The Last Warden

Chapter Seven

"Hrrrargh!" Alistar shot upright, coming to his knees. One hand went to his belly, pulling away the mail to slip beneath, fingers curling in pain. But the skin there was whole, unbroken. Great. Right. Gutted by an imaginary little girl.

He hadn't noticed the sword trembling before him, must have drawn it reflexively as he woke. Placing one hand over the other he steadied it, leveling it at the creature.

It turned slow, one sagging eye widening. "Hmm... interesting..."

Alistair scrambled backward, sword wavering still. Its bulk shifted awkwardly as it approached, feet dragging cross the stones.

"Why not... rest? You deserve... to rest..."

Already his arms felt heavy, a slow tingling starting in his fingers. But still the girl seemed to swim before him, the wicked flash of her eyes. It was... important... that he stay awake... somehow...

"Look... at your friends. See their... peace..."

His leg bumped against Sten's shoulder, the big man lying sprawled on his side. Snorting, his lips twitched. On anyone else it might have been a smile. Zevran, though, lay curled beside him, arms gripped tight round his knees, flinching with a whispered whimper. Wynne was on her back, stiff and deathly pale. Her eyes were pinched shut but it glistened there, the long trail of a single tear.

Alistair steadied his hands.

"I... see... And yet you would leave them... behind..." Something shifted in the folds of its face, smile pulling crooked. "You cannot do this... alone..."

The heaviness redoubled, his sword clattering from fingers gone suddenly numb. Alistair sank back on his heels, falling hard against Zevran's curled and quaking form, but there was something... knowing behind that smile. No... not... alone...

Wake up.

* * *

Laughter. Still the mists hung close, but he knew this now for what it was. There were no scents to entice – not this time – no smiles to welcome. Only that laughter, cruel and cold and rising. Squaring his shoulders, Alistair made his way down the hill.

Two elves moved in the clearing below, one bending to turn a long, wooden crank while the other looked on with folded arms. He had seen one of these devices before, in the basements of Redcliff castle, but it had been old, the dust thick with disuse. A rack. The elf between them was bound at wrists and ankles, laying stiff and still despite the strain. Alistair blinked. Somehow he had still expected there to be a smile there, but Zevran's jaw was set in grim determination.

One of the others leaned close, the hiss of his words carrying on the still air. "We will break you yet."

"Do... what you... will..." The chuckle was familiar, though rasping and strained.

Neither of the others looked up at Alistair's approach, but Zevran's neck twisted, raising his head with a grimace. His eyes widened. "You..."

Alistair's gaze roamed over the tensing muscle, the deep bite of the bindings, the sweat beading there. He shook his head. "We have to go."

Again the crank turned, the gears protesting. Zevran's back tried to buckle, the gasp escaping through gritted teeth. "No. I... will be... a Crow..."

"A Crow? You're already a Crow. Remember that whole trying-to-kill-me thing?"

"Mmm...?" His face fell, head collapsing back against the wood. "I do seem... to recall..."

"The Circle Tower? Sten? Wynne? Big ugly demon?"

"Ahh, Wynne..."

"Right. Great."

His eyes seemed to focus, holding to Alistair's before turning to blink up at his bonds. There was something almost bemused behind his expression. "Hmm."

But the others, too, seemed to rouse, turning to Alistair as if seeing him for the first time. One of them cocked his head. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Yeah, I get that a lot lately."

They moved quick, circling round to trap him between them. He had watched Zevran and Leliana spar, could remember his initial encounter with the elf. These two moved in much the same way, the grace, the speed but there was something... off. Movements without skill, a reflection fogged and twisted. Not real.

When his blade sliced cross the throat of the first the scream was silent, bloodless. The second fell heavy against him, disappearing round the wound in its gut, fading smiling into the mists.

"Ahh." Zevran sat, rubbing at his wrists as he rolled his head between his shoulders. The bonds, it seemed, had vanished. "Nothing like a good racking, I always say."

"Right. You could have helped, you know."

"And spoil the daring rescue? Tsk." He came slow to his feet, the wince well hidden.

"Did they... I mean, do you...?" Alistair offered an arm, but Zevran only narrowed his eyes, stepping wide. "Do you often dream of—?"

"—Of you, my friend?" Something of the smile returned, twisting crooked as he raised a brow. "Perhaps not in so many clothes. Wait. Where are you going?"

It seemed to shimmer round him, the mists coalescing, thickening as the elf faded from view. Alistair darted forward, but his hands found only air.

"Great." He turned round, looking toward the shifting skies. "And what does that mean?"

Wake up.