Ithilian found it surprisingly reassuring to know that he was being leaned on here, that she was willing to put her faith in him even after all he'd done to ruin it, all the selfish things and rash decisions. He'd seen how she was doubting recently, and now it was clear as day. The idea that it was somehow his doing that enabled Amalia to get control of herself and keep moving was... well, he didn't know how to describe it. Being able to help someone else did a great deal to make him believe he was still capable of salvaging something of who he was. Even if that just meant being able to trust her. He was still hardly able to trust himself with most things, but it was the belief of others towards him that pushed him towards certainty. He would do everything he could to do the same for her.
Seeing as he was not bound the Qun as his partner was, it was significantly more difficult for Ithilian to simply leave this despicable shem to his devices, especially with the knowledge that what they were about to do was going to help him greatly. His statement that there wasn't a choice here didn't hit Ithilian quite as hard, because at the moment the right thing to do seemed to be just killing every evil man in the building, and he was clearly included in that. But alas, Amalia was the lead here, and there were slaves that would be murdered if they didn't depart immediately. So all Ithilian could do was fix the man with a glare as he lowered his bow and ran after Amalia.
She didnāt know exactly where the ballroom was in relation to the rest of the building, but generally speaking, the dwellings of wealthy humans were built in similar fashions everywhere, and it wasnāt hard to guess that it would be near the front, probably surrounded by balustrade staircases and luxuriant chandeliers. Amalia had climbed enough buildings, journeyed to enough places, that she had something of an appreciation for architecture, if perhaps a more austere than usual view on what was good and what wasnāt, but such considerations were the furthest thing from her mind at present. They raced through the side hallway, and it seemed past a certain point that they could almost feel the hostile magic thickening about them to an almost choking degree, as though dark miasma were in the air. She said nothing of it aloud, too sharply-focused on keeping her progress as efficient as possible, but she could already smell blood, and that meant nothing good.
Then again, when had a magister ever been good news for anyone? They even despised each other, as Marcus was only too happy to confess. Her stride hitched, but she recovered, throwing open a side door and plunging down this new passage. They could hear sounds now, muffled shouting and something akin to a faint whistling, as though air were being moved about too quickly. A second knife joined the first, and Amalia forcibly removed every thought that didnāt have to do with killing Leviticus and his guards. Such a useful skill, even if sheād have preferred never to have had the need to learn.
The door through which they would pass to the ballroom itself was thrown wide open, and indeed everything else seemed to be oriented around it, as though they were expected to have entered it here. Crossing the threshold triggered a magical trap, one that she should have known to look for, and the resulting explosion threw her forward and down the grand staircase, where she struggled to get her feet underneath her before hitting the white-and-grey marble of the main floor itself. She was partially successful, coming up more or less in a somersault, and her armor had protected her from the worst of the damage, though sheād cracked her head on the hard stone, and the grey spots were not quick in receding from her vision. An amateurās mistakeā¦ one she would have scolded herself for had she not been too busy taking in the fact that too much of the marble was pink.
Sheād lost track of Ithilian, unsure whether heād been caught in the blast or not, but she knew he could take care of himself, and the twinge of concern was suppressed by a mounting dread, as her eyes followed the odd coloration until it darkened into red, and up and over the bodies of ten dead slaves, a mixed bag of humans and elves, all wearing the red smiles of professionally-cut throats. It would have been merciful, if they werenāt so obviously bruised and cut beforehand. Their blood lay in rapidly-chilling pools beneath themāeach was suspended, upside down, shackled by both ankles and hooked onto a point of the massive gold and crystal chandelier above their heads. Around the perimeter of the room, the other ten were chained to various places on the wall, gagged presumably for silence. At the center of the floor, right beneath the light fixture, was what appeared to be a circle, hastily carved in the marble, the divots and depressions in the stone filling with the crimson essence of the slain.
A man who was obviously the Magisterāperhaps no older than forty-five, and dressed much more richly than even Marcus had been in a black-and silver robe trimmed with ermine and sable, had just sliced into his own arm and dribbled the blood onto the circleāa summoning, designed to give hissra physical form in this worldāand Amalia knew what was coming. The whistling, which had increased in pitch until it was disorienting, grew louder and more shrill, ending in a crack and a fierce, bone-chilling howl of wind as the veil between this world and the Fade was rent asunder, letting out a half-dozen shades and a pride demon, towering and fierce. The effort appeared to have cost Leviticus greatly, and Amalia did not waste time, hurling the knife in her left hand until it buried itself in his throat, dropping him to the ground. Heād clearly been expecting to be allowed to talk firstāsomething sheād never understood. There was nothing to be said, because for this, there simply were no words.
The sudden and brutal execution of their employer did not seem to shake the guards much, and they made for her with grim certainty, though the shades headed for the remaining slaves. Amalia knew she couldnāt do everything at once, and even with help, the chances here were not good. Practicality demanded that she and Ithilian form up, cut through the guards and the Pride demon, and be glad the shades would be occupied for a while. But she could not. Their broken bodies and the fear in their eyes was too muchāshe could not let them die. But she could not save them.
āIthilian, the slaves!ā Chances were good that more than one of them would die anywayāthere were six shades and ten pitiful, chained beings, and only one person who might be able to free them. Whatever would be the case, it left her with humans and a Pride demon to deal with. The first pair lunged, and Amalia flipped backwards to avoid both the low and high slash, catching one hard in the jaw with her heel in the process. This was difficult, but acceptable. If there was one thing she could do, it was endure. Theyād named her for it, after all.
Ithilian had tried to stay on Amalia's heels, but as soon as they passed through the door to the ballroom an explosion went off in between them, blasting Amalia forward. Rather than be blown backwards, Ithilian was simply halted as if he'd run headlong into a castle wall, his feet leaving him and causing him to fall harshly on his rear, though he'd been far enough away from the explosion to avoid most actual damage. Shaking himself off, he pushed back to his feet, relieved to see that Amalia was doing the same.
It was too late for half of them, as the blood mage had already done his work, and the veil was torn to bits before them, a group of shades and a pride demon pouring through. Amalia was quick to put a knife into the throat of the magister, and Ithilian added the arrow currently knocked, the projectile thrumming into the robed man quite close to the heart. It wouldn't matter, anyway, Amalia's attack had been enough to do him in, but in the event he didn't die immediately, Ithilian didn't want him casting any extra spells. They had their hands full as it was.
The guards and the shades seemed quite capable of working together to slay them, which was truly unfortunate, as Ithilian had hoped the Fade-beasts would simply attack anything nearby, and potentially help them. That was foolishly optimistic, of course. The shades seemed eager to feast on the remaining chained slaves, while the guards and the Pride demon charged for Amalia. When Amalia suggested he save the slaves, Ithilian did not hesitate, but the doubting side of him did question whether she alone would be able to survive against the guards and the Pride demon while he dealt with the shades one by one. In the end, there was simply no time to think about it, as the slaves would die if he hesitated, and then his efforts would be pointless.
He nocked another arrow swiftly, stiking the eye-hole of a guard trying to line up a shot on Amalia, before quickly sheathing his bow and taking off for the nearest Shade, who glided somewhat inefficiently toward the first slave. Drawing both his short blades, he leaped into the air and punged them down into the creature's back, its howling filling his ears as it sank down into the floor. Hardly slowing, he drew back up, swinging hard for the chains above the first slave's head. It was a human male, but there was simply no time to discriminate here, and if there had been, he would have liked to think he'd have saved the nearest ones all the same.
"Run!" he commanded the man, still bound at the wrists but no longer chained to the wall, and he took off, ducking his head low and making for the doors. A scream on the opposite wall marked the first death. More would follow, but for now, he would save the next slave, an aging elven woman. A shade was currently attempting to descend upon her, and Ithilian would not reach her in time. Acting quickly, he sheathed one blade and drew Parshaara, flipping the blade over in his hand and hurling it end over end until it stuck into the Shade's forehead, setting the demon alight. It soon dissipated, the dagger clattering to the ground. He struck the chains from this next one and hurried on, ignoring the death cry of another slave he couldn't reach.
The Qunari blade proved efficient and effective against the shades, and Ithilian cut through two more in quick succession, freeing three more slaves on the wall, making that all of them on this side. Looking across the ballroom-battlefield, he noticed the two remaining shades wafting in his direction, the dead bodies of the slaves on the wall behind them. He'd saved half of these ones, and a quarter of the total. For one man, perhaps it could have been a success, but Ithilian could not see it as such. He put a pair of arrows into each of the shades, dropping them, before he could finally do what he'd wished to: help Amalia.
The extra arrow was most welcome, but there was no time for a casual toss of a thanks over one shoulder: Amalia was faced with the choice to fight or die. Not the first time it had been laid before her, and certainly not the last. She would choose as she always had. No matter how little certainty she could grasp, she had only once wanted to die, and though she could not say it had taught her the value of life, she did know that sheād have to suffer much worse than this before sheād even contemplate just giving up. The soldier sheād dazed, now one of five, fell onto his back, and an aptly-placed needle took care of him, as well as the one beside him, but the pride demon was coming now with the remaining three, and there was only time to guard against one of those things.
She quite reasonably chose the demon, throwing herself away from the incoming fist, which slammed into the marble floor, cracking the stained stone under the force of the blow. She clenched her jaw against what followed: sheād had to step into range of one of the Tevinter bodyguards in order to get away from the creature, and sure enough, his mace slammed into her abdomen, an uncomfortable crunch informing her that several of her ribs had been broken in. Amalia drew in a breath, and it bubbled in her lungs. Turning away from the mace, she lashed out with the knife still left to her, sinking it in between the boiled leather plates that covered his chest. He dropped, and instead of recovering the knife, she simply drew two more.
The next attack from the demon landed close enough that she staggered when the floor shook, the grey spots that hadnāt yet cleared from her vision blinding her to the remaining pair of soldiers as they rushed her. She blocked the sword-blow on instinct, but the other rammed his shoulder into the already tender area where her bones had broken, and she blacked out for several seconds, during which she was carried to the ground. The sword sank instead into one of her legs, effectively hamstringing her, and the other swung a flail right for her face. She rolled half over, but the sword still in her leg prevented her from getting away entirely, and what would have been an ineffective blow at the floor caught her in the left arm instead, right where her elbow was, and the blunt weapon smashed the joint completely. What might have been a cry of pain became a wracking cough, and she tasted blood in her mouth as she sword was at last withdrawn, its wielder eager to be the one to deal the killing blow on a hated Qunari.
It was only that which saved her life. With her leg free, she was more mobile, and while she was not sturdy, Amalia was nothing if not strong in motion. With only her good arm for support, she kicked out half-blindly with her uninjured leg, catching the flail-holder in the kneecap and staggering him for just long enough to push herself into a one-handed backflip, landing in an awkward crouch as the sword clanged into the ground where her heart had been before. Blood ran freely from her mangled arm and leg, to say nothing of that which dripped from between her lips and down her chin to spot the floor. She was breathing harshly, but it did not stop her from parting with the knife in her right hand, burying it in the forehead of the swordsman with a solid thwack. He fell backwards as the flail-wielder swung again, and she rolled to the side, ignoring the protests of her body to do it. With her right hand, she gripped her left forearm and triggered the release of the hidden blade, bracing the damaged limb with the hale one as she drove up on her good leg, shoving the sharpened silverite into the last soldierās eye.
Sheād been expecting another swing from the demon to do her in at any moment, but for some reason, the blow had not come. That reason was obvious enough when she looked at itāit was currently smoking, having been smote in the chest with a massive fireball. Her peripheral vision may have been shot, but she turned her head to look at the top of the staircase, and found Marcus smiling down at her in that infuriating way he had. āCome now, kadan. We both know youāre not going to die yet. Do get on with it, hm?ā He turned on his heel and left as quickly as heād come, and any response she might have made to that was stymied by another fit of coughing, and she fumbled with furiously-shaking hands for her belt, withdrawing a potion and downing it in several swift swallows, groaning softly when she felt the bones in her ribcage rearrange, the fragments trying to stitch themselves together. It was far from complete, but he was right. She wasnāt going to dieā¦ yet.
The demon, too, was recovering, and Amalia withdrew the last weapon she had: a single-edged hand axe, retracting the blade in her gauntlet. This had been intended only for the removal of heads, but it was a perfectly serviceable weapon in its own right, and sheād have to use it now.
The pride demon was the only enemy that remained to them, as Amalia had done her work well, but even with the magister's assist, Ithilian doubted Amalia would beat it on her own. He sheathed the dagger and drew his other short sword, taking off at it at a run, and it turned towards him, as if it meant to speak. Oh, if only it knew the misery the last pride demon had wrought upon him, how it had nearly destroyed what little he didn't even know he held dear. Ithilian would not give this demon the chance.
He took flight just as the thing opened its mouth, flipping both blades backwards and sinking them into the chest. His feet found purchase on the creature's thighs, and in one motion he withdrew the swords and pushed up hard from his lower body, getting more height just as the pride demon swiped at his chest. Ithilian sunk his right blade into the left shoulder, kicking off of the demon's face to swing around onto its back, where the other blade found its mark. It roared in frustration at this point, trying to reach behind it and stumbling about, but Ithilian kept his balance, withdrawing a blade and leaning back just in time to dodge another flying fist, before slamming it back down.
The next one connected, however, catching him across most of the upper body, and only his grip on one of his blades kept him on the demon's back. He lost hold of the other one, leaving it wobbling back and forth where it pierced the hide. Drawing Parshaara, Ithilian left his other sword behind as well and jumped higher and forward, taking the knife in both hands and slamming it down on top of the Pride demon's head, the enchantment causing the entire head to burst into flame, overwhelming the demon with agony.
Ithilian was forced to step back away from the fire, at which point it managed to grab him, a firm grip squeezing and crushing around his middle, but it did not hold long, choosing to simply throw him across the room rather than try to crush the life out of him before it fell from the wounds. Ithilian sailed helplessly across the length of the ballroom to smash against the wall where he'd freed five slaves, and he fell motionlessly to the ground, face down. The demon staggered about momentarily, before he fell heavily forward, crashing to the floor. Two elven blades protuded from its back, while a Qunari-made dagger remained in the skull.
Amaliaās face was set in a grim scowl as she stepped forward to finish the work, a brutal downward swing of the axe crashing into the back of the creatureās neck, and it faded away, leaving two pieces of steel and one bone-dagger behind it. It was at about this time that the outdoor patrol finally arrived, but at that point she was having no more of this, and each of the shortswords was soon sprouting from a manās chest, the other two dropping from poisoned needles. After making sure that Ithilian was able to get up and walk under his own steam, she silently handed him a potion, took another for herself, and put the axe to its intended task, hacking through each of eleven necks with no relish but simple efficiency.
Marcus never did reappear, but the knowledge that he was right there troubled her, and though she did not lose focus again as she had in the study, she knew quite well that half a dozen men of this caliber would not have nearly killed her on an ordinary day, demon notwithstanding. She was shaken deeply, and it shamed her. From the armory, she retrieved eleven spears, and the rest was gruesome but not trying: eleven heads were staked on spears in front of the Chantryāa dead diplomatic guest and his entire retinue, save one. A message that someone in this city could kill or spare life at will. Only the slow would not guess that the Qunari were responsible, but only the truly foolish would dare accuse them of it with no evidence. It was a missive plain as daylight, but an open secret it would remain. Hopefully, it would frighten the fanatics badly enough to cow themāsuch folk were not known for their courage. If it simply fed the flames, thenā¦ she didnāt know.
The Arishok would not care. He might even prefer it that her warning went unheededāit would just be more proof that they had to be forced into compliance. But Amalia didnāt want that. She wantedā¦ she didnāt know what she wanted, but it was not that. Having not said a word to him throughout the entire process, she at last turned to Ithilian. āI will spend tomorrow on the Coast. Tonight, I will spend alone.ā She fixed her eyes on the stones beneath their feet, then shook her head faintly. It was as close as she could give to an invitation, to join her and to ask. Part of her almost hoped that he would, just so she could tell someone. The other part was terrified of the possibility. Either way, she could not speak of it now, not here and in the dark. āThank you, for all you have done.ā She nodded succinctly and turned on her heel, disappearing into the shadow of the nearest building.
When the sun rose on Kirkwallās Chantry courtyard that morning, it illuminated the grim sight of ten-and-one human heads, eyes glazed over in death, the shafts of the spears the deep, Qunari red of drying blood.
Seeing as he was not bound the Qun as his partner was, it was significantly more difficult for Ithilian to simply leave this despicable shem to his devices, especially with the knowledge that what they were about to do was going to help him greatly. His statement that there wasn't a choice here didn't hit Ithilian quite as hard, because at the moment the right thing to do seemed to be just killing every evil man in the building, and he was clearly included in that. But alas, Amalia was the lead here, and there were slaves that would be murdered if they didn't depart immediately. So all Ithilian could do was fix the man with a glare as he lowered his bow and ran after Amalia.
She didnāt know exactly where the ballroom was in relation to the rest of the building, but generally speaking, the dwellings of wealthy humans were built in similar fashions everywhere, and it wasnāt hard to guess that it would be near the front, probably surrounded by balustrade staircases and luxuriant chandeliers. Amalia had climbed enough buildings, journeyed to enough places, that she had something of an appreciation for architecture, if perhaps a more austere than usual view on what was good and what wasnāt, but such considerations were the furthest thing from her mind at present. They raced through the side hallway, and it seemed past a certain point that they could almost feel the hostile magic thickening about them to an almost choking degree, as though dark miasma were in the air. She said nothing of it aloud, too sharply-focused on keeping her progress as efficient as possible, but she could already smell blood, and that meant nothing good.
Then again, when had a magister ever been good news for anyone? They even despised each other, as Marcus was only too happy to confess. Her stride hitched, but she recovered, throwing open a side door and plunging down this new passage. They could hear sounds now, muffled shouting and something akin to a faint whistling, as though air were being moved about too quickly. A second knife joined the first, and Amalia forcibly removed every thought that didnāt have to do with killing Leviticus and his guards. Such a useful skill, even if sheād have preferred never to have had the need to learn.
The door through which they would pass to the ballroom itself was thrown wide open, and indeed everything else seemed to be oriented around it, as though they were expected to have entered it here. Crossing the threshold triggered a magical trap, one that she should have known to look for, and the resulting explosion threw her forward and down the grand staircase, where she struggled to get her feet underneath her before hitting the white-and-grey marble of the main floor itself. She was partially successful, coming up more or less in a somersault, and her armor had protected her from the worst of the damage, though sheād cracked her head on the hard stone, and the grey spots were not quick in receding from her vision. An amateurās mistakeā¦ one she would have scolded herself for had she not been too busy taking in the fact that too much of the marble was pink.
Sheād lost track of Ithilian, unsure whether heād been caught in the blast or not, but she knew he could take care of himself, and the twinge of concern was suppressed by a mounting dread, as her eyes followed the odd coloration until it darkened into red, and up and over the bodies of ten dead slaves, a mixed bag of humans and elves, all wearing the red smiles of professionally-cut throats. It would have been merciful, if they werenāt so obviously bruised and cut beforehand. Their blood lay in rapidly-chilling pools beneath themāeach was suspended, upside down, shackled by both ankles and hooked onto a point of the massive gold and crystal chandelier above their heads. Around the perimeter of the room, the other ten were chained to various places on the wall, gagged presumably for silence. At the center of the floor, right beneath the light fixture, was what appeared to be a circle, hastily carved in the marble, the divots and depressions in the stone filling with the crimson essence of the slain.
A man who was obviously the Magisterāperhaps no older than forty-five, and dressed much more richly than even Marcus had been in a black-and silver robe trimmed with ermine and sable, had just sliced into his own arm and dribbled the blood onto the circleāa summoning, designed to give hissra physical form in this worldāand Amalia knew what was coming. The whistling, which had increased in pitch until it was disorienting, grew louder and more shrill, ending in a crack and a fierce, bone-chilling howl of wind as the veil between this world and the Fade was rent asunder, letting out a half-dozen shades and a pride demon, towering and fierce. The effort appeared to have cost Leviticus greatly, and Amalia did not waste time, hurling the knife in her left hand until it buried itself in his throat, dropping him to the ground. Heād clearly been expecting to be allowed to talk firstāsomething sheād never understood. There was nothing to be said, because for this, there simply were no words.
The sudden and brutal execution of their employer did not seem to shake the guards much, and they made for her with grim certainty, though the shades headed for the remaining slaves. Amalia knew she couldnāt do everything at once, and even with help, the chances here were not good. Practicality demanded that she and Ithilian form up, cut through the guards and the Pride demon, and be glad the shades would be occupied for a while. But she could not. Their broken bodies and the fear in their eyes was too muchāshe could not let them die. But she could not save them.
āIthilian, the slaves!ā Chances were good that more than one of them would die anywayāthere were six shades and ten pitiful, chained beings, and only one person who might be able to free them. Whatever would be the case, it left her with humans and a Pride demon to deal with. The first pair lunged, and Amalia flipped backwards to avoid both the low and high slash, catching one hard in the jaw with her heel in the process. This was difficult, but acceptable. If there was one thing she could do, it was endure. Theyād named her for it, after all.
Ithilian had tried to stay on Amalia's heels, but as soon as they passed through the door to the ballroom an explosion went off in between them, blasting Amalia forward. Rather than be blown backwards, Ithilian was simply halted as if he'd run headlong into a castle wall, his feet leaving him and causing him to fall harshly on his rear, though he'd been far enough away from the explosion to avoid most actual damage. Shaking himself off, he pushed back to his feet, relieved to see that Amalia was doing the same.
It was too late for half of them, as the blood mage had already done his work, and the veil was torn to bits before them, a group of shades and a pride demon pouring through. Amalia was quick to put a knife into the throat of the magister, and Ithilian added the arrow currently knocked, the projectile thrumming into the robed man quite close to the heart. It wouldn't matter, anyway, Amalia's attack had been enough to do him in, but in the event he didn't die immediately, Ithilian didn't want him casting any extra spells. They had their hands full as it was.
The guards and the shades seemed quite capable of working together to slay them, which was truly unfortunate, as Ithilian had hoped the Fade-beasts would simply attack anything nearby, and potentially help them. That was foolishly optimistic, of course. The shades seemed eager to feast on the remaining chained slaves, while the guards and the Pride demon charged for Amalia. When Amalia suggested he save the slaves, Ithilian did not hesitate, but the doubting side of him did question whether she alone would be able to survive against the guards and the Pride demon while he dealt with the shades one by one. In the end, there was simply no time to think about it, as the slaves would die if he hesitated, and then his efforts would be pointless.
He nocked another arrow swiftly, stiking the eye-hole of a guard trying to line up a shot on Amalia, before quickly sheathing his bow and taking off for the nearest Shade, who glided somewhat inefficiently toward the first slave. Drawing both his short blades, he leaped into the air and punged them down into the creature's back, its howling filling his ears as it sank down into the floor. Hardly slowing, he drew back up, swinging hard for the chains above the first slave's head. It was a human male, but there was simply no time to discriminate here, and if there had been, he would have liked to think he'd have saved the nearest ones all the same.
"Run!" he commanded the man, still bound at the wrists but no longer chained to the wall, and he took off, ducking his head low and making for the doors. A scream on the opposite wall marked the first death. More would follow, but for now, he would save the next slave, an aging elven woman. A shade was currently attempting to descend upon her, and Ithilian would not reach her in time. Acting quickly, he sheathed one blade and drew Parshaara, flipping the blade over in his hand and hurling it end over end until it stuck into the Shade's forehead, setting the demon alight. It soon dissipated, the dagger clattering to the ground. He struck the chains from this next one and hurried on, ignoring the death cry of another slave he couldn't reach.
The Qunari blade proved efficient and effective against the shades, and Ithilian cut through two more in quick succession, freeing three more slaves on the wall, making that all of them on this side. Looking across the ballroom-battlefield, he noticed the two remaining shades wafting in his direction, the dead bodies of the slaves on the wall behind them. He'd saved half of these ones, and a quarter of the total. For one man, perhaps it could have been a success, but Ithilian could not see it as such. He put a pair of arrows into each of the shades, dropping them, before he could finally do what he'd wished to: help Amalia.
The extra arrow was most welcome, but there was no time for a casual toss of a thanks over one shoulder: Amalia was faced with the choice to fight or die. Not the first time it had been laid before her, and certainly not the last. She would choose as she always had. No matter how little certainty she could grasp, she had only once wanted to die, and though she could not say it had taught her the value of life, she did know that sheād have to suffer much worse than this before sheād even contemplate just giving up. The soldier sheād dazed, now one of five, fell onto his back, and an aptly-placed needle took care of him, as well as the one beside him, but the pride demon was coming now with the remaining three, and there was only time to guard against one of those things.
She quite reasonably chose the demon, throwing herself away from the incoming fist, which slammed into the marble floor, cracking the stained stone under the force of the blow. She clenched her jaw against what followed: sheād had to step into range of one of the Tevinter bodyguards in order to get away from the creature, and sure enough, his mace slammed into her abdomen, an uncomfortable crunch informing her that several of her ribs had been broken in. Amalia drew in a breath, and it bubbled in her lungs. Turning away from the mace, she lashed out with the knife still left to her, sinking it in between the boiled leather plates that covered his chest. He dropped, and instead of recovering the knife, she simply drew two more.
The next attack from the demon landed close enough that she staggered when the floor shook, the grey spots that hadnāt yet cleared from her vision blinding her to the remaining pair of soldiers as they rushed her. She blocked the sword-blow on instinct, but the other rammed his shoulder into the already tender area where her bones had broken, and she blacked out for several seconds, during which she was carried to the ground. The sword sank instead into one of her legs, effectively hamstringing her, and the other swung a flail right for her face. She rolled half over, but the sword still in her leg prevented her from getting away entirely, and what would have been an ineffective blow at the floor caught her in the left arm instead, right where her elbow was, and the blunt weapon smashed the joint completely. What might have been a cry of pain became a wracking cough, and she tasted blood in her mouth as she sword was at last withdrawn, its wielder eager to be the one to deal the killing blow on a hated Qunari.
It was only that which saved her life. With her leg free, she was more mobile, and while she was not sturdy, Amalia was nothing if not strong in motion. With only her good arm for support, she kicked out half-blindly with her uninjured leg, catching the flail-holder in the kneecap and staggering him for just long enough to push herself into a one-handed backflip, landing in an awkward crouch as the sword clanged into the ground where her heart had been before. Blood ran freely from her mangled arm and leg, to say nothing of that which dripped from between her lips and down her chin to spot the floor. She was breathing harshly, but it did not stop her from parting with the knife in her right hand, burying it in the forehead of the swordsman with a solid thwack. He fell backwards as the flail-wielder swung again, and she rolled to the side, ignoring the protests of her body to do it. With her right hand, she gripped her left forearm and triggered the release of the hidden blade, bracing the damaged limb with the hale one as she drove up on her good leg, shoving the sharpened silverite into the last soldierās eye.
Sheād been expecting another swing from the demon to do her in at any moment, but for some reason, the blow had not come. That reason was obvious enough when she looked at itāit was currently smoking, having been smote in the chest with a massive fireball. Her peripheral vision may have been shot, but she turned her head to look at the top of the staircase, and found Marcus smiling down at her in that infuriating way he had. āCome now, kadan. We both know youāre not going to die yet. Do get on with it, hm?ā He turned on his heel and left as quickly as heād come, and any response she might have made to that was stymied by another fit of coughing, and she fumbled with furiously-shaking hands for her belt, withdrawing a potion and downing it in several swift swallows, groaning softly when she felt the bones in her ribcage rearrange, the fragments trying to stitch themselves together. It was far from complete, but he was right. She wasnāt going to dieā¦ yet.
The demon, too, was recovering, and Amalia withdrew the last weapon she had: a single-edged hand axe, retracting the blade in her gauntlet. This had been intended only for the removal of heads, but it was a perfectly serviceable weapon in its own right, and sheād have to use it now.
The pride demon was the only enemy that remained to them, as Amalia had done her work well, but even with the magister's assist, Ithilian doubted Amalia would beat it on her own. He sheathed the dagger and drew his other short sword, taking off at it at a run, and it turned towards him, as if it meant to speak. Oh, if only it knew the misery the last pride demon had wrought upon him, how it had nearly destroyed what little he didn't even know he held dear. Ithilian would not give this demon the chance.
He took flight just as the thing opened its mouth, flipping both blades backwards and sinking them into the chest. His feet found purchase on the creature's thighs, and in one motion he withdrew the swords and pushed up hard from his lower body, getting more height just as the pride demon swiped at his chest. Ithilian sunk his right blade into the left shoulder, kicking off of the demon's face to swing around onto its back, where the other blade found its mark. It roared in frustration at this point, trying to reach behind it and stumbling about, but Ithilian kept his balance, withdrawing a blade and leaning back just in time to dodge another flying fist, before slamming it back down.
The next one connected, however, catching him across most of the upper body, and only his grip on one of his blades kept him on the demon's back. He lost hold of the other one, leaving it wobbling back and forth where it pierced the hide. Drawing Parshaara, Ithilian left his other sword behind as well and jumped higher and forward, taking the knife in both hands and slamming it down on top of the Pride demon's head, the enchantment causing the entire head to burst into flame, overwhelming the demon with agony.
Ithilian was forced to step back away from the fire, at which point it managed to grab him, a firm grip squeezing and crushing around his middle, but it did not hold long, choosing to simply throw him across the room rather than try to crush the life out of him before it fell from the wounds. Ithilian sailed helplessly across the length of the ballroom to smash against the wall where he'd freed five slaves, and he fell motionlessly to the ground, face down. The demon staggered about momentarily, before he fell heavily forward, crashing to the floor. Two elven blades protuded from its back, while a Qunari-made dagger remained in the skull.
Amaliaās face was set in a grim scowl as she stepped forward to finish the work, a brutal downward swing of the axe crashing into the back of the creatureās neck, and it faded away, leaving two pieces of steel and one bone-dagger behind it. It was at about this time that the outdoor patrol finally arrived, but at that point she was having no more of this, and each of the shortswords was soon sprouting from a manās chest, the other two dropping from poisoned needles. After making sure that Ithilian was able to get up and walk under his own steam, she silently handed him a potion, took another for herself, and put the axe to its intended task, hacking through each of eleven necks with no relish but simple efficiency.
Marcus never did reappear, but the knowledge that he was right there troubled her, and though she did not lose focus again as she had in the study, she knew quite well that half a dozen men of this caliber would not have nearly killed her on an ordinary day, demon notwithstanding. She was shaken deeply, and it shamed her. From the armory, she retrieved eleven spears, and the rest was gruesome but not trying: eleven heads were staked on spears in front of the Chantryāa dead diplomatic guest and his entire retinue, save one. A message that someone in this city could kill or spare life at will. Only the slow would not guess that the Qunari were responsible, but only the truly foolish would dare accuse them of it with no evidence. It was a missive plain as daylight, but an open secret it would remain. Hopefully, it would frighten the fanatics badly enough to cow themāsuch folk were not known for their courage. If it simply fed the flames, thenā¦ she didnāt know.
The Arishok would not care. He might even prefer it that her warning went unheededāit would just be more proof that they had to be forced into compliance. But Amalia didnāt want that. She wantedā¦ she didnāt know what she wanted, but it was not that. Having not said a word to him throughout the entire process, she at last turned to Ithilian. āI will spend tomorrow on the Coast. Tonight, I will spend alone.ā She fixed her eyes on the stones beneath their feet, then shook her head faintly. It was as close as she could give to an invitation, to join her and to ask. Part of her almost hoped that he would, just so she could tell someone. The other part was terrified of the possibility. Either way, she could not speak of it now, not here and in the dark. āThank you, for all you have done.ā She nodded succinctly and turned on her heel, disappearing into the shadow of the nearest building.
When the sun rose on Kirkwallās Chantry courtyard that morning, it illuminated the grim sight of ten-and-one human heads, eyes glazed over in death, the shafts of the spears the deep, Qunari red of drying blood.