He will look, in a moment, to make sure that Gwen's nobleman has gotten her safely out of range; he will look, in a moment, and do it himself if he has to. In the immediate, all of Bellamy's focus is on the mage, the narrow tunnel of vision singling out his target. A thick root writhes across his path and he jumps over it, clears it easy--comes down hard, with a scuff of loose sod, and the mage looks around at Bellamy's entrance just as his robes catch fire.

Herian is hacking through her bonds. Bellamy leaves her to it. She's proved she can handle herself and her Spirit Blade is sharper than his own sword could ever hope to be. The Dalish mage is contending with the bloom of fire eating at his robes, a frantic backwards shuffle with a wordless cry of pain. Bellamy clears one last root and slashes crosswise at the mage with the dead rouge's dagger.

Half-bent to deal with Herian's fire, the mage catches that strike across the face, and a deep cut splits his cheek. As he howls, Bellamy throws down his sword and grabs hold of his robes in his fist, forearm braced across the mage's chest. This time he stabs, low, at the stomach, pulls bodily at the mage so he meets that strike.

A new root bursts up from the earth, right under Bellamy's feet. The force of it knocks him on his back. He looses his hold on the mage--and on the dagger, too, which protrudes from the mage's stomach. Dazed only for a moment, Bellamy twists to grab for his cast-off sword, but the mage is ready for that. However injured he is, he raises his hand and staff, and Bellamy feels the pull of that gathering force--

But by this time, surely Herian will be free.