The spoken word is the most deadly weapon known to man. With a single word, a cutthroat can call his thugs to rape and pillage and murder. With a single word, a Templar can pass judgment on a bound and helpless mage, condemning them to a lifetime of Tranquility. With a single word, that apostate can rip free of their bonds, reduce their captors to ash, and call forth a horde of demons at their side.
Every word is a weapon. And there were many words being thrown about South Reach. The blaze continued through the streets and Templars rushed to contain the magical maelstrom that had erupted in the midst of the sleepy hamlet. Words of command or retreat, words of interrogation or fear, words passed between civilians fleeing the chaos and between the mercenaries who watched the conflagration and debated whether to throw their swords into the fight. Words were hurled between the Templars battling Malcolm Hawke as they scrambled for cover, away from his onslaught. They were thrown, quick and deadly as daggers, by the green-eyed Seeker who did battle with the apostate, jeering and laughing as he sought to unbalance his opponent with hefty strikes from his longsword. These words were roared back by Malcolm as he summoned balls of lightning and conjured meteors down from the sky.
But there was one in South Reach who abstained from words. One who, not long ago, had been gifted with a sharp tongue and quick wit, all too knowledgeable about the potential danger of a word spoken without thought of consequence. But where once she had traded barbed quips or pointed comments with those around her, now she staggered through the streets in tight-lipped silence, not even so much as a pained whimper escaping her throat. She had long known the danger of words. But never had she imagined the cost of her silence would be so dear.
Marian Hawke staggered into a crooked back-alley and collapsed against the rough-hewn log cabin at her back, clutching both hands to her punctured stomach. Blood was gushing in rivulets over her gloves and sensation was seeping from her fingers. Brooke's knife had sunk deep. If the wound wasn't attended to soon, the Templars would have one less mage to worry about tonight and they wouldn't have to lift a finger.
She rested her forehead against the wall, muscles trembling and knees buckling as tears soured with grief, shock, and pain streaked her unmarred cheek. She sank to her knees, strength finally failing her, and doubled over to vomit yet again into the dusty dirt.
The wound. It needed healing. Now.
Tell her to crush a loaded wagon into a crumpled mass the size of her fist or to burn half a forest down with nothing but a wink and she could do it with enough grit and pissed-off energy. But for all her pyromantic skill, she couldn't come close to repairing the damage she was capable of dealing. She was no healer and most likely never would be.
Papa, she thought with hazy desperation. He can do it. He healed my eye, all those years ago. Healed my face. He can…
No. He was still fighting Seeker Lok, she could hear it even from this distance. Too far. She'd bleed out before she could reach him. Panic began to press at the edges of her mind, crowding in around her and making it harder to find a cohesive thought through the smog of pain and fear.
I can't do this, she thought. I'm going to die. I'm going to bleed to death here in the alley. I can't do this. And it's all because I decided I liked fire more than…
That thought, even half-finished, crystallized in her mind.
Fire.
She grimaced, cursing her own ingenuity even as she conjured up the plan that would save her life. Moving around with a pained grunt, she half fell into a sitting position. She pressed her back against the cabin wall and drew her hands away from the wound to observe the damage.
It wasn't pretty, that was for sure. Brooke's blade had punctured into her gut, just to the right of her navel, slicing through her jerkin as easily as a werewolf's talons through silk. And when she'd tugged her knife free, it hadn't come clean; the edges of the wound were ragged and torn, leaving a small but not insubstantial hole carved into Marian's flesh.
Fire.
She groaned and thumped her head back against the wall. No running from it now. It was this or bleed to death.
She raised the index and ring fingers of her left hand, clenching the rest into a loose fist. With a pulse of mana, she sent a shockwave of heat down her arm to concentrate in those two bundled fingers. They began to smoke in front of her eyes, buffeting her face with uncomfortable warmth in the already muggy night air. She grimaced and redoubled her effort, strengthening the magic flowing through her. Her fingers now began to glow molten red-orange, like a half-made sword pulled fresh from the forge.
"Andraste's tits," she panted with a scowl. "This isn't going to be fun."
Gingerly pulling up the hem of her pierced jerkin, she maneuvered herself until her glowing fingers were hovering over the wound, her other hand pinching the puncture closed. With one last muttered curse she pressed her fingers against her flesh.
A loud sizzle like cooking bacon crackled through the alleyway and her senses were flooded with blazing, searing agony. It was like pressing herself against heated coals, like sticking herself with a branding iron for fun. Her nose filled with the disgusting scent of acrid smoke and burnt meat and her muscles broke out in spasms as she fought to keep the hissing heated fingers pressed against the closed wound. Her teeth clamped shut, grinding so tight she feared they would crunch from the pressure.
Don't scream, she kept telling herself. Scream and the Templars will find you.
When she could stand it no more, she yanked her hand free and let out a gasp of relief. Her body went limp against the wall. Her heated hand thumped into the ground beside her, sizzling in a shallow pool of off-color street water.
She stayed there a long time, listening to the distant rumble of magic explosions and letting the pain and misery of the past few minutes wash over her. Tears stung her last remaining eye, tracing down her cheek and mixing with the blood stains.
She couldn't escape the image of Brooke's face; furious and frightened both, clutching her bloodied knife like she feared Hawke would blast her away with a sweep of her hand. Like she was some kind of darkspawn, twisted and ugly as sin itself.
But is that so far from the truth? she found herself thinking. You spent the past months lying to her face, thinking that when the day came she would just accept you and your lies because… what? Because you were special? Because you loved each other?
She thumped her head hard against the wall behind her. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
But soon the pressing need to act overpowered her desire to sit and wallow in her grief. She had to move, had to get back up and return to the hellstorm that had engulfed her town. Brooke was lost, but there were still people here that needed her.
Ok… she winced as she rose to her feet again, clasping a hand against the still-smoldering burn in her gut. Ok… that will hold for now. Have to leave. Have to find Mother and the others.
But where were they? Malcolm was tearing the city apart in his duel with Seeker Lok, and the rest of the Hawkes would surely know their game was up by now. They hadn't been at the cottage when Marian had arrived, so where…
She limped out of the alley, doing her best to shield her face from any panicked onlookers and playing the part of a frightened, wounded citizen just like the rest. Most paid her no mind, too terrified of the light show on the horizon and the Templar forces massing to counter it. Even now a bolt of blazing scarlet light arced down through the clouds, shedding waves of sparks as it went, before exploding somewhere deeper in the city. Another cottage went up in flames. Screams quickly followed.
Focus, she thought. Where would Mother take the twins if she knew we were in trouble? Where…
The answer hit her as hard as the bolt that had fallen from the sky. Of course! Mother would first seek to gather the remains of the family and prepare to flee. She and the twins were never far apart and it was clear Malcolm was the cause of the magical hellstorm ravaging the town. That left only Marian as the last straggler. And the only logical place Marian would be this time of day was—
The stables, she thought, limping in that direction as quickly as her shaking legs could carry her. They would be there. They had to be there. They would regroup there and find someplace safe. Then she would go back and save her father. Together they would defeat Lok and make their escape, never to return to this place of heartbreak and shattered dreams.
The nightmare would end and the Hawkes would once again vanish into the wind. She would make sure of that.
Merrill cried out in pain as a stone hit her square in the back. Pain swam up her spine, threatening to take her off balance. She did her best to ignore the throbbing and focus only on putting one bare foot in front of the other. The sharp gravel ground of Darktown was unpleasant to traverse on a normal day, but now every step was agony. The sharp-edged stones had torn through even her calloused Dalish soles and hot, stinging pinpricks spiked up through her feet with every step. She ignored that too.
Her pain would pass. It could be soothed later, once they made it to the tower. Hawke, however, would not be so lucky if they did not hurry. She was paler than ever and coughed up a steady stream of bloody froth as she was jostled about. Merrill tried her best at first to ease the shaking of the cot but as their pursuers chased them deeper into the dark, it became clear she needed to focus only on keeping ahead.
More bandits had joined the first cadre now, drawn by the promise of worthy prey and a fun chase. Even now, they hurled both insults and stones at their quarry, their heavy boots crunching the gravel at their feet.
On a normal day these cutthroats would be no concern. Merrill herself would probably be able to take them and she wouldn't even have to resort to blood magic to do it. Carver had made it clear he wished to turn and face down their pursuers, but he knew as well as the mages he protected that they couldn't stop and fight now. They had no time. Hawke had no time.
One of the brutes drew close enough to grab for the back of Merrill's tunic; she felt his meaty fingers grasp for purchase at the back of her collar. She screwed her eyes shut and let out a pulse of mana, sending it rocketing out in a telekinetic wave that sent him sprawling in the dirt. Carver slashed up his back with a swipe of his broadsword as he passed. The man writhed and bled out onto the craggy ground.
Merrill gasped as her mana surge faded, almost losing her footing as she sought to regain her senses. Using magic without the aid of her hands was taxing, especially when she was already so exerted and unable to concentrate.
From his position at the front, Anders did his best to help. Every now and again he'd close his eyes for a split-second and use his telekinetic strength to scoop up and hurl clouds of razor-edged rocks at their pursuers. They were managing to keep the thugs at a distance, but they all knew it wouldn't last. Sooner or later, they would have to face their enemy.
It's not too late, Merrill thought. We can make it. We can—
Something hit her from the side, hard and heavy as a boulder. She was knocked clean off her feet, sprawling into the dirt with a cry of pain as the hard stones of the Darktown street dug into exposed flesh. She heard Carver let out a battle cry, then the ring of steel on steel echoed through the subterranean streets and the young Templar sprawled next to her, face-down and groaning.
Merrill clambered to her knees and looked up through watering eyes to see four hulking figures stalk out from the darkness. Their spears were dripping with blood, their massive chests daubed with dark war paints and their horns sharpened to razor points.
Qunari. Leftovers from the Arishok's war party.
"Oh no," Merrill breathed. "Oh, no."
The bandits pursuing them backed away from the Qunari and disappeared down deserted side alleys like shadows fleeing the light of a lit torch. Everyone in Kirkwall had seen what the horned warriors could do and few were eager to repeat the horrors of the night. No mark, no matter how lucrative, was worth crossing these particular foes.
The Qunari leader, marked by his stark white hair pulled back in long braids, barked to the others in his harsh, guttural tongue and gestured to Hawke, who had sprawled free of the stretcher when Merrill fell. They stepped toward the fallen mage, weapons raised.
"Leave her alone!" Merrill shouted. She thrust out her palm and unleashed a bolt of lightning at the nearest horned menace. It popped against his muscular back and sputtered out. He slowly turned, a scowl pulling at his craggy features.
"This woman is ours," he growled. "Blood spilled demands blood spilled."
"Leave her alone!" Merrill repeated, scrambling to her feet. She yanked her staff from over her shoulder, conjuring a spirit bolt at the tip.
"You will not have her." Anders was also rising to his feet from where he'd been knocked down, nursing a ball of crackling electricity between his spread hands. His eyes flashed so dangerously it almost seemed like Justice was bleeding through. "She is under my protection."
The Qunari leader glanced between the two mages with a single raised brow, not looking impressed in the least. For a few long moments he simply stared, apparently dumbfounded by the gall of these tiny figures who dared stand against his might.
"Sataari faithful," he suddenly boomed. With an air of disinterest, he reached down and grabbed Hawke, his thick fingers wrapping easily around her throat. She twitched and coughed up blood all down his wrist as she was dragged away, toward the shadows. "Deal with the bas sarrebas. The vashedan is mine."
"Na'thek, Katari," his subordinates replied. They fanned out, weapons at the ready. Merrill could see they were drenched in blood; these warriors had no doubt been battling all night, ever since the Arishok let his sentence fall upon the inhabitants of the city. How many they had killed in the past hours — mages, templars, mercenaries, and innocent civilians alike — Merill didn't even want to guess.
"Anders," she hissed, "we can't let them take her!"
"I know."
"I-I won't let him!"
"I know!"
"Basran," the nearest Qunari spat. "You will pay for every drop of Qunari blood spilled this night. You will pay for the loss of the Arishok, and for the foulness of your—"
With a roar, Carver came lunging from nowhere, swinging his greatsword with all his might. The swipe took the horned giant's head off at the shoulders, leaving a spurting stump in its wake. The warrior's body twitched, then collapsed to the dirty Darktown ground. The young man landed hard, metal plated boots kicking up a spray of dirty gray-brown stone chips as he slid to a halt between the hulking warriors and his compatriots.
"Go!" he shouted. "I'll take them!"
Merrill felt no desire to argue and she didn't need to be told twice. She sprang into motion while the others were still reacting to Carver's attack. The gray-skinned warriors moved after her with battle roars of their own, but Anders pushed them back with a shove from the head of his staff. They staggered, giving her an opening to charge down a side-alley after Hawke and her captor. As she passed, Carver threw himself into battle with Anders right beside him.
Three Qunari warriors against a lone Templar and a magical healer — long odds at the best of times. But Merrill couldn't worry about them. Not when Hawke needed her more.
When she spotted him, still dragging Marian's limp form away from the battle, she unleashed a furious spike of energy in his direction. It hit him in the center of his back and drew blood, knocking him off balance. It didn't harm him further, but the intended effect was achieved nonetheless. The huge soldier stopped in his tracks.
Merrill skidded to a halt just beyond the reach of a sword, breathing hard. Her hands were clenched into shaking fists, her thin face pulled down in a furious scowl. When she spoke, her voice was tight and demanding and free of any of her usual nervous indecision.
"Put her down."
The huge warrior, apparently called Katari, slowly turned with a scowl that looked more frustrated than pained. Fire burned in his silvery eyes, but for once in her life Merrill wasn't afraid. Her knees should have been knocking together in terror at the prospect of facing down this muscle-bound brute who was almost twice as tall as her standing on tip-toe. But she didn't care about her perceived weaknesses or his obvious might. All that mattered was getting Hawke to safety, and even weak little Merrill would rip this beast limb from limb if that's what it took to get her lover back safe. Fire boiled in her blood, and her hands trembled not from anxiety but with suppressed rage.
"Put. Her. Down." Every snarled word was filled with murderous intent. "Do it or I will kill you."
"Stronger bas than you have tried," the brute said. But he did as she demanded; he carelessly let Hawke's form flop to the ground. He stepped towards the little elf and drew a hefty battle axe from the sling on his back. "If you wish to join the legions of the dead, so be it."
Merrill didn't back down. She actually took a step toward the towering warrior, hefting her staff like an axe of her own. "You will not touch her again."
"Take her from me," Katari gowled. "If you can."
The sounds of battle slowly drifted into the distance as Marian half-ran, half-limped further from the epicenter of the fighting. The thundercracks had faded away, as had the screams and the clash of metal against metal. Even the locals seemed to be thinning out, as most had run for the edge of town shortly after the chaos began.
Not far now, she thought, sweat beading her forehead as she ran and put unneeded pressure on her recently-sealed wound. Just need to make it a little further and it'll all be all right. It has to be.
Marian almost thought her knees would buckle from sheer relief when she rounded the corner to the stables and saw a knot of South Reachers gathered there. It took only moments to pick out Mother's tall figure, bundled up with the twins clinging to the hem of her dress.
"Mother!" called, sprinting for her family. She threw her arms around her mother as soon as she was near.
"Oh, my darling Marian!" Leandra gasped, returning the hug fiercely. She pulled back, tracing her hands over her daughter's face, shoulders, arms, checking that Marian was whole and unharmed. "I was so worried! What's going on? Is your father—"
"Not here," Hawke interrupted. "We need to leave the city. Father will join us once we're away."
"But Marian, you're bleeding—"
Bethany broke in then, hugging her older sister tight around the waist with a cry of, "I'm scared, Marian! What's happening?"
Marian yelped at the sudden pressure against her wound and Bethany hopped back, eyes wide, and began to cry. Marian sucked in a deep breath, holding a hand to her stomach, then gingerly knelt next to her sibling. She squeezed her shoulders reassuringly and gestured for Carver to approach as well. With some reluctance, the sullen boy plodded over with a fearful expression. She lowered her voice so none of the other villagers nearby would hear her, pulling the twins closer.
"Marian," Bethany sniffled, "what's going on? I'm scared."
"There's a bad man in the city," she said, breathing hard, "but Papa is keeping him busy so we can escape. We can get to safety, but that means you must listen to Mother and me. Understand?"
Bethany nodded, wide-eyed, while Carver stared at his boots. She squeezed her brother's shoulder to get his attention. "Carver? Do you understand?"
"I guess," he mumbled. "But what about home? Aren't we taking any of our things with us? Like my wooden knights?"
"We don't have time. We need to make sure everyone is safe first. We'll get you more wooden knights. All right?"
He seemed to grow even more sullen at her words, but he reluctantly nodded. That was about as much as could be asked of Carver, so it would have to suffice. Taking both their hands, she stood to her full height and turned back to her mother.
"We need to leave now," she pressed. "Before the Templars cut off any escape from the village. We'll meet by the windmill outside of town. Farmer Argon's land, remember?"
"I remember," Leandra said. Her voice was strained and breathless. "But what—"
Marian felt him before she saw him, a little tickle of warmth on the corner of her mind. Bethany clearly felt it too, because she perked up and her tear-streaked face grew brighter.
Malcolm Hawke skidded around a corner, bruised and bloody from recent fighting. His staff was nowhere to be seen, his jerkin was still smoldering, and his right arm was sheeted in blood. His pale eyes raked across the assembled villagers before zeroing in on the huddled Hawkes like a hound on the prowl.
He raced for them with the desperation of a dying man, looking on the verge of bursting into tears of relief himself. The twins broke from their sister's grasp as soon as he was close and barreled into him with cries of relief. He fell to his knees and hugged both children close, kissing each of their foreheads with murmured thanksgiving to the Maker.
Leandra and Marian were right behind them. Malcolm embraced his wife and daughter with desperate ferocity, holding them as if this would be his last chance to do so. The entire family huddled together, desperately clinging to each other in this world where everything else had suddenly been cast loose into the storm.
"Malcolm!" Leandra breathed. "What in Andraste's name is happening?"
"How did you get away?" Marian hissed. "Is Lok still behind you?"
"I ran," Malcolm said, his breath coming in short gasps. "As fast as I think I ever have. And the first chance I got, I blew the bridge to this part of town. It'll take them time to reach the next crossing."
"Then we still don't have much time!" Marian said. "We need to go."
"We do," Malcolm replied. "But our exit is going to be… complicated. The Templars are blocking off our escape to the north. We need to find another way."
"But there is no other way!" Leandra whimpered. "That only leaves the forest and the southern hills, and we'll be caught there for sure!"
"Then we go west," Marian declared.
"The main road to Denerim is to the west," Malcolm said with a terse shake of his head. "There will be Templars prowling that stretch for sure."
"We can blend in," Marian insisted. "With South Reach in flames, refugees will be pouring west. There will be plenty of villages to fit in without Templar scrutiny."
"Marian—"
"Do we have any other choice?" the eldest Hawke insisted. "Mother is right: if we go into the forest we'll be picked off by elves if the Templars don't get us first, and we can't move quickly enough through the Southron Hills to escape our pursuers."
Malcolm scowled for a time, pondering their options. He knew Marian's words were true. Traveling along the western roads would be a risk, for sure, but staying or choosing a slower path would mean death for them all. With a worried sigh, he reluctantly nodded.
"All right," he growled, "west it is. We can take shelter in Lindholm or Lothering while we plan our next move. You know the way, Marian?"
The girl nodded enthusiastically, then hissed and held a hand to her stomach. Malcolm's sharp eyes quickly took in her state, eyes flashing with sudden alarm. He seemed to be able to put two and two together instantly; Marian was wounded, cheeks streaked with dried tears, and Brooke was nowhere to be seen. He reached out a hand to comfort her, but Marian caught his worried look and waved him away.
"We can deal with it later," she said.
"Are you sure?" he pressed. "Are you—"
"Later," she snarled, her voice leaving no room for argument. "I… can't think about it right now. We need to get to safety. Everything else can wait until then."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Leandra said, hugging the twins close. "We need to go now."
Taking each of the twins by the hand, Malcolm nodded with a grim scowl. Together, the tight knot of Hawkes made their way toward the maze-like back alleys and the freedom that beckoned beyond.
Merrill had never been a good fighter. She'd been in her fair share of "knock-down, drag-outs," as Isabela would say, but she preferred to stay on the edges of a battle, picking off targets or immobilizing them wherever she could find a safe opening. When pressed, she would almost always be found lacking when placed against a half-decent opponent.
Hawke and Bela had been doing their best to train her, with the latter tutoring the elf in some less-than-savory kicks or punches while the former did her best to impart her father's unconventional martial arts style that utilized the staff itself as a weapon.
Hawke's staff was modified to this end. She carried a scepter of her father's design, with a flawless lyrium crystal affixed to the head by carved wood anchors made to look like twisted branches. The shaft had been wrapped in expensive scarlet leather, while the butt of the staff was capped with the snapped blade of a shattered sword. It was part magical conduit, part melee weapon, and every inch could be used in combat.
Merrill wished she could have that scepter right now. Her own staff, affectionately nicknamed Vir Tasallan or Pathfinder, was little more than a magically-imbued tree branch, free of any trappings of combat. It had been presented to her during her vallaslin ceremony, a mark of her emergence into adulthood — never intended for frequent use as a weapon. She expected the weapon to snap clean in half as she hoisted it up to block the downswing of her Qunari opponent's axe.
But it didn't. She was still driven to her knees by the force of the blow, but some magical ward deflected the worst of the damage. Katari tried to shove her onto her back, but she scrambled sideways out from under the weight of the axe. The sudden loss of opposition sent the Qunari stomping off balance, leaving his back wide open for a well-placed spirit bolt between his shoulder blades. The magical projectile seared his skin and left it warped and blackened, hissing like charred meat on an open fire. The gray-skinned colossus roared in pain, loud enough to shake the sharp gravel pebbles beneath their feet.
Merrill ducked beneath the inevitable counter-swipe, hearing the air whistle past the axe blade as it passed close over her head. She backpedaled and used a frantic sweep of her staff to toss a cloud of razor-edged stones into her attacker's face.
Katari lunged through the blast, catching her full in the face with the hard plane of his shoulder. Merrill was tossed off her feet and landed hard in the dirt with a breathless, "Oof!"
Though her face throbbed and her eyes watered from the blow, her instincts screamed at her to attack before she could be overwhelmed. From her back, she whipped her staff in a horizontal slash. The Qunari towering over her saw the incoming attack and threw himself out of the way just in time to avoid a telekinetic razor-swipe that carved a furrow into the mud-brick building just behind him.
A heavy foot caught Merrill in the ribs, tossing her over onto her stomach. Through ears that buzzed with adrenaline and throbbing pain, she heard Katari's snorting breath. He had the clear advantage, but he took a few steps back, gathering himself. He was playing with her, she knew. Still, she groaned and leaned hard on her staff as she clambered back to her feet.
The Qunari was prowling a few feet away, swinging his axe calmly in his grip. The young elf glared at him, panting hard as she wiped blood from her nose. With effort, she straightened and took her staff into a strong, two-handed grip. With a few short and pained footsteps she placed herself between the Qunari and the limp form of Hawke behind her.
"Is that…" she panted, "all you've got?"
Katari's silver eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched. He took three lumbering steps forward, cocking his arm back for a swipe that would take her head off at the shoulders.
Merrill reacted before even she could fully understand what she was doing. She dropped into a crouch and fired off a quick one-two shot of energy before pulling her arm back and unleashing a pulse of summoned stone that hit the Qunari square in his muscled stomach. She followed up with a vicious uppercut that sent a pillar of earth crashing into the titanic warrior's chin. He was knocked right off his feet and slammed into the dirt hard enough to rattle the empty pots crammed into the Darktown corners.
She was exhausted already, breathing hard and barely able to stand without using her staff as a crutch. But she had to press her advantage before he got the best of her again. With a grimace of effort, she thrust her palm into the air and clenched her fingers into a tight fist that crackled with energy. Thunder snapped through the subterranean alleyways and a bolt of conjured lightning arced down from high above to explode into the ground — where Katari had been lying only a moment before.
The Qunari was on his feet faster than Merrill could follow. Within moments he was right in her face and bringing his axe up to cleave her in two. Her feet danced through the gravel almost against her will, as quickly and gracefully as Isabela had taught her. She slipped around his shoulder so she could hit him with the butt of her staff, enhancing the otherwise weak blow with a telekinetic punch that sent him stumbling.
Merrill once again placed herself between Hawke and the Qunari. "I told you," she gasped, fighting the urge to clutch at the stitch in her side, "that you couldn't have her."
Katari snorted like an irritated bull, his head hunched and horns bared at her. His eyes burned with fury as he towered over her with a muttered curse. She was wearing him down; certainly not in a contest of strength, but her smaller size and quicker footing made her hard to hit and that axe of his was clearly tiring him out after the rigors of an already-hectic night of fighting.
"You bas and your cursed magic," he panted. "It will be an honor to put you and your half-dead companion in the ground where you belong."
Merrill didn't want to kill the Qunari. She'd had her fill of blood and death for one night — maybe even for a lifetime. But hers wasn't the only life on the line: Hawke was dying, and for all she knew Varric, Cullen, Carver, and Anders were already dead. She couldn't let all the horrors of this night, from Hawke's duel with the Arishok to Varric's decision to hold off the mob, all the way to her own hectic flight for the Circle tower, all be for nothing.
So instead of turning and running like her instincts were screaming at her to do, she dug her sore feet into the gravel-strewn ground, squared her shoulders, and conjured up the last whispering shreds of mana she could muster.
She had one thing to help her through this duel; she hadn't been the first tonight to go face-to-face with a superior Qunari foe. Hawke had also done battle with an enemy that outclassed her by several degrees. And while the consequences of that duel were woefully apparent, Merrill could learn from her lover's mistakes and utilize her successes equally.
The first thing she needed to do was restrict her opponent's movement. The Arishok had managed to keep Hawke on the defensive, keeping her from challenging his superior strength or hitting him with any of her more powerful spells. So when the next swipe of that heavy battle axe came, Merrill was already dodging, going low and hitting her opponent in the knees with winding tendrils of magically-conjured roots. Katari was jerked off-balance, almost losing his grip on his axe in the process.
Merrill helped him along in this regard by summoning a snake-like web of roots from the tip of her staff and entangling them along the haft of his weapon. With an almighty wrench she yanked her staff back and tugged the huge weapon from his claw-like fingers. It thudded hard into the dirt before she whipped her staff and sent it flying into the darkness behind her.
Katari managed to extricate himself from his bonds and lurched for her, trying to snatch away her staff just as the Arishok had against Hawke. The little elf nimbly hopped back, out of his reach, and hit him full in the face with a telekinetic burst that broke his nose with a crunch and a spray of dark blood. He reared back with a howl, clutching at his face.
Next, she summoned up a swarm of dirt, mud, and gravel from the ground, spinning her staff to create a whirling maelstrom in the air before her. Just as Katari was recovering, crimson-brown streaking his face, she sent it flying. The distraction was enough; Katari reared back, blind, and Merrill dropped to one knee to place the flat of her free palm against the ground.
Time to finish this, she thought with a scowl.
The earth rumbled beneath their feet, shaking loose stone chips from the walls around them. The Qunari warrior strained against the roots holding him captive, but managed only a single step forward before a razor-sharp pillar of conjured stone leaped from the ground like a thrown spear.
Katari had no hope to dodge in time. Like Hawke's battle with the Arishok, Merrill had immobilized him, trapped him, and left him wide open to a sundering blow that would end the duel in one horrific strike.
With a sickening squelch of rending flesh, the magical spear pierced Katari right through the midsection. He stiffened as the sharpened pillar burst from his back in a spray of blood. He was hoisted off his feet, pinned there like a corpse on a stake. His pale eyes stretched wide and a choking gurgle crawled up from his throat.
But Merrill wasn't done yet. She kept her hand pressed to the ground, digging her fingers into the rough dirt. She closed her eyes and dug deep, falling into the familiar currents of dark magicks she had so often ridden before. The air seemed to tighten, thick with tension, and the torches flickered and guttered in their sconces on the wall as the shadows grew long.
She drew a small knife from her belt — too puny to be used in combat, but priceless in a situation like this. With the slow, measured movements of a seasoned master, she drew the blade across the palm of her hand. The blade cut deep, sending a sudden bolt of pain up her arm. Dark scarlet trails began to trickle down between her fingers. She closed her eyes and let out a shuddering gasp.
A chorus of sinister whispers spread through the deserted back alley as Merrill opened her eyes again. Their usual sparkling green was replaced with a wash of blood-red light.
"What… what are you doing?" Katari gasped and tried to pull himself free, to no avail. His eyes, once so full of malice and hate, were now brimming with fear as he clutched at the stone pillar that had struck him through. He writhed desperately, trying in vain to free himself.
"Protecting what I love," Merril replied, her voice low and menacing.
Tendrils of smoke-like magic sprouted from her blooded fingers and curled up and around the stone spear, coiling like scarlet snakes as they sought out the rivulets of blood bubbling from Katari's pierced torso. When they struck him, the hulking warrior arched his back and bellowed in agony. Merrill didn't move, pouring more mana into the spell. Qunari were hardy folk, and she had to be sure he was dead or it would spell doom for her and everyone she cared about.
She had turned to blood magic long ago as a matter of necessity, not out of any desire for greater power. But some things learned along the way were far from unhelpful. Like this spell: Hemorrhage, it was called, and for good reason. It corrupted a victim from within, turning their own blood into a viscous poison from which there was no escape.
"I didn't want this," she said as Katari slowly died before her glowing eyes. "But you forced my hand. I told you you wouldn't take Hawke away."
Even now, Katari's veins turned dark beneath his skin and his eyes filled with blood. He twitched, stiff as a board, as blood began to dribble from every orifice free to the open air: eyes, nose, mouth, and ears all began to spew corrupted red-brown. He let out a few more short gasps, desperate to suck down a single breath, before he went limp. His fingers slackened with a final sigh and he slumped forward over the spear through his gut and didn't move again.
Merrill let out a long breath and the light from her eyes blinked out as swiftly as it had started. The whispering died away and the torches flared back to life, casting flickering shadows over the macabre scene laid out before her; a mighty Qunari pinned like a bug in a collector's box and torn apart by the corruptive sway of blood magic.
But she didn't have time to linger and take in the horrific sight. Once sure Katari was well and truly slain, she scrambled to her feet and limped back to Hawke to roll the woman over onto her back. The human's face was caked with a film of both fresh and dried blood, her hair tangled and stuck to the mess by Katari's rough handling. Only now did Merrill's heart begin to pound; if they had gone through all this effort, all this pain, only for Marian to slip away now…
But there was her heartbeat — weak, but there. Merrill let out a loud sigh and fell back onto her rear, exhausted by her duel and the sudden wash of relief. She rubbed at her tired eyes and took a few deep breaths. The alleyway was suddenly, terribly silent, save for the labored wheezes of their combined breathing. She sat in the dirt for a few moments, watching as her bloodied fingers trembled before her watery, wavering vision.
Come on, da'len, she thought, willing herself to move. She clenched her red-drenched hands into fists. Come on. We aren't finished yet. She still needs you.
With a groan of effort, she clambered back to her feet. With great effort she pulled Hawke up and slung the woman's arm around her shoulders. They needed to get back to the others, needed to make it to the tower before—
She didn't make it far. Marian's heavier weight unbalanced them both and sent them collapsing into the dirt. Merrill cried out at the sudden pain as her knees scraped hard against the rough Darktown ground.
"No!" she cried, scrabbling in the dirt. "No, no… come on!"
She groaned as she fought her way back to her feet, hauling Hawke with her. She made it barely half a step before her knees buckled beneath her and she sprawled into the dirt once more. A wail tore itself from her throat now as she struggled to rise to her feet once more.
"We're so close!" she cried. "I can't… I can't…"
But her strength had finally failed her. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much will she threw into the motion, her body just couldn't handle any more. After the rigors of this night from hell, it had finally decided enough was enough, even so close to safety.
With a moan of effort and using a nearby clay pot as a handhold, she managed to pull herself up into a sitting position and drag Hawke's limp form close. She cradled Hawke's head in her lap, tears streaming down her face as she saw how pale the human's skin had gone. With trembling fingers that left bloody streaks in their wake, she brushed the messy hair from Hawke's face, gently rocking the unconscious woman back and forth.
"I-I'm sorry," she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry, ma vhenan. I can't go any further."
She hugged Marian close, sitting alone and abandoned in her deserted back alley while her lover died in her arms. She cradled her cheek against Marian's cold forehead, wanting nothing more than to stay with her until the end. And it was the end; she couldn't carry her and there was no way they could reach the tower in time with Hawke in the state she was in. It had been a fool's errand from the beginning. Merrill had just been too blind to see it.
"I can't do this without you," she whispered to her dying lover. "I thought I could. I thought I could fill your shoes and be the hero. Do what you do so effortlessly every day. But I'm not like you."
It was an old refrain, but one that was still so close to the forefront of Merrill's mind. Hawke was everything Merrill wanted to be: beautiful, charismatic, and so very powerful. But for all of Merrill's aspirations, for all her courage in the face of this endless terrible night, look what had happened. She'd failed. Marian was dying. Her friends were gone. She was so very alone, and her life was in ruins as surely as the city that burned around her.
Even now, through eyes that wavered with tears and the black haze of exhaustion, she saw the shadows at the far end of the alleyway ahead curve and bulge. Heavy footsteps crunched in the Darktown gravel and the air hissed across the bared blade of another Qunari battleaxe. Another set of horns emerged from the shadows into the light, and another blazing pair of silver eyes fixed on the two women lying helpless in the dirt ahead.
Merrill didn't scream. She couldn't, even if she'd wanted to. And deep down, she didn't. Because at least she had this moment. She had Marian in her arms one last time, her weight a comfort even when all else reeked of tragedy. Their story would end here together, at least, and they wouldn't be separated long before they were reunited within the Beyond.
No more pain, she thought with a hazy sense of acceptance. No more fear.
She stroked Hawke's scarred cheek as the Qunari lumbered closer. He towered over the two like a dragon looming over its hapless prey and she could feel the heat radiating off his body in pulsing waves. She could see the hate in the horned behemoth's eyes but no longer had the strength to care. All she wanted was for this night to end. One way or another.
The Qunari promised to do just that. His bulging muscles curled and warped beneath painted gray skin as he hefted his battle axe, preparing to bring it down on his helpless victims. Merrill looked away, determined to pass from this life looking into the face of the woman she loved more than anything else in the world. More than life itself.
Please, she prayed. Please just don't let it hurt.
There was a ringing of descending steel and a ripping, rending noise as a heavy blade tore deep through flesh.
Merrill didn't feel any pain. She… didn't feel much of anything, really. The world didn't go black. All that she saw was a thick spray of hot blood patter against the ground and the tops of her bare and broken feet. A spray aimed toward her.
After a confused moment she looked up to find a huge bloodstained sword speared through the Qunari's burly chest. The Qunari had gone stiff, eyes rolled back in his horned head. His battle axe clanged to the ground at Merrill's feet, kicking up a thick cloud of dust as it landed. Its owner followed a second later with a crash that seemed to shake the world and helped shock Merrill out of her stunned reverie.
She watched as the huge Qunari collapsed to his knees, freed from the sword that had speared him through. He let out a pained groan, but a second later the sword flashed out from the darkness again and took his head off at the shoulders in a single swift slash. His body twitched a moment, as if surprised, then pitched sideways into the dirt with all the force and power of a falling tree.
Through the haze behind the gray-skinned corpse emerged a woman, garbed in heavy plate armor drenched in blood and hefting a sword almost as big as she was tall. She was breathing hard, her stark white-blond hair streaming out from beneath a sharp-edged crown of gold. This strange woman, Merrill's savior, straightened to an impressively tall height with a low breath. Her greatsword hummed in the air as she brought it over her shoulder and sheathed it on her back with the smooth, practiced motion of a veteran warrior. Her eyes shone through the darkness as clear and bright as the midday sky, and they fell on Merrill and Hawke lying in the dirt with an intensity that sent a shiver up the young elf's spine.
"At last," the woman said, her voice smooth and strong and commanding even when used in such hushed tones. "The search comes to an end."
She reached out a hand but Merrill, still lost in a haze of exhaustion, cried out and threw herself around Hawke, determined to put herself between any threat to Marian's safety. A terrified whimper tore itself from her throat.
Two more figures came barreling out of the dark on either side of the woman: one, an elderly elf with graying hair and expensive-looking robes, while the other was a familiar dark-haired man in Templar armor.
"Merrill!" the man cried, skidding to his knees in the dirt next to her. She recognized his voice and looked up through tearful eyes.
"C-Carver?" she whispered. "Is it really you?"
"It is, Merrill," he said, putting a hand over hers. He gestured to Marian. "We're here to help. You have to let her go."
Over his shoulder, Merrill saw the tall woman barking orders to more subordinates further down the alley. At her command, a cadre of Templars escorted several cloaked figures through the streets.
"Merrill," Carver pressed. "You have to let her go so we can get her to the Tower. These men and women are from the Circle. They're here to get Marian to safety."
The robed figures drew closer and Merrill saw they were mages, and a very unhappy-looking Anders was marching with them. They quickly took stock of the situation and, once she loosed her death grip on Marian's shoulders, used their magic to gently lift the injured human woman into the air.
"Get her to the tower immediately," Anders said, his face looking more exhausted than ever before. The events of the night seemed to have aged him by several years, and he had to lean heavily on his staff just to remain upright. Carver was barely in better shape.
"Then…" Merrill could barely get the words out. "Then it's over? We're safe?"
Carver nodded solemnly. "We're safe."
Marian should have known their escape wouldn't be easy. She should have known the Templars would not let them go without a fight. But she was so relieved at her father's safe return, she wasn't thinking as clearly as she should have.
So she didn't notice how unnaturally empty the streets had become. She didn't notice the barking orders of the Templars, the screams of terrified cityfolk, and the barking of alley dogs, had all faded away. She didn't notice any of the usual warning signs that something was very, very wrong.
Her father, on the other hand, was not so preoccupied. As they rounded a corner, he brought their motley group to a halt with an outstretched hand. His pale eyes darted across the empty path ahead. A moment later, it proved to be anything but.
Lok came screaming down from above, longsword in hand, like an avenging angel in silver-studded armor. That shimmering blade would have carved Leandra in two, but it ricocheted off a scintillating yellow energy field.
Lok straightened with a smirk, dragging his sword along the protective bubble Malcolm had raised within the blink of an eye. The blade's path screeched against the magic barrier, scattering multicolored sparks into the smoky air.
The Seeker had clearly taken some hits in his duel with the Hawke patriarch. His armor was dotted with small scorch marks and there was a darkening bruise over one eye. His silky black hair was disheveled and wild about his head. But where Malcolm looked exhausted, wounded, and on the brink of collapse, Lok still had the fire of gleeful malice burning in those dead green eyes.
"Clever," he drawled. "And quick. I see now I have underestimated you for the last time, Ser Hawke."
Lok paced back and forth before them, an impatient predator eager to sink his teeth into his prey. Templars, dark and stoic, seemed to melt from the shadows all around, encircling the Hawkes with silvered weapons at the ready. They were trapped by the knights. Nowhere to go.
Malcolm's eyes blazed with clear hatred. His arms quivered with the exertion of maintaining the shield, but he looked as if he would endure out of pure stubbornness if nothing else. Marian kept tight to his side, glaring out at the Seeker with every bit of malice he showed toward them.
Lok chuckled and stepped back, spreading his arms as South Reach burned around him. "Come now, my friends! Can we not finally put an end to these foolish games? This village is in ruins, its people scattered to the wind. My Templars move in around you, eager for Hawke blood."
He slowly leveled his sword at them, narrowing his snake-like eyes. "Surrender, and I promise your deaths will be quick. You have earned that much respect from me."
Marian snarled. "Let us go and I'll give you the same courtesy."
"Ah, my young friend." Lok's voice was a low purr. "You have already tasted Templar steel once before. You know the pain that awaits if you decide to play games with me."
He smeared his gloved fingers down the side of his face, painting a trail of ash and mud down his cheek in a sick parody of Marian's scar. Marian moved towards the man, murder in her eyes, but was held back by her mother's pleading hands at her shoulders.
Lok cackled and swung his weapon in lazy arcs through the air. "In the end, none of it matters. By surrender or by sword, you will submit to me."
He raised his fist. "Templars! I believe it is time for a cleansing!"
Malcolm shouted something loud and terrified and surged toward the Seeker. But by then it was too late: the assembled Templars to a man knelt and dug their weapons into the muck of the ground, bowing their heads in silent prayer.
Marian was besieged by a strange, sucking sensation. Not physical, but something almost spiritual. It was as if all the color was being drained from the world, as if a sun hidden deep inside her had been eclipsed, robbing her of its warmth. Her mana was being taken from her, stolen by the Templars and their own secretive powers.
She was being cleansed.
As one, the Templars' weapons pulsed silver and Malcolm's protective field shattered like a pane of glass. Its magic sizzled away into the smoke and the mage staggered , pale and gasping. Marian moved forward to catch him mid-stumble, but the Templar's weapons flared again and she felt the cleansing like a lash between her shoulder blades. She twisted and staggered herself, the breath driven from her lungs. Behind her, Bethany screamed her little girl's scream and collapsed into her mother's terrified arms.
With the protective bubble dispelled, Lok casually stepped forward and clenched his fist. Malcolm sprawled into the mud with a cry, his body was crackling with blue-white sparks of light. That same light poured from Lok's palm, the same light he'd used to imprison Marian at the cottage.
"Please!"Leandra begged. Carver wailed as he clung to her skirts, Bethany pale and gasping for breath between them. "Please, we've done you no harm! We'll disappear into the West! You'll never see us again!"
The Seeker ignored her and stared dispassionately down at Malcolm, curling his fingers and watching his captive scream and squirm in the dirt. A small smile tugged at his thin, pale lips. Marian tried to step forward, but that shimmer from the Templars came again and she sprawled into the dirt next to her father. She tried to breathe, tried to do anything except lie there as everything that made her special was sucked away into nothingness.
"Hmm…" Lok cocked his head and looked between the two mages. "Who dies first? Do I slay the father before the eyes of his protege?" The point of his sword drifted over Marian's neck. "Or do I bleed out the mage-spawn and let her father know the true depths of his folly?"
"C-curse you, Lok," Malcolm spat. "And curse your Maker!"
"Malcolm, no!" Leandra cried. "Don't-"
"Don't blaspheme." Lok's armored boot caught Malcolm in the jaw with a crack and Leandra let out a plaintive moan. "Let us not forget, my old friend, that we are here only because of your misguided bid for freedom. I am only returning one of our own to the bosom of the flock."
Malcolm was fighting so hard to free himself from the Templar's cleansing that his entire body was shaking. "O-over my dead body."
Lok sucked in a breath with a smile. "My thoughts exactly."
He stepped over Malcolm, grabbed a handful of his long sandy hair, and tugged his head back to hiss in his ear. "But perhaps I have a better idea in mind. Perhaps I take you all back to Kinloch Hold on Lake Calenhad. Give your beautiful daughters an intimate tour of the tower."
He snapped Malcolm's head back even further with a snarl. "And perhaps their first day of education within the Circle will be to watch their criminal father receive the Mark of Tranquility he so fiercely deserves."
He threw the man into the dirt again and straightened, brushing mud from his armor with a sigh. "But as satisfying as such a sight may be…" He shrugged. "Too much effort, I think."
He swung his sword up in a sturdy two handed grasp. The sickly red-orange light glinted off its polished blade, shining with bloody light. Marian struggled against the invisible bonds constricting her chest. She had to do something, anything, before that blade came down and shattered what little was left of the life she had known
She screwed her eyes shut, drawing deep within herself, deep into the places her father had told her never to delve. It was too dangerous to pull from so far within, he'd cautioned, and it would be sure to draw unwanted attention.
But then, unwanted attention was exactly what she wanted right now.
The world seemed to slow to a crawl. She could see every speck of dirt spattering Lok's dark armor, every labored rise and fall of her father's chest, every tear streaking her terrified sister's face. She felt her brother's despair, her mother's blind terror, the cold detachment of the assembled Templars. She felt a sickly sensation in her gut as Lok's dark satisfaction swept over her.
She pulled deeper, deeper than she had ever dared. Lyrium was more than just a magical crystal. It was a direct link to the powers of the Fade, powers that flowed through her blood, her very soul. It may be suppressed by the Templars and their own twisted brand of magic, but they could never take that power from her. Not even here.
Sometimes she imagined magic like music, a lilting chorus that drifted between and into all things. Some couldn't hear it, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. The Templars could suppress it and claim to "cleanse" it, but it was still there.
She could hear it even now, that alluring melody that she had so long believed to be a burden and a curse. She heard it and for the first time in her life she refused to hide from it.
Lok's sword came down with the vengeful fury of an executioner's axe. Leandra screamed. Thunder split the storm clouds above. Marian squeezed her eyes shut and unleashed everything she had been holding in: her pain, her grief, her fury and shame, all collected into a hammer that shattered the Templar suppression field that held her in its grip.
The blade froze, quivering in the air, a finger-span above Malcolm's head.
Lok grunted, surprised, and attempted to wrench his weapon free from the strange invisible force holding it fast. The blade didn't budge, and he couldn't wrench his hand from the hilt. His gaunt face twisted up with surprise and confusion.
Marian Hawke slowly clambered to her feet, her own features a perfect image of vengeful retribution. Her silver eyes were consumed with blue smoke that curled and wafted about her bloodied face. Lightning crackled along her fingers, crawling up her palms and snaking around her arms. The sky above her rumbled with sympathetic rage.
"At long last," Lok hissed, still straining and bound to his floating sword. "The fledgeling raptor finally shows her talons."
The corner of Marian's mouth twitched. A detonation of pure white blinded them all and an invisible whirlwind knocked the assembled Templars off their feet. All of them. The Seeker was thrown into the air, smashing into the rough-hewn log wall of a peasant hut behind him. He crumpled to the ground with a moan, his sword clattering down next to him.
Marian marched toward him, pausing only to bend and scoop a fallen broom into her hand. She snapped the head from the handle over her knee - as good a staff as any in this most desperate hour. Its weight was familiar and comforting in her palm, and she traced its ragged wooden edge through the air with bloody anticipation.
"No more," she hissed. "This ends now."
Lok rose to his hands and knees, coughing up a mouthful of blood. When he looked up, there was a new look in his eyes. None of the snide superiority he'd shown before, or the cold malice when he'd cornered her in the family cabin. Now it was a steely look of determination. They both knew the games were done.
"No more," he agreed, using his sword to heft himself back to his feet. He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. His bloodied glove raised and motioned for his Templars to stand down. There was a ripple of confusion and discontent among the knights, but they obeyed. Their weapons lowered and they stepped back into the shadows once more.
"No more," Lok said again. His sword came up into a strong two-handed grip. "Just us two now. The Hawk and the Viper."
Marian nodded, eyes still swirling with blue-white magical discharge. Fat drops of rain began to patter down around them. The two circled each other, stepping slowly, each measuring the other.
Marian moved first, darting forward and slashing with her staff. Lok parried the strike and knocked the weapon away, moving in for a two-handed overhead blow that would cleave her head in two. Marian easily sidestepped it, letting his sword slam down into the mud, and stabbed for his ribs. He outmaneuvered her as well, falling back a few steps to bring her into focus again.
The girl clenched a fist. Mud bubbled up around Lok's boots and hardened there, pinning him. Marian charged, swinging for his throat, but he threw himself onto his back to dodge the blow. The caked mud holding his boots cracked and he back-rolled onto his feet once more, shaking the hair from his face.
"Ahh, I find this invigorating," he said with a savage snarl. Any trace of his previous sick humor was gone. The sky had opened up by now, soaking the combatants and their battlefield in a sheet of rain. "Too long have I felt trapped within the confines of a priest's duties."
"I'll make sure you never return to them," Marian snarled. Her staff spun in her hands, cutting through the rain. The water gathered up around it, drawn to the tug of her magic in her fingers. She sent a bolt of magic into the massed rain and hurled a crackling ball of lightning-charged water at her adversary. It gathered more rain as it flew, growing and growing, but he easily slashed through it and charged her. She dodged his first strike, but he pivoted at the waist and smashed the hard hilt of his sword into her nose. She felt it crack and she staggered back, blinded by the pain.
A silver-studded fist caught her in the temple and she slammed hard into the muck with sparks of white dancing in her vision. The light from her eyes vanished, the magical smoke puffing away into the stormy air. She distantly heard her mother sobbing, heard her father struggling for breath as he lay in the mud just behind her. Lok paced back and forth just out of reach, swinging his sword lazily through the rain.
"Up," he urged. "Up, up! Our dance is not yet done."
Marian struggled to rise to her feet, feeling blood pouring from her nose. She wiped it away, managing only to streak a scarlet swathe across her face. She glared at the Seeker, hate pouring from her eyes as clearly as magic had only moments before. It only took a moment to gather her strength, then she ran for him before he could strike again, whirling her staff with a furious battle cry.
Lightning sliced the sky apart as their blades clashed. Again and again they traded blows, Chantry steel thudding against the timeworn handle of a broken broomstick. Marian bled from long slashes of Lok's blade, while his own armor was pierced by magically-infused stabs from her staff. Lok slashed for the wooden shaft, hoping to cleave it in two, but Marian caught his sword. She pivoted on her back foot, swinging it off to the side and stabbing for his gut. He twisted and sharp end of her staff only glanced off his armor, but it did force him back a few steps. Marian pressed the advantage, leaping into the air and slashing down with all her might. The Seeker knocked her weapon aside, backpedaling out of her reach once more.
He was the first to charge now, green eyes blazing as he slashed with both hands. His sword sizzled through the rain to slam hard against the magic protecting her forearm. She struggled against him, arm raised as if holding an invisible shield. His pale face was wild with bloodlust as he strained back, slowly forcing her to her knees with his superior weight and strength.
Marian's face pulled into a grimace. Lok was looming over her, forcing her into submission through sheer power alone. She tried to summon up some new spell, but all her will was caught up in maintaining the shield about her arm. She let out a cry, squeezing her eyes shut as she fought back against his power.
Then he backed off. The pressure disappeared and she fell forward into the mud, overwhelmed and exhausted.
That's when he pulled his fingers into claws once more and she realized he'd been playing with her all along. The scathing needle-pricks of his suppressive magic speared her again and she screamed, scrabbling in the mud as his palm flared with magic.
"Marian!" her father tried to crawl for her, but he doubled over, coughing and gasping for breath. He looked weaker and sicker than ever, laboring for the slightest movement.
Marian screamed, feeling the claws of the Seeker's power digging deeper and deeper. They weren't for show this time, promising no reprieve until her will was truly broken. Lok towered above her, only now breaking into a sneering grin. Victory was quite literally within his grasp.
"You disappoint me, little Hawke," he laughed. "Your father has told me such tales of how you share my love of fire!"
He raised his sword into the rain and lightning cracked overhead. The blaze of heavenly flame seemed to catch upon the blade, and within the blink of an eye his sword roared with blue-white fire. The sight drew a gasp from all onlookers, Templars and Hawkes alike. Lok cackled into the storm and swung the blade down to pierce Hawke's back. But in the split second he'd looked away she had rolled from his grasp and staggered back to her feet again.
She clenched her hands into fists and sparks flickered to life between her fingers. She fed them, pouring more magic into the embers until they came screaming to life. Angry red-orange flame consumed her arms to the shoulders, burning away her robes and licking at the bared skin beneath. Lok saw this and his grin widened.
Get close, she thought, narrowing her eyes. Keep his hands busy. He can't use his suppressive powers when I'm pressing him like that. Lock his hands up, and he's just another Templar.
Just another Templar.
She charged with a scream, boots churning the mud. He threw out a hand that pulsed with light, but this time Marian blew through the wave of needle-pricks and threw her shoulder into his chest. The blow caught him off guard and he staggered back, off-balance and unable to maintain the spell. She threw her staff up and knocked his weapon to the side, driving her head into his face with a crack. He fell backwards with a grunt and she pressed the advantage.
Both arms outstretched, she threw a gout of fire at her enemy. It came roaring out from between her palms like a living thing, clawing its way through the rain toward him. He slashed with his blue-white sword, hitting her with a wave of magic of his own that sliced through her torrent and reduced it to smoldering ashes in her palms.
She didn't relent. Within the blink of an eye she was back in his face, stabbing with her staff and catching him just under the ribs; she felt the blade sink true with a sickly squelch of pierced flesh. She drove him back three steps, slamming him against the wall of a hut.
"How does it feel?" she hissed in his ear as he groaned with pain. She sunk her blade deeper, feeling his hot blood coat her fingers. "How does it feel, knowing my magic outclasses all your precious Chantry training?"
"I don't…" Lok coughed, blood speckling his lips. "I don't need magic. I have faith."
He looked her in the eyes then and those dead green pools flared with something she had never seen before. The next second she was thrown back, head over heels, and slammed into a line of stacked firewood. Her vision blurred and darkened, swimming and fading as exhaustion and pain crowded her senses. Through her fading sight she saw Lok pull the staff from his gut and stride toward her.
He had wings.
Great golden wings of light stretched behind his back, shimmering in the rain. Their flickering illumination coupled with the flames from the town houses and the blaze of his sword to give him the look of an angel come to earth.
"How…" Marian gasped, clutching her chest. "How…?"
"I am a Man of the Chantry," Lok said, his voice unclouded by exertion. He still bled from many wounds, but he seemed beyond the touch of pain. "A Seeker of Faith! My faith is my weapon as surely as my sword. And I converse with powers you fucking apostates will never comprehend!"
Those wings spread and Lok charged, slamming an armored knee into Marian's gut and doubling her over. He seemed as powerful as three men now, a single blow enough to splinter bone. He grabbed her hair and tugged her head back, driving his fist into her face with the strength of a charging bull. Then he hit her again. And again.
Distantly, she heard her mother scream something incomprehensible. Then a new shout drowned her out, tiny but furious nonetheless. Through streaming eyes she saw a short, dark form crash against Lok's towering bulk.
Carver Hawke shouted and punched with all his childlike might. "Leave her alone!" he cried, throwing little fists into Lok's gut. The knight didn't even flinch. "I'll kill you!"
Lok backhanded him into the mud and the boy didn't rise again. Somewhere Marian couldn't see, her mother wailed.
"I grow tired of this hunt." A sigh from Lok. "Time to bring it to a well-deserved end, I think."
Dragging her by the hair, Lok returned Marian to what remained of her huddled family: Leandra, still clutching a wheezing and pale Bethany. Carver, lying sprawled and unmoving in the filth. Malcolm, on his hands and knees and fighting for every choked breath.
She could find no energy to fight any more. She was spent. Every last shred of mana was gone, leaving her hollow and shattered inside.
"Look to your eldest, Malcolm," Lok said. His golden wings flared. "Look to her and see the price of your defiance."
He yanked her head back, exposing her throat. Heat licked her skin as his flaming sword drew across her flesh. She felt darkness crowd in around her. Everything seemed so far away. Mother was weeping, Papa was choking, Bethany and Carver were both quiet and still - unconscious at best. Her own breath seemed to desert her, heart hammering against her throat. Caught in the jaws of the wolf with viper's eyes, she knew her fight was well and truly done.
Her silver eyes met her father's, and I'm sorry, was all she could muster the energy to think.
Those are not fitting final words for a dragon.
Suddenly, her mind wasn't in the village anymore. It was far from this place of blood and tears and fire. There were trees all around, dark and looming and comforting as they stretched above. It was only a split-second, a breath between heartbeats, but she felt someone else in that dark place with her. Someone intimately familiar while at the same time wholly alien.
A soft voice in the back of her mind. Dark, gentle eyes. The old, whispered words, "And here I thought a dragon lurked behind those silver eyes."
A dragon does not apologize for the destruction it breathes to life.
A dragon burns.
A dragon will burn entire forests to protect what is hers.
A dragon does not wait for death to claim her.
A dragon destroys.
A dragon can destroy any who dare to challenge her power.
A dragon. You are a dragon.
Now burn!
Her eyes snapped open into the smoke-tainted rain and she felt power flood through her body like never before. The world burned white as magic surged inside her once again, pouring from her eyes in a flash of aquamarine. The voice was gone. That dark, wooded place was gone. The soothing yet commanding presence she'd known so briefly, so long ago, was gone.
It didn't matter. She needed no more encouragement.
She screamed. She roared. The fire billowed to life around her again. But this time it consumed her whole body, racing up her arms and across her chest, down her throat and out her nostrils. She breathed her own fire, letting it rage and grow and burn everything in its path. Lok drew back, cursing as he watched the steel of his sword droop and patter to the mud in red-hot molten drops.
Marian turned, shoulders hunched as flame poured from her body, from her very soul. She stood amidst an inferno, a vengeful demon to combat a faith-guarded angel. Her hand stretched out and her staff leaped into her palm once more, charged with lyrium-infused coils of glowing sparks.
"What…" Lok's eyes were wide and confused. He clutched at the twisted, melted hilt of his once-proud sword. "What is this new devilry?"
"Dragonfire." Marian's voice was twisted and deformed by the surge of power coursing through her. Lok reached out a hand to suppress this new outpouring of apostate blasphemy. His fingers flashed with sparks of oppressive energy.
Marian thrust her staff forward and blew his arm off at the elbow.
Lok screamed for real now, clutching at the seared, scorched stump of his arm. The great golden wings that shimmered behind him blinked out like a snuffed torch. He staggered away, his pristine armor marred with a sudden coating of ash and blood. He was no longer an awe-inspiring angel but a man. Just a frail, fallible, flammable man.
"W-what are you waiting for?!" Lok demanded, his eyes staring past her to the assembled Templars. The knights started, as if only now realizing they were more than observers. They might as well have stayed put; a single twitch of Marian's eyebrow conjured an encircling ring of fire that cut the assembled mage-hunters off. It was only Lok and the Hawkes within, with Marian standing between the two.
The dragonfire flashed in Marian's eyes. "On your knees, Holy Man."
The Seeker looked up at her with a wild, terrified look. He took a half-step back. She thrust the staff forward again and vaporized his legs from the knees down. He landed in the mud with a crash of armor and a wail. She watched dispassionately as he scrabbled in the mud, managing only to smear his once-fearsome armor with filth.
Marian loomed over him now, staring down into the dirt at this man who had shattered everything she once held dear. Her life in South Reach. Her love for Brooke. Her family.
Dragons burn.
She raised a clenched fist, drawing flame up about it like slithering serpents. She could hear Lok pleading, whimpering, too quiet to hear.
"Marian."
That voice she did hear, and it instantly stayed her hand. She looked around to see her father only a pace away. He was on his knees. His hair was plastered to his head with rain and mud, beard tangled and caked with blood from his coughing fit. His gentle silver eyes, so quick to sparkle with inner laughter, were full of fear.
Not fear of her. Fear for her.
"Marian," he said again. His voice was hoarse, twisted with exertion and sickness. "Marian, this isn't you. There has been enough death today."
She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Are you serious? After everything he's done?!" She looked down at Lok, cowering at her feet. "He deserves to die!"
"He does." Malcolm struggled to his feet, clutching at his ribs and suppressing another fit of coughing. "But if he dies here, the Chantry will only send another. We have lost so much, and they will only gain a martyr."
"But he…" Marian's furious fire faltered, threatened to spill over into tears. "After all this?!"
She gestured to the burning village around them, but they both knew she meant more than the physical destruction. Everything was gone: her home, her security, her lover, her future. Lok had taken everything from her.
"Sparrowhawk," Malcolm took a short, shaky step forward. "This isn't you. I know you. You are no executioner."
She looked down at the Seeker again, listened to his quiet sobs of pain and terror, and finally heard what he'd been repeating over and over.
"I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade," he was whispering into the mud. "For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light.
Marian let out a shuddering breath and in a small voice, she finished, "And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."
Lok gasped and looked up at her; a trembling, wide-eyed, farce of his former ferocity. She stared down at him and felt the heat of her conjured fire lick against her skin. She felt the worn-smooth wood of her makeshift staff in her hand. She heard the shouting of the Templars on the other side of the fire, desperately trying to break through.
For so long, she had hidden from what she was. She had kept her magic buried deep down like some shameful thing, only dredging it up at her father's request. She remembered dreaming of far-off places as a child, of using her magic to fly away from her boring life and into a world of adventure. But then those dreams were shattered by the ironclad reality of the Templars and their neverending hunt for people like her.
No more hiding, she thought. No more pretending to be someone I'm not. I lost Brooke because of it. I won't lose anyone else.
"You're right," she murmured to no one in particular. "I'm not an executioner."
She plunged the sharpened stake of her staff squarely between Lok's shoulder blades. He arched up with a wailing scream. Hawke's face twisted into a sneer and she looked to her father. Her eyes blazed with fire.
I'm a dragon.
Then all the heat and rage and flame poured from her again, consuming Lok in a jerking, screaming ball of hellfire. She kept him pinned there like an insect as he shrieked and clawed at the mud, weeping for his Maker to save him. After a few moments, she twisted the blade with a crunch and his sniveling prayers for mercy were brutally cut short. The only sound left was the crackling of the fire and the sizzle of burning flesh.
So much for faith. It burned as bright as everything else.
She tugged the blade of her staff free and turned back to her father. She expected to see disappointment in his eyes, maybe even rage. But the expression on his face was thoroughly unreadable.
Then Hawke saw no more. The staff dropped from her hands and she pitched sideways into the mud.
There was a rough laugh from the dark trees behind as Saidavel watched South Reach burn.
"A dragon indeed," said that smug, scratchy voice. "Much more and I'd be able to feel the heat all the way back in my hut! Ha ha!"
"She has taken her first steps." Saidavel's lips pressed into a thin line. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared out across the plain towards the burning village. "Important ones. Steps that will lead her to the woman she needs to be."
"The woman we need her to be," her companion corrected. "This is about more than just one teenage girl."
"Indeed," the elf agreed. She repeated words she'd heard many times over many years, but only now in such a way that made sense to her. "It is only when we fall that we learn whether we can fly."
"So sure, are you?" A soft chuckle. "She still has a long road to travel yet."
Saidavel's sharp elven eyes picked out a lone wagon cart fleeing the city limits, horses whipped into a froth as they charged across the plain. Even from such a remove, she could feel the warmth of the girl's spirit. It was dimmed and gutted by exhaustion and grief, but it was there. And her fire burned still.
"She does," she agreed. "One great hurdle is done, yet another begins."
She finally turned to face her companion. Yellow eyes stared out at her from the darkness, shining with equal parts malice and mirth. Those eyes sent a shiver down her spine even as they comforted with the promise of boundless wisdom she could only hope to mimic in her own all-too-limited way. She folded her arms across her chest and said, "My time in this place is almost done. I must move on to the next part of my own journey."
"As all things must," that rough voice hissed from the shadows. Yet there was a note of sympathy within those gravelly tones. "We may nudge history this way or that through the ages, but in the end we all dance to the same sad tune."
"Please," Saidavel said. Her voice took on the faintest edge of desperation. "The world we know is about to change so violently. Grant me one small request?"
Those yellow eyes were unreadable. "Ask."
"Watch her when I cannot," she said. "Guide her to those places I cannot reach. Ensure she lives? At least until she is strong enough to be the woman she… we need her to be."
The eyes in the dark stared at her for a long time, and for a moment Saidavel thought she had overstepped and asked assistance of someone with no interest in giving it. But then the sharp look in those golden eyes softened and they closed as their owner bowed her head.
"This I can do," her companion purred. "After all, our young apostate friend is not the only dragon known to these parts."
"I…" Saidavel bit back something weak and emotional. Instead, she bowed her head. "Thank you, asha'bellanar."
"I cannot pretend to understand your fascination for the girl," the witch said, "but I will watch her. At least until my own curiosity is sated."
A wrinkled hand rested on her shoulder, strangely comforting even as she felt the courses of ancient and dangerous magics running beneath it. Those yellow eyes looked out to the plain now, narrowing as they took in the sight of the fleeing cart and the exhausted family tucked away into it. A thoughtful expression crossed the old woman's face, and she murmured almost to herself.
"This world is indeed changing, my old friend. And we will all have our parts to play before the music finally ceases."
Far away, tucked into the bundled rear of a rumbling hay cart flying down the western road, Marian Hawke slept and dreamed of dragons.
Author's Note: Apologies yet again for the long delay in updating this story. I could go on and on with various excuses, but I feel they're ultimately unnecessary. I can only promise that I will do all I can to update my in-progress tales more regularly, or at the very least provide more transparency on when or why stories will be delayed in the future.
Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story. I hope you enjoyed this rather energetic finale. One more epilogue chapter and it will be time to say goodbye to Hawke and Co, but only for now.