the shoulder as he pushed past and caught the attention of a passing servant girl. “I think perhaps I’ll get myself a meal while you two get reacquainted.”
“Everybody knows your name, Zevran. They have sent more Crows after you than have been recruited in a single year. You are a wanted man.”
Juilden stopped in his tracks, his back stiffening and Zevran glanced from his brother to Cristina and back. “Only Tailesin caught up with me, and he failed.”
“More’s the pity,” Cristina murmured and Juilden continued toward a table.
Zevran cocked his head. “Ah, Cristina, my sweet, are you not happy to see me, not even a little bit?” He kept his tone light, but his mind whirled. They had sent how many crows after him? The way Juilden’s back had stiffened, he knew something. Perhaps this had something to do with the secret his brother held so tightly.
Cristina softened instantly and stepped toward him, her fingers rising to stroke the mark she had left on his cheek. “Zevran, I thought you were dead!”
He laid his fingers over hers. “You worried for me? I am touched.”
“Worried, no, Zevran, I never worry for you, you can do that for yourself. I missed you though.” She smiled a smile he remembered well and Zevran took a deep breath. Ah, it was good to be home! Familiar faces, familiar places!
“Well I am here now, you may miss me no longer! Now, can I join my friend for a meal or would you like to exchange some more slaps first?” He raised a single brow at her and Cristina laughed and drew her hand from his cheek.
Zevran felt he may have died and joined the Maker as he sopped the last juices from his plate with fresh crusty bread. Surely Cristina’s had never been known to serve such wonderful food? Zevran stretched his arms behind him. He felt languid, relaxed and sated. A flicker caught his eye and adrenaline surged. He elbowed Juilden gently and his brother said around a mouthful of bread, “Only just noticed have you? And here we thought my loosened limbs were all we had to worry about.”
Zevran sighed and shook his shoulders as if willing this crippling complacency to fall from them like a discarded cloak. He spoke to Juilden, his lips barely moving, his eyes studying the rim of gravy around his plate. “Why are they still after me Juilden? What are you not telling me?”
“I am no longer a Crow, Zevran. Just what do you think I might know about your petty organization?”
Zevran growled in frustration. His meal had been spoiled by both the lurking shadows and the stubbornness of the man he sat next to. “Why do you think I brought you back here, brother? Out of the kindness of my heart? If you expect me to keep you alive until our bargain is done, you are going to have to start answering some of my questions.”
“We are both dead men, Zev, it’s only a matter of time.” Juilden looked up and nodded toward the door.
A shadow fell over the room, blanketing both light and sound as the customers fell silent, one by one. The Crows had come calling. Zevran leapt to his feet and sprang lightly to the table top. From there he ran toward the wall and launched himself, his feet scraping lightly against the window sill, and then the sheer stone of the wall as he sought height and leverage, propelling himself toward the balcony that overhung the dining room. His hands grasped at the wooden railing, found purchase and he used his momentum to swing himself up and over. He dropped lightly to the floor on the other side and heard a grunt and a scrape behind him. He held out an arm and Juilden grabbed onto it gratefully and heaved himself over the same rail.
They turned and ran together toward the end of the hallway and threw themselves through the open window at the end. Zevran sent a silent prayer to the Maker that Cristina had not changed her habits since he’d been gone. This particular window was why he’d chosen this establishment as his favourite all those years ago. Cristina had merely been a pleasant bonus. The window overlooked the roofline of the building next door and had been used countless times as an alternative exit by him, and no doubt many others.
Zevran vaulted to the roofline and heard a soft ‘oof’ behind him as Juilden landed. They danced along the slate tiles, nearly soundlessly but for an occasional scrape and panted breath. Zevran angled upward toward a chimney and down the other side of the roof, dropping to a balcony, jumping to the railing and flinging himself across an alleyway to a neighbouring balcony without stopping for breath. His feet knew this course, he’d traveled it dozens of times. The familiarity of the actions, the chase, gave wind to his lungs and he threw himself up to the next gutter, swinging himself over, gaining his hands and knees, then feet and he ran once again. Juilden stayed close and required little help.
As they crested the next roofline, Zevran skidded to a halt. Three men waiting on the other side and all had their weapons drawn. Zevran glanced to either side at the adjacent roofs and saw one bowman on each. He knew without looking there would be more men down in the alleyway below and certainly more crept up behind him. A trap.
He drew his blades and set his feet lightly apart and heard Juilden doing the same behind him. His back itched, he hated having an unknown quantity at his back. Could he trust his brother? Deep down he knew he could not, but at the moment it seemed he had little other choice. He ducked instinctively as an arrow whistled over his shoulder and used the move to drive forward at his first opponent, taking the man on the far left, hoping Juilden would take his cue. Juilden appeared behind the same target and they flanked, ignoring or deflecting as best as they could strikes and blows from the other two men.
Laughter flew from his lips as Zevran countered and struck, throwing first one opponent and then the second from the roof. Finally, a fight against men who fought back, not these untrained darkspawn and bandits he’d had to contend with! Every time an arrow flew past he turned and caught it with a blade or backed his opponent into it. Every time a blade swung he jumped or ducked or parried with precision. He felt his skill rising to meet the challenge and he taunted his third opponent, laughing and insulting him as he and Juilden bested the man and another body tumbled to the ground below.
He ducked behind the chimney just as another two arrows crossed over the roof, one from each direction and he nodded toward his brother. “I’ll take this one,” he inclined his head to the right. “See you on the ground.”
Juilden nodded and melted away before his eyes and Zevran turned and ran directly across the roof into the path of the arrows, startling the archer as he leapt the gap between the gutters and swept his blades before him, slicing open the elf’s abdomen before he had time to reach for anything other than another arrow. The bow clattered to the slate tiles and the body slumped and rolled, joining the pile below.
Zevran followed the archer down, dropping to the gutter and clutching it with his hands before dropping again to the ground below. He stepped around the corner and froze. Though he kept his blades pointed before him and his stance at the ready, he knew he would not win this fight and that he would be lucky if he made it away without a back full of arrows.
“And people wonder why it is called a murder of crows.” He whispered to himself.
He lowered his blades and straightened his back. His eyes roamed over the fifteen elves and men assembled within the shadows until they came to rest upon a familiar face. “Sebastian.”
The slender, dark-skinned elf stepped forward and nodded toward him. “Welcome home Zevran.”
#604
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 07:29
bob-san
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- 64 messages
Well done Sisi.You're descriptions of a place I've read little about really bring the place to life.
So, based on what I've heard about Antiva (and Zev's entertaining accent), would I be mistaken to envision something akin to Spain? (Given Orlais being based on France)
So, based on what I've heard about Antiva (and Zev's entertaining accent), would I be mistaken to envision something akin to Spain? (Given Orlais being based on France)
#605
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 07:31
Sisimka
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Thanks! It's actually based on Venice/Italy. Given Zevran's Spanish accent I've tried to sort of combine the two, 'tis fantasy, after all! 
Modifié par Sisimka, 07 avril 2010 - 07:32 .
#606
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 07:47
Olwaye
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Yay ! Rooftop fights, swashbuckling, impossibles odd in combat, it doesn't get any better, some nice rogue action
.
Great rythm in this chapter Sisi, you my dear are a lady of action
.
.Great rythm in this chapter Sisi, you my dear are a lady of action
.
#607
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 07:49
Olwaye
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Sisimka wrote...
Thanks! It's actually based on Venice/Italy. Given Zevran's Spanish accent I've tried to sort of combine the two, 'tis fantasy, after all!
Given Zevran accent, personnality and some of his banter, Antiva should be called Far Far Away and green ogres should be seen somewhere alongside donkeys and gender-confused wolves
#608
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 07:59
MireliA
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Olwaye wrote...
Sisimka wrote...
Thanks! It's actually based on Venice/Italy. Given Zevran's Spanish accent I've tried to sort of combine the two, 'tis fantasy, after all!
Given Zevran accent, personnality and some of his banter, Antiva should be called Far Far Away and green ogres should be seen somewhere alongside donkeys and gender-confused wolves
And I always thought he sounded like Inigo Montoya ... (princess bride) :happy:
#609
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 08:06
Sisimka
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Olwaye wrote...
Yay ! Rooftop fights, swashbuckling, impossibles odd in combat, it doesn't get any better, some nice rogue action
Great rythm in this chapter Sisi, you my dear are a lady of action
I love writing combat, seriously, it's nearly my favourite thing to do (besides angstin' Aedan!). Thanks for the great comments.
#610
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 08:20
bob-san
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What happens when you genetically splice Indigo Montoya, Antonio Banderas (as Puss-in-boots) and Ricardo Montalbon?
You get Zev!
And a Spain/Italy mix? Yeah, I can see that.
You get Zev!
And a Spain/Italy mix? Yeah, I can see that.
Modifié par bob-san, 07 avril 2010 - 08:27 .
#611
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 08:21
Sisimka
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Zevran is SEXIER than all of them put together, it's exponential! Hehe. I like Zev.
#612
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 08:22
Olwaye
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MireliA wrote...
And I always thought he sounded like Inigo Montoya ... (princess bride) :happy:
"I am Zevran Araini, you killed my father, prepare to die"... yes it's fitting as well, let's just find a man with extra fingers in Thedas
#613
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 08:29
bob-san
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Olwaye wrote...
MireliA wrote...
And I always thought he sounded like Inigo Montoya ... (princess bride) :happy:
"I am Zevran Araini, you killed my father, prepare to die"... yes it's fitting as well, let's just find a man with extra fingers in Thedas
But this is Zev. wouldn't it be more appropriate for him to say...
"Hallo! My name is Zevrim Arainai. I killed your father. Prepare to die"
#614
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 08:35
Miri1984
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bob-san wrote...
Olwaye wrote...
MireliA wrote...
And I always thought he sounded like Inigo Montoya ... (princess bride) :happy:
"I am Zevran Araini, you killed my father, prepare to die"... yes it's fitting as well, let's just find a man with extra fingers in Thedas
But this is Zev. wouldn't it be more appropriate for him to say...
"Hallo! My name is Zevrim Arainai. I killed your father. Prepare to die"
PRICELESS!!
#615
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 08:43
Sisimka
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bob-san wrote...
Olwaye wrote...
MireliA wrote...
And I always thought he sounded like Inigo Montoya ... (princess bride) :happy:
"I am Zevran Araini, you killed my father, prepare to die"... yes it's fitting as well, let's just find a man with extra fingers in Thedas
But this is Zev. wouldn't it be more appropriate for him to say...
"Hallo! My name is Zevrim Arainai. I killed your father. Prepare to die"
Love this, will have to see if I can find an appropriate place to use it! *rubs hands together*
Modifié par Sisimka, 07 avril 2010 - 08:43 .
#616
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 08:50
bob-san
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Sisimka wrote...
bob-san wrote...
Olwaye wrote...
MireliA wrote...
And I always thought he sounded like Inigo Montoya ... (princess bride) :happy:
"I am Zevran Araini, you killed my father, prepare to die"... yes it's fitting as well, let's just find a man with extra fingers in Thedas
But this is Zev. wouldn't it be more appropriate for him to say...
"Hallo! My name is Zevrim Arainai. I killed your father. Prepare to die"
Love this, will have to see if I can find an appropriate place to use it! *rubs hands together*
Yaaaa! I'm inspirational!
#617
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 09:03
Sisimka
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Every now and again someone makes a comment that gets me thinking. I've changed dialogue at a suggestion from Sandi and I've killed people on a reader's whim. Sometimes comments shape the way I'm thinking about an upcoming scene, it's one of the joys of daily chaptering!
#618
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 09:05
Olwaye
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Sisimka wrote...
I've killed people on a reader's whim.
So the pen might be mightier than the sword !
#619
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 09:15
Kallian13
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Another great chapter Sisi!
3 years and the Crows still want him dead? Talk about holding a grudge....
3 years and the Crows still want him dead? Talk about holding a grudge....
#620
Posté 07 avril 2010 - 09:28
Sisimka
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Kallian13 wrote...
Another great chapter Sisi!
3 years and the Crows still want him dead? Talk about holding a grudge....
Zev makes all kinds of references to the Crows waiting/lurking and that they'll eventually catch up with him, so I didn't imagine he'd be able to slip back into Antiva unnoticed. I don't think he did either, which is why he decided to get a good meal at a place he knew rather than hide out and wait to see what happens. As far as he knows, four assassins are still gunning for Alistair and time is of the essence!
#621
Posté 08 avril 2010 - 01:34
Freckles04
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I've finally caught up! Sorry for the delay in commenting. I adore your Zev's voice, Sisi. I'm not a huge Zevran fan, but I love how you've captured him. And your action sequences, as always, are perfect! Eagerly awaiting more!
#622
Posté 08 avril 2010 - 01:47
Maximus741000
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I've just got around to reading the latest chapter, and I can safely say I have never been more impressed. I loved every inch of it, from Zev's trip across the sea to his capture by the elven assassin Sebastian. The descriptions of Antiva were stunning, it was as if I were taken from my seat to that exotic realm, they were so real. I rarely took Zev with me because he lacked the lockpicking skills that left me always taking Leli, but now I really wish I did. In other words, great work!!
#623
Posté 08 avril 2010 - 02:36
Miliat
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You write action so effortlessly. Just caught up, excellent as always dear
#624
Posté 08 avril 2010 - 03:35
Sisimka
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Thanks for the comments, Freckles, Max and Miliat. You all know I love to write action. More coming up!
#625
Posté 08 avril 2010 - 03:37
Sisimka
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Chapter Four
Zevran studied the fifteen Crows assembled before him. Many of the faces were similar, mostly elven. He knew only a couple by sight, none as well as Sebastian. He glanced from side to side, as though tallying the odds, when actually his eyes searched for any gap he might exploit, a weakness, any hint of Juilden. His brother had vanished into the shadows and though Zevran held a small hope this meant he prepared a distraction, realistically he knew he had probably seen the last of Juilden. One question remained: had Juilden led him into this, or had he seen ahead and fled?
Sebastian flicked his head and two subordinate members of the group stepped forward, slowly, warily, to relieve Zevran of his weapons. Though it crossed his mind that these two might be his first victims in a daring escape, Zevran held his hands up, weapons hanging downward, and let them take his blades. He felt a particular pang as they took the dagger; it had been a gift from Aedan, one made to him at Ostagar. It was Duncan’s dagger. Zevran had never met Duncan, but just the look on both Aedan and Alistair’s faces at the mention of the deceased warden’s name was enough to make him cherish the blade.
They did not bind his hands or make any other effort to restrain him. He knew the rules and he knew the odds and Sebastian seemed confident of the fact Zevran would abide by them. For now, he would. As they walked through the streets, people shrank away from them, slipping into shadows and crossing the cobbles to the other side. Doors closed and windows clacked shut. The alleyways narrowed and became dark and the sounds of music and voices faded as they left the waterfront quarter. Zevran caught the familiar tang of leather as they skirted a tannery and he smiled in memory. One of his escort sneered at him, but Zevran kept the smile. If it unnerved even one of these Crows, it would be worth it.
He glanced about as he walked, his eyes ever alert for a sign of or a signal from Juilden. Though he did not really expect it, his spirit grew heavier as he saw none. His brother had abandoned him then.
None of the Crows spoke to him and the procession continued in silence as the streets widened once more and they reached one of well known guild establishments. Fifteen men were not going to pass unnoticed into one of the more secret enclaves. The building they approached had a three story façade of stone laced with delicate iron railings at each window. Though they looked like balconies, the somewhat high and restrictive railings represented security rather than decoration. Zevran had been here before for both business and pleasure. The opulence of the manse found rivaled those it adjoined. This quarter of the city housed many of the wealthier merchants and guilds. The cellars beneath this particular building were almost as vast as the structure above ground and underground tunnel and aqueducts led to every corner of the city.
Sebastian retrieved Zevran’s weapons, dismissed the rest of the escort with a curt wave of his hand and gestured Zevran to precede him into a downstairs parlor. Zevran raised his brows in surprise. “I am to be treated as a visitor then?”
Sebastian regarded him coolly. “For the moment.”
“You have risen high since last I saw you, Sebastian. Life treats you well!” Zevran kept his tone light and jovial.
Sebastian laughed, not a merry sound. “The hunt for you has thinned the ranks, Zevran. There are many opportunities now for us young up-and-comers!”
Zevran frowned. Why had so many assassins been sent after him and where on earth had they all disappeared to? A new voice spoke from the doorway. “It is most unusual for a failed assassin to garner such attention, but it is not mine to ask, I merely set the price.”
Zevran whirled. A slender elf stood in the doorway. Rumor had it that none other stood between this man and the guild master himself. Zevran offered a short bow. “I am honoured, Remehe.”
“So you should be. Now, I know you are not a stupid man, Zevran, why are you in Antiva?”
Zevran raised a brow. “Straight to business is it? We do not exchange pleasantries first? I am well, Remehe, thank you for asking. Yes, I passed the journey here pleasantly enough though my company was not as stimulating as I could have hoped for.”
Sebastian took a step back, the look of consternation on his face relaxing only when Remehe burst in to laughter. “Ah, Zevran, you have not lost your wit I see!”
Fighting the urge to let out a held breath, Zevran smiled in return and held out his hands, palm up, in a gesture that might be interpreted as ‘I try.’
Amusement left Remehe’s features as soon as it had appeared, however, and his face darkened somewhat as he stepped into the room and stood before Zevran. “So did any of our assassins actually find you, Zevran, are you really that talented?”
“I am here, am I not?” Zevran cocked his head and invited appraisal.
Remehe narrowed his eyes a moment. “We sent Taliesin after you first, he begged to go. He never returned.”
“Nor will he.”
Remehe nodded and his face showed no surprise. A crow that did not return was assumed dead or missing. “And now you serve this King in Ferelden? A most unusual position for a man of your obvious talents and tastes.”
Zevran merely chuckled in response. He did not care who the Crows thought he worked for and the thought of Alistair with his own private assassin amused him. A silence stretched between them and despite himself, Zevran felt compelled to fill it.
“I don’t suppose you care to share the reason so many… resources… have been expended searching for me?
“Somebody, other than the Crows of course, wants you dead. I’d have thought that was obvious.”
Somebody with a lot of gold, thought Zevran. Suddenly a chill descended his spine. Somebody with a lot of gold? Zevran did not believe in coincidence – somebody with a lot of gold obviously backed Anora’s efforts to have Alistair eliminated. Could this ‘somebody’ be interested in his death too?
“I see you have made a connection, Zevran. Care to share your thoughts with us?”
“And deny you the pleasure of the game? I think not.” Zevran forced a smile. “So, is our friendly chat done? May I be on my way?”
Remehe laughed again and clapped Zevran on the shoulder. “You wish to leave so soon? We haven’t even shown you our accommodations yet, my friend. Come!” The hand upon his shoulder tightened, the fingers gripping through his leather armour like steel pincers and Zevran obligingly turned toward the door. He walked first, as before, with Remehe and Sebastian behind him. He would not be allowed to step behind them, rogues never liked another at their back.
Instead of directing him upstairs, however, they indicated a large wooden door that lead directly to the aqueducts. His ‘accommodations’ would be in the dungeons then, Zevran felt no surprise at that. What he did wonder was why they hadn’t simply killed him yet. He did not expend too much energy musing upon this however, as every minute he lived gained him another chance to gain information and seek escape.
The aqueducts were well lit with lanterns evenly spaced along the curved walls. Brackish water glinted in the middle, bordered by stone and tiled paths on either side. Their footsteps echoed and every now and then Zevran heard a skittering sound that reminded him of the spiders in the Deep Roads. Instinctively he reached for his weapons and experienced again the pang of loss when he remembered they were not there. Both his blades dangled from Sebastian’s hands.
A loud boom disturbed the quiet and a shock wave from the explosion buffeted the three elves, nearly throwing them from their feet. Zevran felt the pressure on his eardrums and winced, clapping his hands over the sides of his head protectively. He closed his eyes and dropped to his knees. A searing heat blasted over his bowed head, he could feel his hair standing on end and heard a grunt and thud behind him. A tinny clatter had Zevran whirling on his knees and reaching for the weapons Sebastian had dropped as he’d been flung backwards.
Remehe stepped on his wrist. He had one hand braced against the wall and the other covering his mouth and his eyes were closed, but his boot unerringly found Zevran’s arm and stopped him mid grab. “Don’t,” he called hoarsely through the billowing inferno that raged about them. Zevran rolled forward into the leg that pinned his wrist and knocked Remehe off balance. He grabbed for both his blades, his hands closing around the familiar hilts with relief, and continued forward, over the lip of the path and into the water. If he could have sighed in relief at the coolness of the water after the inferno, he would have. Instead he concentrated on swimming, blindly, through the canal for as long as he could without breath.
When he surfaced the air was blessedly clear of fire and Zevran drew in a deep and refreshing breath. He glanced about himself. He had swum downstream, away from the Crows and toward whatever, whomever, threw spells. Lightning danced across the water in front of him and Zevran kicked backwards, colliding with the wall behind him. He turned and scrambled up and out of the water.
The explosion had caused more Crows to spill into the tunnel system and many men advanced with weapons at the ready, but they were not looking to him, their eyes were focused instead on the direction of the spells. Zevran looked that way and gasped. A veritable army of men melted from the shadows, some of them from the water, some appearing from crevices in the roof and walls. A shudder took Zevran’s shoulders as he noticed none of these men had any distinguishing characteristics. Compared to the approaching Crows they were mostly plain, and quite unremarkable. They were Brethren. Holy Maker! Had he somehow become embroiled in a guild war? If so, which side would he choose?
The front lines of the two groups met with a clash of steel, but it became obvious early on that the Brethren had the advantage. Despite the Crows’ skill with weapons, they could not fight the barrage of hexes and spells that peppered the battle. Zevran stood on the opposite side of the canal and he took advantage of his brief reprieve to slip into the shadow behind him. He hugged the wall as he sprinted along the walkway, heading away from the battle, behind the Brethren.
A man stepped from the shadow as he rounded a corner and Zevran stopped short. “Juilden?”
“I see you are taking advantage of our diversion, brother.”
Zevran blinked in surprise. “Diversion? You came for me?” Zevran did not often experience confusion, he could probably count the times on one hand. This situation would be added to his meager collection. He found he wanted to believe his brother had come after him, that Juilden had felt a bond of kinship. But his mind screamed at him that he was a fool and that he should walk away from this man now, walk away and never look back.
“Come, we do not have much time.” Juilden turned his back on him, a gesture of trust and Zevran drew in a quick breath. He followed. He would reassess the situation once they had left the tunnels. Juilden sprinted ahead of him and Zevran kicked up his heels, following. The sounds of the battle behind them covered any sound they might make and both men ran hard and fast until the noise faded, then they began to exercise caution.
Juilden disappeared into a shadowed opening in the wall and Zevran followed. A door hung open and they ran lightly up the stairs. Juilden opened the door at the top and Zevran could see it led into a building. He hesitated. He did not know where he was. He’d lost track of the distance they might have traveled beneath the city. Juilden’s face reappeared around the edge of the doorway and he hissed down at Zevran.
“What are you waiting for?”
“What is this place, where are we?” Zevran edged up the stairway and flattened himself against the wall before the door. He still held his blades and he raised them.
“Zevran! We do not have much time, as soon as they finish with your Crows, they will return this way!” Juilden’s voice hissed with urgency and Zevran reacted to the plea. He stepped through the doorway. Something hit him on the side of the head and the world faded away in a shower of sparks and blackness.
When Zevran opened his eyes again he immediately regretted it. His vision swam and his head pounded. He could feel bile rising in the back of his throat. He rested on a low couch and he rolled to his side, steadying himself with his hands and waiting for the dizziness to subside before pushing himself to a sitting position. He blinked and looked around the room. A plain room, the walls unadorned the curtains drab and the rug a mushroom brown colour. The only furnishings included the couch he sat on and two chairs facing it behind a low table. The door opened and a woman stepped through.
She walked silently toward one of the chairs and sat down in it without looking at Zevran once. Once she had seated herself and arranged her skirts she glanced up as if just noticing he sat there. Zevran’s eyes widened appreciatively. He might feel like he’d knocked heads with an archdemon, but he always had time for a pretty face. The woman before him had skin the same burnished gold colour as Cristina and the same gloriously coloured hair, but there the similarities ended. This face consisted of finely sculptured angles, high cheek bones and a high forehead, a slender and curved jaw. But her most distinguishing feature was definitely her eyes, they were the colour of honey and they seemed to glow from within. The more he looked the more attractive he found her and the casual way in which she held her head indicated she knew her effect on him. She smiled.
Zevran felt his lips twitch in a return smile and he cleared his throat softly. “Good evening, my lady.”
She laughed. “So the rumours are true, you are quite charming. Welcome to my home, Zevran.”
Zevran frowned and glanced about himself, reconfirming the details of the room. “Might I know the name of my lovely hostess?”
“You may call me Cerin.”
Zevran swallowed against his rising stomach once more and his head began to spin lazily. He steadied himself, placing a hand to each side of his legs on the couch and blinked to clear his vision. Not a coincidence, no, not this time. Everyone in Antiva knew the name Cerin. The leader of the Brethren was a woman?
Zevran studied the fifteen Crows assembled before him. Many of the faces were similar, mostly elven. He knew only a couple by sight, none as well as Sebastian. He glanced from side to side, as though tallying the odds, when actually his eyes searched for any gap he might exploit, a weakness, any hint of Juilden. His brother had vanished into the shadows and though Zevran held a small hope this meant he prepared a distraction, realistically he knew he had probably seen the last of Juilden. One question remained: had Juilden led him into this, or had he seen ahead and fled?
Sebastian flicked his head and two subordinate members of the group stepped forward, slowly, warily, to relieve Zevran of his weapons. Though it crossed his mind that these two might be his first victims in a daring escape, Zevran held his hands up, weapons hanging downward, and let them take his blades. He felt a particular pang as they took the dagger; it had been a gift from Aedan, one made to him at Ostagar. It was Duncan’s dagger. Zevran had never met Duncan, but just the look on both Aedan and Alistair’s faces at the mention of the deceased warden’s name was enough to make him cherish the blade.
They did not bind his hands or make any other effort to restrain him. He knew the rules and he knew the odds and Sebastian seemed confident of the fact Zevran would abide by them. For now, he would. As they walked through the streets, people shrank away from them, slipping into shadows and crossing the cobbles to the other side. Doors closed and windows clacked shut. The alleyways narrowed and became dark and the sounds of music and voices faded as they left the waterfront quarter. Zevran caught the familiar tang of leather as they skirted a tannery and he smiled in memory. One of his escort sneered at him, but Zevran kept the smile. If it unnerved even one of these Crows, it would be worth it.
He glanced about as he walked, his eyes ever alert for a sign of or a signal from Juilden. Though he did not really expect it, his spirit grew heavier as he saw none. His brother had abandoned him then.
None of the Crows spoke to him and the procession continued in silence as the streets widened once more and they reached one of well known guild establishments. Fifteen men were not going to pass unnoticed into one of the more secret enclaves. The building they approached had a three story façade of stone laced with delicate iron railings at each window. Though they looked like balconies, the somewhat high and restrictive railings represented security rather than decoration. Zevran had been here before for both business and pleasure. The opulence of the manse found rivaled those it adjoined. This quarter of the city housed many of the wealthier merchants and guilds. The cellars beneath this particular building were almost as vast as the structure above ground and underground tunnel and aqueducts led to every corner of the city.
Sebastian retrieved Zevran’s weapons, dismissed the rest of the escort with a curt wave of his hand and gestured Zevran to precede him into a downstairs parlor. Zevran raised his brows in surprise. “I am to be treated as a visitor then?”
Sebastian regarded him coolly. “For the moment.”
“You have risen high since last I saw you, Sebastian. Life treats you well!” Zevran kept his tone light and jovial.
Sebastian laughed, not a merry sound. “The hunt for you has thinned the ranks, Zevran. There are many opportunities now for us young up-and-comers!”
Zevran frowned. Why had so many assassins been sent after him and where on earth had they all disappeared to? A new voice spoke from the doorway. “It is most unusual for a failed assassin to garner such attention, but it is not mine to ask, I merely set the price.”
Zevran whirled. A slender elf stood in the doorway. Rumor had it that none other stood between this man and the guild master himself. Zevran offered a short bow. “I am honoured, Remehe.”
“So you should be. Now, I know you are not a stupid man, Zevran, why are you in Antiva?”
Zevran raised a brow. “Straight to business is it? We do not exchange pleasantries first? I am well, Remehe, thank you for asking. Yes, I passed the journey here pleasantly enough though my company was not as stimulating as I could have hoped for.”
Sebastian took a step back, the look of consternation on his face relaxing only when Remehe burst in to laughter. “Ah, Zevran, you have not lost your wit I see!”
Fighting the urge to let out a held breath, Zevran smiled in return and held out his hands, palm up, in a gesture that might be interpreted as ‘I try.’
Amusement left Remehe’s features as soon as it had appeared, however, and his face darkened somewhat as he stepped into the room and stood before Zevran. “So did any of our assassins actually find you, Zevran, are you really that talented?”
“I am here, am I not?” Zevran cocked his head and invited appraisal.
Remehe narrowed his eyes a moment. “We sent Taliesin after you first, he begged to go. He never returned.”
“Nor will he.”
Remehe nodded and his face showed no surprise. A crow that did not return was assumed dead or missing. “And now you serve this King in Ferelden? A most unusual position for a man of your obvious talents and tastes.”
Zevran merely chuckled in response. He did not care who the Crows thought he worked for and the thought of Alistair with his own private assassin amused him. A silence stretched between them and despite himself, Zevran felt compelled to fill it.
“I don’t suppose you care to share the reason so many… resources… have been expended searching for me?
“Somebody, other than the Crows of course, wants you dead. I’d have thought that was obvious.”
Somebody with a lot of gold, thought Zevran. Suddenly a chill descended his spine. Somebody with a lot of gold? Zevran did not believe in coincidence – somebody with a lot of gold obviously backed Anora’s efforts to have Alistair eliminated. Could this ‘somebody’ be interested in his death too?
“I see you have made a connection, Zevran. Care to share your thoughts with us?”
“And deny you the pleasure of the game? I think not.” Zevran forced a smile. “So, is our friendly chat done? May I be on my way?”
Remehe laughed again and clapped Zevran on the shoulder. “You wish to leave so soon? We haven’t even shown you our accommodations yet, my friend. Come!” The hand upon his shoulder tightened, the fingers gripping through his leather armour like steel pincers and Zevran obligingly turned toward the door. He walked first, as before, with Remehe and Sebastian behind him. He would not be allowed to step behind them, rogues never liked another at their back.
Instead of directing him upstairs, however, they indicated a large wooden door that lead directly to the aqueducts. His ‘accommodations’ would be in the dungeons then, Zevran felt no surprise at that. What he did wonder was why they hadn’t simply killed him yet. He did not expend too much energy musing upon this however, as every minute he lived gained him another chance to gain information and seek escape.
The aqueducts were well lit with lanterns evenly spaced along the curved walls. Brackish water glinted in the middle, bordered by stone and tiled paths on either side. Their footsteps echoed and every now and then Zevran heard a skittering sound that reminded him of the spiders in the Deep Roads. Instinctively he reached for his weapons and experienced again the pang of loss when he remembered they were not there. Both his blades dangled from Sebastian’s hands.
A loud boom disturbed the quiet and a shock wave from the explosion buffeted the three elves, nearly throwing them from their feet. Zevran felt the pressure on his eardrums and winced, clapping his hands over the sides of his head protectively. He closed his eyes and dropped to his knees. A searing heat blasted over his bowed head, he could feel his hair standing on end and heard a grunt and thud behind him. A tinny clatter had Zevran whirling on his knees and reaching for the weapons Sebastian had dropped as he’d been flung backwards.
Remehe stepped on his wrist. He had one hand braced against the wall and the other covering his mouth and his eyes were closed, but his boot unerringly found Zevran’s arm and stopped him mid grab. “Don’t,” he called hoarsely through the billowing inferno that raged about them. Zevran rolled forward into the leg that pinned his wrist and knocked Remehe off balance. He grabbed for both his blades, his hands closing around the familiar hilts with relief, and continued forward, over the lip of the path and into the water. If he could have sighed in relief at the coolness of the water after the inferno, he would have. Instead he concentrated on swimming, blindly, through the canal for as long as he could without breath.
When he surfaced the air was blessedly clear of fire and Zevran drew in a deep and refreshing breath. He glanced about himself. He had swum downstream, away from the Crows and toward whatever, whomever, threw spells. Lightning danced across the water in front of him and Zevran kicked backwards, colliding with the wall behind him. He turned and scrambled up and out of the water.
The explosion had caused more Crows to spill into the tunnel system and many men advanced with weapons at the ready, but they were not looking to him, their eyes were focused instead on the direction of the spells. Zevran looked that way and gasped. A veritable army of men melted from the shadows, some of them from the water, some appearing from crevices in the roof and walls. A shudder took Zevran’s shoulders as he noticed none of these men had any distinguishing characteristics. Compared to the approaching Crows they were mostly plain, and quite unremarkable. They were Brethren. Holy Maker! Had he somehow become embroiled in a guild war? If so, which side would he choose?
The front lines of the two groups met with a clash of steel, but it became obvious early on that the Brethren had the advantage. Despite the Crows’ skill with weapons, they could not fight the barrage of hexes and spells that peppered the battle. Zevran stood on the opposite side of the canal and he took advantage of his brief reprieve to slip into the shadow behind him. He hugged the wall as he sprinted along the walkway, heading away from the battle, behind the Brethren.
A man stepped from the shadow as he rounded a corner and Zevran stopped short. “Juilden?”
“I see you are taking advantage of our diversion, brother.”
Zevran blinked in surprise. “Diversion? You came for me?” Zevran did not often experience confusion, he could probably count the times on one hand. This situation would be added to his meager collection. He found he wanted to believe his brother had come after him, that Juilden had felt a bond of kinship. But his mind screamed at him that he was a fool and that he should walk away from this man now, walk away and never look back.
“Come, we do not have much time.” Juilden turned his back on him, a gesture of trust and Zevran drew in a quick breath. He followed. He would reassess the situation once they had left the tunnels. Juilden sprinted ahead of him and Zevran kicked up his heels, following. The sounds of the battle behind them covered any sound they might make and both men ran hard and fast until the noise faded, then they began to exercise caution.
Juilden disappeared into a shadowed opening in the wall and Zevran followed. A door hung open and they ran lightly up the stairs. Juilden opened the door at the top and Zevran could see it led into a building. He hesitated. He did not know where he was. He’d lost track of the distance they might have traveled beneath the city. Juilden’s face reappeared around the edge of the doorway and he hissed down at Zevran.
“What are you waiting for?”
“What is this place, where are we?” Zevran edged up the stairway and flattened himself against the wall before the door. He still held his blades and he raised them.
“Zevran! We do not have much time, as soon as they finish with your Crows, they will return this way!” Juilden’s voice hissed with urgency and Zevran reacted to the plea. He stepped through the doorway. Something hit him on the side of the head and the world faded away in a shower of sparks and blackness.
When Zevran opened his eyes again he immediately regretted it. His vision swam and his head pounded. He could feel bile rising in the back of his throat. He rested on a low couch and he rolled to his side, steadying himself with his hands and waiting for the dizziness to subside before pushing himself to a sitting position. He blinked and looked around the room. A plain room, the walls unadorned the curtains drab and the rug a mushroom brown colour. The only furnishings included the couch he sat on and two chairs facing it behind a low table. The door opened and a woman stepped through.
She walked silently toward one of the chairs and sat down in it without looking at Zevran once. Once she had seated herself and arranged her skirts she glanced up as if just noticing he sat there. Zevran’s eyes widened appreciatively. He might feel like he’d knocked heads with an archdemon, but he always had time for a pretty face. The woman before him had skin the same burnished gold colour as Cristina and the same gloriously coloured hair, but there the similarities ended. This face consisted of finely sculptured angles, high cheek bones and a high forehead, a slender and curved jaw. But her most distinguishing feature was definitely her eyes, they were the colour of honey and they seemed to glow from within. The more he looked the more attractive he found her and the casual way in which she held her head indicated she knew her effect on him. She smiled.
Zevran felt his lips twitch in a return smile and he cleared his throat softly. “Good evening, my lady.”
She laughed. “So the rumours are true, you are quite charming. Welcome to my home, Zevran.”
Zevran frowned and glanced about himself, reconfirming the details of the room. “Might I know the name of my lovely hostess?”
“You may call me Cerin.”
Zevran swallowed against his rising stomach once more and his head began to spin lazily. He steadied himself, placing a hand to each side of his legs on the couch and blinked to clear his vision. Not a coincidence, no, not this time. Everyone in Antiva knew the name Cerin. The leader of the Brethren was a woman?
Modifié par Sisimka, 08 avril 2010 - 03:59 .
