Prologue
If there is one certainty in life, it is this: everyone's moment of truth comes sooner or later. And it is always faced alone.
And here it was.
The Blackmarsh was as silent as death, save Anders' own struggles and the mad little mob of Genlocks. Honestly, he thought to himself, these little bastards have found me so unaware of their presence, that it was as if they caught me with my smallclothes around my ankles.
Anders cast about for someone – anyone! – that could assist him. He could handle anything the remnants of the Blight could throw at him, but as of very late, things had gotten decidedly dicey. The Darkspawn had mobbed around the nearly-spent mage. Gasping in terror, he realized he was alone in this rotting bog. His friends were either dead, or had fled.
"Damn it all," Anders said, sotto voce. A Hurlock, decorated with filthy, decaying trophies from its kills and a blood-caked horned helmet, descended on the misfortunate mage. The blasted thing led a crowd of Genlock grunts; all of the ungodly things were intent on unzipping Anders' guts and shredding the rest of his body into strip-steak.
They were fast, he'd give them that. One second, they were entering the glade, and the next second they were on him – biting, rending, ripping at his pale flesh with foul claws and broken teeth and serrated, diamond-encrusted weapons. Two chittering Genlocks grabbed Anders' arms, and yanked him – bellowing obscenities and spitting more venom than a Giant Spider – to the ground. His staff dropped from his numbing fingers, and was kicked unceremoniously to the far side of the glen. The Hurlock leader raised his nicked axe above his head, so as to split Anders' head in two.
Anders continued to shriek vulgarisms, even as he brought one leg up and kicked the Hurlock in the belly. The Hurlock doubled over, whoofing air out of its lungs. It staggered away, out of the clearing. Anders scrambled to his feet, bleeding from a dozen lacerations and bite wounds. The Genlocks milled about...without a leader, their focus faltered. One tiny Genlock found its courage first, and bit Anders, high on one hip.
This bit of bravado was enough to spur the other members of the Horde into attacking Anders again. They swarmed him, waving their weapons and baring their teeth at him. Anders, cursing his poor luck – and quite tired of the attention, really – squeezed his eyes shut, and thrust his arms straight out from his shoulders.
"PISS OFF!" he howled. The dozen or so Genlocks that milled about Anders were violently thrust away from him. The two or three that dropped dead from the shock to their systems were the lucky ones. The rest stood or lay stunned, and were annihilated by the remainder of Anders' magical reserves.
He raised his arms high above his head. The air in the bog chilled, freezing the very water particles in the aether. "Bit of a nip in the air...eh, fellas?" said Anders, as he wove the spell out of the last of his mana stores. The remaining living Genlocks froze solid...grisly ice sculptures chiseled by an impotent, hateful Being.
Anders nodded once to himself. He hobbled across the copse to retrieve Lamppost-in-Winter, his staff. He bent his knees slightly and scooped up the Lamppost, when his knees knocked together. Anders' legs collapsed under his own body weight, and he crumpled to the sodden earth.
On any other day, Anders would have found the floor of this particular bog to be revolting at best. Now, as he lay half-submerged in a dirty Blackmarsh mud-puddle, he found his latest predicament to be almost comfortable compared to what he had just endured. He could not raise his head, nor could he move his arms or legs. He was spent.
"Erm...help," he said in a wavering voice to no one in particular. What was meant to be a sarcastic drawl came out as a pained whisper. It terrified Anders, that sound, so he closed his eyes and began to focus himself. He took a deep breath, held it, released it.
As he slowly gathered his energy and wits about himself, his head filled with an inhuman gabbling noise. Eyes widening, he sobbed in terror. Whatever happened to the small horde of Genlocks made little difference, now. The Hurlock he sent staggering out of the tiny Blackmarsh glen was back...and if Anders' Grey Warden survival-senses were as sharp as Leonie told him they would become, he sensed the Hurlock wasn't alone.
"Maker. Maker help me," he said. Anders had no idea how he could find the strength to make it to his feet...but find it, he did. He cradled his staff to his chest, intent to make his last stand count.
The Hurlock bellowed mindlessly at Anders; Anders made an obscene gesture at the Hurlock and sneered at it. "Come on, then," he said to the Hurlock. "Is that all you can do, my lad? Yell at me?" The Hurlock cocked his head at Anders. It chuckled; a horrid, grinding noise that held very little semblance to real laughter. It continued to laugh at Anders, even after Anders' smirk had slid from his chops. It unnerved Anders, made his hair try to stand on end.
He gesticulated at the Hurlock wildly with his staff. "Come on, you vomitus mass! Stop wasting my time!"
For a moment, it seemed like the Hurlock would run at him. At the last second, the creature laughed again, shook its head, and turned to leave the copse. Anders felt a wave of relief wash over him, just as something warbled in his ear.
He turned unsteadily on his heel; he saw nothing behind him, and nothing to his right or left. He spun around, and tried to pinpoint where the sound came from. His breath came in fits and spurts as panic rose in his chest like seawater.
Then the Shriek was on him.
The fiend knocked Anders to his back, tearing a swath from his robes. It squalled at Anders as the man scrambled unsteadily to his feet. The creature wobbled around Anders on its spindly legs, gauging its prey. Anders brought his staff up, hoping beyond hope that it would be enough to deal with the Shriek.
Anders shook with exhaustion and deathly terror. He thought of Leonie again, and realized that he'd never see her face again...at least, not on this mortal coil. He felt a moment's regret for what could have been – hell, for what should have been – before he nodded once at the madly caterwauling Shriek.
"Come on, then," he said to the Darkspawn, as he hefted his staff. "Let's do this."
And here it was.
The Blackmarsh was as silent as death, save Anders' own struggles and the mad little mob of Genlocks. Honestly, he thought to himself, these little bastards have found me so unaware of their presence, that it was as if they caught me with my smallclothes around my ankles.
Anders cast about for someone – anyone! – that could assist him. He could handle anything the remnants of the Blight could throw at him, but as of very late, things had gotten decidedly dicey. The Darkspawn had mobbed around the nearly-spent mage. Gasping in terror, he realized he was alone in this rotting bog. His friends were either dead, or had fled.
"Damn it all," Anders said, sotto voce. A Hurlock, decorated with filthy, decaying trophies from its kills and a blood-caked horned helmet, descended on the misfortunate mage. The blasted thing led a crowd of Genlock grunts; all of the ungodly things were intent on unzipping Anders' guts and shredding the rest of his body into strip-steak.
They were fast, he'd give them that. One second, they were entering the glade, and the next second they were on him – biting, rending, ripping at his pale flesh with foul claws and broken teeth and serrated, diamond-encrusted weapons. Two chittering Genlocks grabbed Anders' arms, and yanked him – bellowing obscenities and spitting more venom than a Giant Spider – to the ground. His staff dropped from his numbing fingers, and was kicked unceremoniously to the far side of the glen. The Hurlock leader raised his nicked axe above his head, so as to split Anders' head in two.
Anders continued to shriek vulgarisms, even as he brought one leg up and kicked the Hurlock in the belly. The Hurlock doubled over, whoofing air out of its lungs. It staggered away, out of the clearing. Anders scrambled to his feet, bleeding from a dozen lacerations and bite wounds. The Genlocks milled about...without a leader, their focus faltered. One tiny Genlock found its courage first, and bit Anders, high on one hip.
This bit of bravado was enough to spur the other members of the Horde into attacking Anders again. They swarmed him, waving their weapons and baring their teeth at him. Anders, cursing his poor luck – and quite tired of the attention, really – squeezed his eyes shut, and thrust his arms straight out from his shoulders.
"PISS OFF!" he howled. The dozen or so Genlocks that milled about Anders were violently thrust away from him. The two or three that dropped dead from the shock to their systems were the lucky ones. The rest stood or lay stunned, and were annihilated by the remainder of Anders' magical reserves.
He raised his arms high above his head. The air in the bog chilled, freezing the very water particles in the aether. "Bit of a nip in the air...eh, fellas?" said Anders, as he wove the spell out of the last of his mana stores. The remaining living Genlocks froze solid...grisly ice sculptures chiseled by an impotent, hateful Being.
Anders nodded once to himself. He hobbled across the copse to retrieve Lamppost-in-Winter, his staff. He bent his knees slightly and scooped up the Lamppost, when his knees knocked together. Anders' legs collapsed under his own body weight, and he crumpled to the sodden earth.
On any other day, Anders would have found the floor of this particular bog to be revolting at best. Now, as he lay half-submerged in a dirty Blackmarsh mud-puddle, he found his latest predicament to be almost comfortable compared to what he had just endured. He could not raise his head, nor could he move his arms or legs. He was spent.
"Erm...help," he said in a wavering voice to no one in particular. What was meant to be a sarcastic drawl came out as a pained whisper. It terrified Anders, that sound, so he closed his eyes and began to focus himself. He took a deep breath, held it, released it.
As he slowly gathered his energy and wits about himself, his head filled with an inhuman gabbling noise. Eyes widening, he sobbed in terror. Whatever happened to the small horde of Genlocks made little difference, now. The Hurlock he sent staggering out of the tiny Blackmarsh glen was back...and if Anders' Grey Warden survival-senses were as sharp as Leonie told him they would become, he sensed the Hurlock wasn't alone.
"Maker. Maker help me," he said. Anders had no idea how he could find the strength to make it to his feet...but find it, he did. He cradled his staff to his chest, intent to make his last stand count.
The Hurlock bellowed mindlessly at Anders; Anders made an obscene gesture at the Hurlock and sneered at it. "Come on, then," he said to the Hurlock. "Is that all you can do, my lad? Yell at me?" The Hurlock cocked his head at Anders. It chuckled; a horrid, grinding noise that held very little semblance to real laughter. It continued to laugh at Anders, even after Anders' smirk had slid from his chops. It unnerved Anders, made his hair try to stand on end.
He gesticulated at the Hurlock wildly with his staff. "Come on, you vomitus mass! Stop wasting my time!"
For a moment, it seemed like the Hurlock would run at him. At the last second, the creature laughed again, shook its head, and turned to leave the copse. Anders felt a wave of relief wash over him, just as something warbled in his ear.
He turned unsteadily on his heel; he saw nothing behind him, and nothing to his right or left. He spun around, and tried to pinpoint where the sound came from. His breath came in fits and spurts as panic rose in his chest like seawater.
Then the Shriek was on him.
The fiend knocked Anders to his back, tearing a swath from his robes. It squalled at Anders as the man scrambled unsteadily to his feet. The creature wobbled around Anders on its spindly legs, gauging its prey. Anders brought his staff up, hoping beyond hope that it would be enough to deal with the Shriek.
Anders shook with exhaustion and deathly terror. He thought of Leonie again, and realized that he'd never see her face again...at least, not on this mortal coil. He felt a moment's regret for what could have been – hell, for what should have been – before he nodded once at the madly caterwauling Shriek.
"Come on, then," he said to the Darkspawn, as he hefted his staff. "Let's do this."