An unpublished excerpt from The Tale of the Champion by Varric Tethras
This tale, dearest reader, has embraced many a strange and eccentric character. Templars and mages, Qunari and thieves have all wound their way through our heroine's tale like a line of cabaret dancers at the Blooming Rose. Some were allies, most were enemies, but all had a profound influence on Marian Hawke's life in Kirkwall.
But there is one character that has not yet seen his fair share of time in the spotlight, despite his powerful hold over the Champion. He was a mage, a powerful pyromancer, and a very wise man. He was Hawke's mentor, her closest and dearest friend. His words comforted her at times when even the silver tongue of yours truly could not. His guiding hand led her through the darkest and happiest of times equally.
Who was this mysterious man, you ask? Some secret companion, until now unmentioned in our adventure? Some great hero of Kirkwall's underworld, or a mighty mage operating from the confines of Circle?
Unfortunately, this is one part of our tale that is not so fantastical. This mysterious guiding force was her father, Malcolm Hawke. He died three years ago. But some men continue to influence the present long after their deaths. And Malcolm Hawke was a busy man in life; it stands to reason that he would continue guiding his eldest daughter even after he was laid to rest.
This tale takes us to a very dark time for our fair heroine. The scene, as usual, is set in Kirkwall. But the circumstances could not be more terrible.
The Qunari have risen up in a violent revolution, slaughtering hundreds. The Templars are overwhelmed, fighting a desperate battle for survival in blood-soaked alleyways. The head of Kirkwall's viscount lies on the floor of the Keep, under the triumphant boot of a vengeful Arishok. And Isabela, our dear pirate queen, has vanished into the wind, carrying with her the only item that could stop the bloodshed.
Into this chaos strides a hero. Marian Hawke: smuggler, apostate, and sharp-tongued defender of Kirkwall's underworld. She has been battling all night. She is bloody, bruised, sore, and hungry. And the only thing that stands between her and Kirkwall's salvation is a two-meter-tall horned warrior hell-bent on burning the city to the ground.
The Arishok. He is a force of terrible power, an image to be both feared and – strangely – admired. He is strong as the ox that the common folk compare to his folk. He stands almost a whole head taller than humans – and at least three heads taller than even the tallest of dwarves. His massive swords glint in the moonlight that streams through the stained glass windows high above. His muscles flex and churn beneath his slate-gray skin. Great curved horns, wrapped with brass adornments and sharpened to spear points, curve back over his shoulders like a regal crown.
Hawke stands alone before this fearsome titan, determined to exact vengeance for all that has been taken from her this night. Refugees and prisoners cower behind her, held in place by teams of armed Qunari soldiers. Blood stains the elegant tiling at her feet and runs in rivulets down the stairs from the decapitated corpse of the former viscount.
We're all there with her, of course. All but Isabela, who took her new ship and vanished before we could catch up. Anders, Sebastian, and Aveline are penned in with the rest of the prisoners to the left, their weapons ripped from their hands by more not-so-gentle giants. Merrill and I are shuffled off to the other side of the room, to another knot of captives. We're similarly disarmed; a Qunari blade larger than I am tall is pushed against my chest as I try to keep my precious Bianca clutched in my grasp. Fenris is the only one separated from the others. He stands a few paces ahead under guard, acting as Hawke's translator.
The Arishok's intention is clear. He wants to kill us all, kill us or enslave us and burn Kirkwall – which he perceives as a terrible den of iniquity – to little more than ashes. And the only one who can hope to stop him is a black-haired, average-looking human woman with a fancy walking stick and a scar on her face.
They battle in the Qunari style. One-on-one, winner takes all. It takes a pair of Qunari to hold Merrill back from leaping into battle at Hawke's side. I wait on the sidelines with a Qunari sword to my throat. My heart pounds in my chest as I watch blades clash and blood fly.
Even with her magic, Hawke is woefully outmatched. She throws fireballs, bolts of lightning, and even swarms of magically-conjured insects. The Arishok shrugs them with all the irritation of squinting against the rain. By comparison, every blow he manages to land against his opponent is a near-killing stroke.
Hawke staggers, her armored jacket's chest plate nearly carved in two under a single blow. The next attack – a furious blow from the hilt of the Arishok's axe – connects against her jaw with a sickening crack. She spins and falls to her knees. The world seems to move in slow-motion as Hawke collapses onto all fours, blood dripping in sticky strands from her slack lips.
The Arishok hefts his axe and sword both, preparing to bring them down into the woman's back. Beside me, Merrill sucks in a shocked breath, preparing for the inevitable scream of dismay and loss that is about to tear itself from her throat.
But the blow doesn't land. Hawke rolls to the side and the sharp blades clang hard against the tiled floor. Hawke scrambles to her feet, bladed spear clutched tight in her hands, and attacks while the Qunari warrior is still off balance. She strikes forward, thrusting her staff like a spear. A terrible cry of effort falls from her lips, as if it is the last act of defiance she is capable of showing.
The sharp bladed end of her staff pierces the Arishok's abdomen. A sickening crunch echoes through the atrium of the palace. The gray-skinned Qunari stiffens, more out of shock than anything else. He looks down at the wound, at the sharpened steel blade sunk deep into his gut, at the blood that drips down around the blade. Within a moment, it seems like everything in the world has frozen and all the air has been sucked out of the room in shock. We're all stuck there, staring dumbfounded at the spectacle before us: the human, quivering with equal parts exhaustion and rage, clutching tight to the spear that is embedded in the giant's stomach.
Then fire blooms in the Arishok's eyes. His sword drops to the ground as he reaches up and grabs Hawke by the throat with a hand larger than her head. The warrior hoists his attacker into the air, off her feet, and lets loose a terrible howl that seems to shake the tiles at my feet. Hawke cries, losing her grip on her staff.
In the next moment, the Arishok's razor-edged axe swings up. He rears back and plunges the sharpened hook of his weapon through Hawke's chest. Her armor, already weakened by battle, shatters. A short spray of blood erupts from her, falling in a shimmering arc through the moonlight.
The silence is suddenly, terribly, nightmarishly broken. Hawke lets out an agonized scream as the axe's hook burrows its way through her gut and explodes out of her back. She writhes, impaled on the weapon. Merrill screams as well, reaching for Hawke with wide eyes already streaming with tears. The Arishok shakes his white-haired head and roars, arching his head to the ceiling and bellowing as loud as his impressive Qunari lungs will allow.
Hawke falls limp, stuck like a kebab on the end of the Arishok's axe. The fire in the Qunari's eyes dims back to a smolder and he distastefully throws the human woman's body to down the stairs, to the ground. She lands on her head with a sickening crack and crumples up, limbs limp and eyes closed. Blood soaks the tiles beneath her feet.
Now, I have been through many adventures, dearest reader. I'm far from unfamiliar with danger and have willingly – happily even – put my life in peril more times than I can count. But I'm no knight. I don't charge into battle with courage and a stout heart. I know a thing or two about fear. And it's with that knowledge that I can honestly and without the faintest trace of doubt say that I've never been as scared as I was at that moment.
Merrill screams Hawke's name, trying to rush forward to her lover's side. A burly Qunari grabs her about the waist and shoves her back into the group of captives. Undeterred, she scrambles to her feet and tries again. This time the hilt of a sword connects with her tattooed forehead and she collapses to the floor with a whimper.
I want to run to her side. I want to drag her away, hug her close, and pray that this is all a bad dream. But I can't. All I can do is stand like a stump and watch, blood flowing like sluggish ice water in my veins, as the Arishok turns away and, with a grunt, yanks Hawke's staff from his gut. He raises it to his eyes, observing the weapon. Then he grasps it tightly in his fists and snaps it in two like a twig.
A mournful wail begins the rounds through the ranks of prisoners. The folk of Kirkwall fall apart, spirits broken at the sight of their unexpected protector – their would-be champion – cut down so terribly. Aveline stares at Hawke with wide eyes, her face drained of all color. Sebastian has fallen to his knees, head bowed in prayer. Anders argues with a Qunari that towers over him, demanding that he be allowed to help his friend; after all, the Arishok has already won, hasn't he? Marian doesn't need to die.
But of all the companions, only I – the ever-faithful Varric Tethras – keep my eyes on Hawke. If I were a vain man, I would claim that I knew all along what was about to happen. If I were a prideful man, I would spin a yarn about how this was all a part of the plan.
I may be vain and I may be prideful, but I, dearest reader, am no liar. I had no clue what was about to happen. And the shock of what happened next astounds me to this very day.
I never looked away from Hawke, and so I saw her weakly clench one shaking fist. Instantly a high-pitched tone – more of a shriek than a whine – overpowers the throngs of prisoners crying or wailing in despair. The clamor dies slowly away as everyone – Qunari included – searches for the source of the mysterious sound.
The Arishok frowns and looks down at the fragments of the staff in his hands. He raises the top half, watching the amber-hued crystal at the head as it pulses and glows a bright, livid orange. The ear-piercing screech grows louder and louder as the glow similarly grows brighter and brighter.
The Arishok moves to throw the splintered weapon from his grip. Too late.
The crystal at the tip of the staff shatters in a burst of light and fire that consumes the Qunari warrior's shocked face. He staggers away from the blast, clutching at his eyes with an agonized bellow. Half of his left horn has been vaporized by the explosion, and his face is charred and blackened.
Hawke struggles into a sitting position, nursing a roaring ball of fire between her palms. With a shout of rage, pain, and effort, she thrusts her hands forward and the fireball screams toward the Arishok. The Qunari, still recoiling from the explosion, can't hope to move aside in time.
The fireball punches right through him, searing a hole through his chest as wide as my shoulders. He hunches, lips falling slack and bloodshot eyes stretching wide.
All eyes are now fixed on him. He staggers, holding out a hand to balance himself against the stairway at his back. His voice wheezes up into the silent air as he struggles to draw breath. Then he collapses back, falling against the stairs and clutching at the hole where his stomach used to be. Blood pours from his wound and his entire massive frame quivers.
His bloody lips shake and struggle to form words. When he finally manages to speak, his voice is a twisted, tortured gasp.
"One day…" he hisses, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, "we… we shall return…"
Then the light dies from the giant's eyes and he slumps, dead, to the cold tile floor. Not ten feet away, Hawke's eyes roll back in her head and she collapses in a similar fashion.
And that, dearest reader, is where our tale begins.