The Last Warden

Chapter One

"What is it that you find so interesting, I wonder."

"What?"

"Your navel. Is it lined with gold? Perhaps it whistles a tune that only you can hear? You've certainly been staring at it long enough to—"

"—Shut up. And didn't you agree to be my silent guide?"

Morrigan stepped round him, blocking the path. "Indeed. But I did not agree to play nursemaid to a sniveling boy."

Slowly Alistair raised his eyes. "Go then."

Folding her arms, the witch snorted. "Whatever the reason, Mother thinks your cause an important one. I shall stay with you. For now."

"Great. I'm thrilled. Really."

It echoed up the path behind her, the howl rising just around the bend. There were other sounds too now, the clash of steel, the guttural cries of darkspawn. Alistair took off at a run. Better darkspawn than that glare.

Rounding the bend, he skidded to a stop. Already the creatures had fallen, half a dozen of them. And at their center it hunched, bending low to rip a stringy mouthful of flesh from the hurlock's throat. It raised its head, meeting his eyes with a rumbling growl.

"Maker's breath..."

Morrigan stopped behind him. "It's a dog."

"Not just a dog, a mabari. A war dog. There were some at Ostagar." Squatting, he held out a hand.

The mabari, though, crouched low, pulling back its still wet lips to snarl.

"Well, it's obviously feral. And rather fond of darkspawn flesh, it would seem. Leave it be."

"I wonder what happened to its master. Imprinting, they call it. A mabari will bind itself to one person and one person only, the person they are... meant to be with." He stood, shaking his head.

"Well, that's obviously not you. Let us be on with it."

The dog seemed to watch him as he backed away, deep, dark eyes unsettlingly still. It turned quick, disappearing back into the bushes.

Already the walls loomed ahead, ruined, broken. As they mounted the crumbling steps there, he shook his head. The town was no more than a few sagging wooden structures, far outnumbered by the tents and lean-tos ringing it round.

"Refugees... so many..."

"Quaint, isn't it?"

"Are you still talking? I swear I heard someone talking."

Snorting, the witch stepped in front of him again. "I was asked to bring you to Lothering and this I have done. Which begs the question: What now?"

"Now?"

"Yes. Your Grey Warden treaties, this army that you seek to raise. Where do we go from here?"

Alistair ran a hand through his hair. "I was thinking... Redcliff, I guess?"

"Oh, thinking. How novel."

"Arl Eamon will be there. He... well, he raised me. He'll know what to do."

"You mean he'll let you hide under his skirts"

"Shut up. How should I know what to do?"

"Because you are a Grey Warden. The very last, so they say." She smirked. "The hope of all Ferelden."

"Yes... well... I never wanted to be."

"And I'm sure the archdemon will be glad to hear it. 'Right then, I'll just pack up my Blight and go. Sorry for the misunderstanding.'"

Turning again toward the town, he glared over his shoulder. "You could learn to be a little nicer."

"And you could learn to be a lot of things. But wishing will not make it so."

There were crops here, planted just beyond the town, but they were withered and dry, the shriveled vines picked clean. This town couldn't support this many people. Already their arrival was marked, the watchful eyes of the harried guards, the hopeful stares of beggars. Alistair shuddered.

"Where to?"

"You would appear to be the leader."

He sighed. "There must be... an inn? News? Maybe a place to rest?"

"If you like."

They found the building easily enough, the crowd pressed close inside and out. But there would be no rooms here, no food to spare. Moving through the press, Alistair felt a hand fall heavy on his shoulder.

"Look here, boys. Weren't we just asking after a Grey Warden of this very description?"

He turned quick, hand going to his sword. "You're mistaken."

"Right. You don't look like much of a king killer. Doesn't matter, though."

"'King killer?'"

"S'right. I'm sure the townsfolk here would love to see some of that bounty on your head but let's just say Loghain was hoping we might deliver a more... personal touch."

"But the Wardens – we didn't. It was Loghain!"

Behind him, Morrigan snorted. "You're truly surprised?"

The man unsheathed his sword with a slithering hiss. "Traitorous words from a traitor's tongue."

"Gentlemen. There is no need for violence." The woman moved between them, slowly raising her bowed head. A Chantry sister. They wouldn't dare...

But still the man stepped forward. "Out of the way, sister. You protect these traitors, you'll get the same as them."

There was something of a grin as the woman straightened, hands going to her belt. Alistair barely had time to register the blades tucked at her back before she ducked between two of the men. His own sword was drawn as he heard Morrigan curse, the air crystallizing round the limbs of their leader.

It was over soon enough, the other patrons turning pointedly away. Only the barman spared a glare for the mess.

"Um... thank you? Sister."

Still she smiled, sheathing her blades. "Leliana. And you are Grey Wardens."

"He is. Apparently."

"Right. Leliana. Well thanks for the, y'know, stabbity business but we were, ah, just leaving."

"And I'm going with you."

He blinked at that. "Why?"

Her chuckle was bitter. "I had a vision..."

"And – let me guess – this vision told you to... help us?"

"Not exactly." Something passed behind her eyes. "I dreamed that I stood atop a high peak. There was darkness all around me. I took a step, knowing that there should be ground beneath my feet... but there wasn't. And I fell."

"How do you know it wasn't just a dream?"

She sighed, hair falling cross her brow as she turned away. "When I awoke the next morning I went into the Chantry gardens. It was cool still, but spring was on its way... should have been... But they were dead, the roses. All of them blackened, withered, as though the Blight had already come."

"Well that's comforting."

Slowly, she raised her eyes. "It's not meant to be."

"Then why come here? Why help us? Why bother?"

"You will be there at the end; that much I know. And I would rather go down fighting."

Even Morrigan was watching now, holding the woman's eye.

Looking between them Alistair sighed. "Why not."

Once outside he traded what coin they had for meager and overpriced provisions. The sister had not said another word, but it was clear that whatever she had seen weighed heavy on her mind. She might have been pretty, he suspected, but there was nothing of that smirking battle smile, only a tired, plodding heaviness. Morrigan, at least, seemed to stir, nodding impatiently to the ruins of the road beyond the town.

But still there were beggars, refugees...

"Shouldn't we... help them?"

Morrigan sneered. "Help them? And what would you propose to do exactly?"

"I... I don't know."

Leliana seemed to be following his gaze, though there was something wistful, bitter there. "We can only pray that the Maker will help them."

"Right."

"Helping every orphan and beggar and wayward trader will not stop the Blight."

"Yes, yes, okay. You're right. Let's just... let's just go."

Beyond the buildings the tents sprang up again, but one of the gardens seemed to be given a rather large berth. There was a cage there, hanging at the center of the field.

As they approached, Leliana shook her head. "They say he killed a family. Before the templars caught him. They say he's to be left for the darkspawn."

The man inside came to his feet. Tall and wide as he was, there was barely room for him to bend his legs behind the bars, but still he stood, straight and proud and scowling.

"A qunari." Even Morrigan sounded surprised.

"What's a qunari?"

The voice was a deep and growling rumble. "If you do not know, that is your failing, not mine."

"Riight. Yours would apparently be killing people."

The man snorted. "I do not deny it."

"Then why—?"

"It is what I do. I am of the Beresaad. A warrior. And you are the Grey Warden."

"How do you—?"

"These people, they speak. I have not much to do but listen."

Blinking up at the man, Alistair shook his head. His eyes strayed to Morrigan, to Leliana. "He's going to be left for the darkspawn?"

Her eyes narrowed as she nodded. "Though... whatever he has done, it just doesn't seem... no one deserves that."

The growl might have passed for agreement, maybe even thanks.

"Look, Bere— qunari... um... you say you're a warrior?"

"I am."

"And you know that I'm a Grey Warden and I... well, as such... you know there's a Blight and I..."

"If you are attempting to ask for my sword you have obviously forgotten the small matter of these bars. My sentence is death."

Behind him he could hear Leliana sigh.

"As is ours... apparently. If I could get you out of the cage...?"

"Then my sword you would have."

Alistair turned to Leliana. "You say the templars put him here?"

She nodded. "The Revered Mother would have the key. I'll go and get it."

"That's... convenient." He quirked a brow at Morrigan but she only turned away.

The sister returned soon enough, swinging wide the door as the big man squeezed through. He took a moment to stretch, rolling his head between his shoulders. Somehow he seemed taller on the ground, glaring down expressionless.

Alistair tried a smile, turning instead to Leliana and Morrigan. "Well aren't we a merry band." He sighed. "Right. Let's just... go before we attract any other help."

The crumbling stairs rose again beyond the town, curving upward to meet the ruined road. He heard the screams before they had crested the main highway, drawing his sword as he leapt the last of the stairs.

There was a wagon there, crates and barrels scattered and broken. One of the large darkspawn – an alpha, he thought – had a dwarf pinned low, a pair on genlocks snaking amongst the ruins of the wagon. Alistiar took the first through the gut, staggering as the big qunari pushed him aside to charge the alpha. But Morrigan was already closing the air around it, smirking as Leliana drew her blades.

It was over quick enough.

"That was... well... go team?"

He was met by three flat stares.

"Right. Well we—"

It rose behind him, the keening whimper fading beneath the pained moan. The dwarf had been able to retreat to the safety of the wreckage, but there he had fallen, the wound across his belly wide and deep. Another, younger, bald and clean shaven, was rocking him there, stiffing behind a growing whine.

Alistair crouched, holding out a hesitant hand. "Hey..."

The older dwarf smiled through reddened lips. "Thank you." His fingers curled round the other's arm, eyes sliding glazed. "My boy..."

He did wail then, rocking still. But he did not start as Alistair lay a hand on his shoulder. Those eyes held his, wide and deep and watering. "Enchantment?"

"If he's asking if I can heal him, I cannot."

Alistair turned to Morrigan with a glare. The dwarf, too, seemed to notice her then, glancing up with an oddly chipper "hullo!"

"Oh, lovely."

As Alistair came to his feet, those eyes followed. "Enchantment?"

"I suppose... I suppose we'll take him with us."

"Ha!" Morrigan turned away with a bitter laugh. "Yes, let's do that."

Sten had come to stand beside her, fixing Alistair with that same, eternal glare. "No."

"But he's just a boy."

"We have no time for children and simpletons." She snorted. "And yet we keep you..."

"We could at least take him to the Chantry."

Leliana nodded at that, but already the qunari was moving up the road.

"Hey! Hey! I'm in charge here!"

The man glared over his shoulder, but made no move to turn round. "For now."

After a moment Morrigan followed and then, with a sympathetic shake of her head, Leliana did the same. When Alistair turned round again, the old dwarf remained, but the younger had disappeared. Bending low, he closed the stranger's eyes, turning to follow those he was meant to lead.

His eyes lighted on it there, just beyond the road, the vine snaking up and round the ruins. Mindful of the thorns, he stepped closer, his fingers hesitating. A single rose, blackened and withered as in the sister's dream. As Alistair stroked the brittle petals, it crumbled to ash.