The contest between Remille and Fiona continued, and Duncan saw that Fiona was slowly losing. Her jet of flames was diminishing, and she was struggling. Sweat poured down her brow. The First Enchanter was pressing his advantage, his face twisted into a scowl from the effort.
Perhaps breaking his concentration wouldn’t be such a bad idea, Duncan thought. He had managed to flank the mage without gaining the man’s notice, so he brandished his dagger and swiftly darted toward the man, his boots not making a sound. One slash to the neck, that was all he needed. Or the armpit. With an unarmored opponent, there were so many choices… .
Before he could get close enough, however, Remille noticed his approach. The mage’s eyes had turned pitch black. Inky liquid spilled from them like tears. “Thought I’d lost track of you, little guttersnipe?”
“I was hoping!” Duncan raced as fast as he could, intending to stab the man before he could manage another spell. He leaped into the air, his dagger poised for the strike, but it was too late.
Remille raised his other hand and a jet of dark shadow poured forth from it. It struck Duncan in the chest and propelled him backwards. He crashed to the ground well away from the mage, screaming in pain as the shadows spread over him like a blanket. It felt like a million ants crawling over his skin, each one biting and tearing away a piece of flesh. He flailed and swatted at the blackness with his free hand, but it was insubstantial. Like a ghost, his hand simply passed through it even though he could feel it consuming him.
Desperate, he stabbed at the shadow with his dagger. Better to carve off his own flesh than be eaten whole by this magic. To his surprise, he didn’t stab himself. The moment the blade so much as touched the shadows, they recoiled from it. He began pressing the blade with frenzied haste against his body wherever the darkness touched him, and each time it retreated.
Within moments he had escaped, backing against a wall and breathing rapidly. Terror raced through him as he stared at the inky black pool that lay just a foot from him, now sizzling. That could have been me, he thought. He was covered in sweat. The leather armor on his legs was torn up, the skin beneath it covered in slick blood, but he was whole.
The dagger almost pulsated now. He stared at it as realization slowly dawned on him. He had stolen this from the First Enchanter’s quarters, something the man had hidden away, but not from thieves, surely. How many thieves could there be loose in the Circle of Magi’s tower? He’d hidden it from the prying eyes of the templars and the other mages. It was made of the same magic that the Architect had taught him!
This was why Duncan hadn’t been affected by his brooch like the others had. His skin had never corrupted, he’d never heard the Calling, all because the dagger’s enchantment had protected him.
He shakily got to his feet. The First Enchanter was pressing the attack now, his shadow magic almost reaching Fiona. The stream of her flames had been forced back until it was now only a few feet from her, and she was beginning to falter. Suddenly she fell back. “Maric!” she cried out.
Maric appeared, as if summoned from nowhere. He leaped into view, hurtling his longsword with both hands at the First Enchanter. The blade spun end over end, bright runes flashing, making a low and ominous whup-whup-whup sound as it flew. Remille’s eyes went wide in surprise and he was forced to dodge to the side. The sword missed him and clattered to the ground, but his spell was interrupted.
Fiona collapsed and Maric raced over, catching her before she hit the ground. She looked pale and drained. Maric turned his head, searching. “Duncan!” he called.
“On it!” Duncan replied.
He tried to ignore how shaky his legs were and the pain that was flaring throughout his body. With dagger in hand, he charged at the First Enchanter once again. So much for stealth, he thought.
The mage was on the ground, looking a bit drained himself. He noticed Duncan coming and his annoyance grew. “Come for another taste, insect?” he snapped, getting quickly to his feet.
“Looks like your fancy shadows don’t work as well as you think they do.”
Remille twirled his hands, summoning another black sphere in front of him. It grew rapidly, spreading a dark aura around the mage as he gathered the needed power. Duncan held the dagger out in front of him as he ran, hoping against hope that this worked. If it didn’t, he was a dead man.
The mage unleashed the sphere. It flew at Duncan, making a shrieking sound as it sailed through the air, and when it reached him he closed his eyes and swiped at it with the dagger.
The shrieking turned into a burst of sound that resembled a wail, and he felt a wave of coldness wash over his skin. It was like being dunked into a freezing pool of water, but he didn’t slow and he wasn’t hurt. When he opened his eyes, he saw the First Enchanter’s stunned expression—followed by a flash of recognition as he saw the dagger and realized what it was.
Too late, however. Duncan reached him and with a cry he shoved the dagger into the mage’s chest. The man tried to pull away from him, but Duncan grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close, thrusting the dagger even more deeply.
“How’s that for an insect?” he whispered into the mage’s ear.
Remille’s face was filled with wide-eyed shock, and when he opened his mouth, bright red blood gushed out and spilled down his chin and the front of his robes. The blood was streaked with black, Duncan noticed. He stumbled back and this time Duncan let him go, the dagger remaining in his chest.
The mage stared down at the hilt as if not quite comprehending what it was doing there. He pawed at it, then spasmed again as another spurt of blood came out of his mouth. He stumbled once, and then spun around—
—only to face Bregan before him. The ghoulish Grey Warden was limping weakly, covered in wounds seeping black ichor and clutching his chest. He glared at Remille in contempt, raising his sword up in his other hand.
“No!” the mage sputtered in protest, more blood streaming from his mouth.
Bregan snarled, and with one swing he beheaded the First Enchanter.
Duncan watched numbly as the head fell to the floor and rolled a short ways. The body fountained red blood from the neck, but only for a moment before it slumped quietly to the ground. Bregan stood there, staring down at the corpse. He dropped his sword onto the floor, where it landed with a loud clatter.
The sounds of many men rushing into the room made Duncan turn around. Fereldan soldiers streamed into the chamber, dozens of them in heavy armor with the king’s golden banner on their shields. A number of them were bloodied, and they spread out instantly as if expecting a fight from those within. At their head was Teyrn Loghain. The man made for an imposing figure in his dark plate armor, his blade covered in red blood, and he held up his hand to halt the advancing soldiers as his cool blue eyes took in what had occurred.
For a moment nothing happened. The chamber was silent as Maric slowly helped Fiona back to her feet. Loghain spotted the King, and his eyes widened in surprise to see him there. Then he scowled and strode purposefully over to the man.
“I see you’re not dead.” Duncan couldn’t be sure from the man’s tone if he was pleased or disappointed. Mostly he sounded annoyed.
“Good to see you, too, Loghain,” Maric chuckled tiredly. “How in the Maker’s name did you get here? How did you know?”
Loghain frowned. “Know you were here? I didn’t know that. What I knew was that the Orlesians would betray you, and I was right.” He shot a disgusted glance at the beheaded First Enchanter nearby, his eyes moving warily up to Bregan, who still stood over the body. Bregan made no move to go. “I have been watching for the fool to make his move, and he did. His Orlesian supporters took over the tower two days ago.”