The Last Warden

Chapter Eight

"Maker's breath! How many shapes does this thing have?" Darting wide, Alistair let the weight of his shield carry him into a crouch. Claws scraped there, digging deep of the rusted steel.

The demon reeled away with a howl, Zevran just visible above its shoulder, a dagger plunging deep into either side of its neck. Again it swelled, looking something like an ogre now, swatting the elf away with ease.

Behind him, he could hear Wynne sigh. "Form doesn't matter in the Fade."

"Yet all have the same weakness." Sten loomed above him, blinking down with a scowl. He touched a pair of fingers to head, chest and belly before throwing his weight into a massive swing. The creature staggered, returning to its almost familiar wrinkled and sagging shape.

"Yes, but how do we know if it's dead? If it's just going to keep changing and..."

Zevran had regained his feet, slipping behind the abomination to open its throat. It wavered a moment before falling onto its face with a flat and sickening thump.

"...Okay then."

Sten slipped a toe beneath one of the splayed arms, shaking his head with a grunt. "We do not wake."

"Actually you kind of... Hey! Hey, what's that?" Holding out his arm, Alistair saw the familiar mists curling there, flexed fingers that were suddenly fading.

Zevran met his gaze with a smirk. "Tingles, does it not?"

* * *

Putting a hand to his head, Alistair groaned. "Remind me never to dream again."

The others were stirring, Sten already coming to his feet. Zevran raised his head from his knees, arms still curled tight there, eyes narrowing to see Alistair watching him. Moving quick, he stood to help Wynne.

Alistair, though, found his eyes drawn across the room, past the heavy bulk of the abomination, lying just as they had left it. There too lay the man, discarded and forgotten.

"Alistair?"

He crouched over the mage, feeling Wynne come to stand behind him. Hesitating only a moment, he trailed a hand over the man's robes, fingers curling away to feel the sharp edges there. He pulled the book free, rocking back on his heels.

"The Litany of Adralla."

Wynne bent low, twisting her head to peer at him. "You can read it?"

There were runes set deep into the leather of the cover, but Alistair shook his head. He looked again to the man. "And this is Niall."

"How could you possibly know that?"

Straightening, he hugged the book to his chest.

"Did he speak to you? In the Fade? If Niall was trying to use the Litany... But it... I think that it could work. Against Uldred."

"Right." Slowly Alistair raised his eyes to hers. "Wynne... the children... the ones that died..."

She winced visibly, seeming suddenly older than her years. "There were many. Too many."

"But I mean specifically. A girl... an elf... very pale. And a boy... a human boy with a dark braid."

Wynne blinked at that, surprise flickering behind the grief. "A... girl? And a boy?" Slowly, she shook her head. "They were not among the children in my care."

"But you know them."

She stared at him for a long moment. "I do not know what you saw in the Fade. We all saw things that are better left forgotten." Her eyes narrowed, but there was a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "But like you said: You get used to it."

He held the book tighter as she turned away, blinking as she glanced back over her shoulder.

"Bring the book. It's important."

As the others stepped into the hall, he tucked it into his pack. Zevran, though, had lingered behind, quickening his pace as he made to slip round. Bracing an arm in the doorway, Alistair forced him to slow.

"So... the Crows... they tortured you? Leliana... she told me something of it. That they use... slaves."

The assassin snorted, leaning back against the wall. "You think I chose this profession? For the travel? The retirement plan? The women?" He chuckled. "Ahh, but the women!"

"I didn't know."

Thin fingers wrapped round Alistair's wrist, twisting it out of the way. The smile did not reach his eyes. "You did not ask."

Wynne was waiting beyond the door, staring up the hall. "We have searched nearly every room." She shook her head, seeming to whisper to herself. "Uldred did always have a penchant for the dramatic."

"What?"

Slowly she turned, raising her eyes to his. "The Harrowing Chamber. That is where he will be."

"Great."

The final stair would be just ahead, she promised. But again they found the way barred, their swords again growing heavy.

"Dragons. Dragons! Demons and abominations and the walking dead... but dragons?"

Sten snorted, bending to run his sword along the flank of the fallen beast. "These are but hatchlings. A dragon would be bigger." The scales came away in a thick slice, stiff and wet and stinking. He tossed it to Alistair.

"Okay, ew!"

The big man narrowed his eyes. "There is strong armor to be made from drake scales."

"Right. Yeah. I'll just... keep this then." Wrinkling his nose, he tucked the skin into his pack.

"Hush." Wynne had stepped round, laying a hand on his arm. The room ahead was open, the stones bathed in a faint, violet glow. There was a man there, a templar, trapped behind a ring of pulsating light.

At their approach, he turned his face away, holding up a warding hand. "No more!"

"No more what?"

Raising his eyes, the templar scowled. "Begone! Test me no more!"

"Uh huh. I'm Alistair... of the Grey Wardens. We're..." He glanced behind him. "We're here to help."

"She said that you would come for me."

"She who?"

There was laughter there, rising through twisted lips. "Illusion. All of it. But I will not break."

Wynne clucked her tongue. "The poor dear. Who knows what he is seeing, what Uldred has done."

"Uldred." The man stiffened, leaning toward the barrier. "Blood mages. In the Harrowing Chamber. If you are truly here to help, you know what must be done."

"And what's that?"

"Kill them. All of them. Whatever they are doing up there..." He shook his head, scowl deepening. "They killed the templars, mages... others. They're blood mages. They cannot be allowed to escape again. None must leave that room alive."

"'Again?'"

Snorting, he turned away.

"You're serious? You really want me to go up there and just start killing things?"

"Everything. She said that you could do it; she said that you could make it right."

Behind him, he could feel Wynne stiffen. But her scowl was cold, set. "You cannot do this. I will not."

Alistair shook his head. "I'm not doing anything."

"But you must. The choice is yours."

"And why is that exactly?"

She only shook her head.

"Right." He turned back to the imprisoned templar. "I'm not doing anything until I see what's going on up there. If there's any chance that anyone's still alive—"

"—They may have already been turned. Blood mages. You will not know them. None can leave that room alive."

"Yeah, you've said that."

The man straightened, clasping his hands behind him. "I am a templar. It is my duty." But his eyes flared, the lie clear.

"Okay." Alistair turned to the others, gaze lingering on Wynne. She nodded.

Mounting the stairs, he pushed aside the door.

* * *

It hit his face like a furnace blast, the crackling energies standing his hair on end. The mage sank to his knees, back heaving, a pair of abominations holding him there. It surged round him, the light, the pain, the screams... And there were others, just beyond that flaring light, watching bound and wide-eyed.

The exercises came back reflexively, the years of templar training, the breaths, the stillness, the cleansing. He could feel his skin cool, the bite of the air fading away. But he wasn't a templar, not really, not like the man below. He couldn't... couldn't...

Collapsing, the mage gave a final whimper. Slowly he raised his head, eyes sliding sideways, cheeks sagging round a wordless scream. An abomination. The abominations had been the mages.

But there was another now, stepping between the creatures, pointed features pulling into a sneering grin. "Ah, Wynne."

"Uldred."

"Right. So you're the bad guy." Alistair leveled his shield.

"Is that what I am?" That smile only broadened, his head tilting curiously. "But you, I think, are something else..."

"Grey Warden. Templar. Sort of." He nodded to the huddled mages. "But what about them?"

"They will join me soon enough." Uldred stepped back , spreading his arms as the abominations moved forward.

Behind him, he could feel the others tense. Wynne, though, leaned close. "The Litany. It will protect the mages from his influence. Use it."

"Use it how?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"Here..." Alistair shifted, pulling the book from his pack. "You're a mage. You do it."

Still she shook her head. "It is yours to use."

"What? How? That doesn't make any sense! I can't even read thi—"

The lightning arced between them, shattering the stones beneath their feet. Wynne spun sideways, her own staff hissing with energy. Uldred, though, was laughing, chest heaving, stretching, expanding with a ripping growl.

Zevran was at his shoulder. "Hmm. Another ogre it is."

"That's a really... big..."

One of the abominations charged forward, set to ram the space between them. Alistair darted aside just in time.

Sten was already moving cross the circle, making for Uldred himself. Alistair followed, but Wynne was there then, her cry nearly sucked away on the crackling air.

"The Litany!"

Right. Sword. Shield. Book. Balancing awkwardly, Alistair ran his fingers over the runes. One of the mages was ringed with light, arms outstretched. From the look on his face, the experience wasn't pleasant.

But he knew this. He had dispelled magic before. Well, practiced anyway. Closing his eyes, he tried to slow his breath, remember something that might be useful...

It took him hard in the gut, the arms that wrapped round his waist squeezing cold and tight and heavy. The abomination bore them both backwards, his sword clattering away across the broken tiles. But the book. He had the book. Leveling a knee between them, Alistair swung as hard as he could for the creature's face.

Zevran was there then, a series of quick thrusts taking it between the shoulder blades. It fell heavy, crushing, before the assassin's kick sent it rolling sideways.

"Hey, thanks I—"

But he was gone. The mage that had been surrounded slumped now against the floor, shaken but dragging himself back toward the others. One of them, white haired and bearded, was coming slowly to his feet.

Only Uldred remained. The ogre roared, half-crouched, putting all its weight behind a sudden charge. Sten rolled sideways, spinning round, a single leap brining him up onto the creature's thigh. It staggered overbalanced, careening backward as the Qunari pulled himself up onto its chest. His sword struck home, just beneath the throat, the massive bulk slipping away beneath him. But still he balanced as it fell, still he kept his feet.

Alistair gaped. "What in Andraste's name was that?"

The big man blinked, turning slowly round. "It is dead."

"Yeah, but did you have to...?"

Something twitched behind Sten's lips.

"Show off."

"Hmm."

The mages were coming slowly to their feet. Wynne moved among them, grasping hands with the old man. There was relief there, a nod of thanks, but turning to Alistair his eyes widened in surprise. After a moment, he smiled.

* * *

"So you now command an army of mages who very nearly destroyed themselves."

"Apparently." The cramped boat rocked on, the tower looming still at their backs. Alistair had found himself seated in the stern beside Sten. Wynne sat beside their escort, whispering softly with the templar as he rowed. That had been a surprise; the old mage had insisted that she be allowed to accompany them. Her expression, though, had left little room for debate. He chuckled.

"And this comforts you? This is what you sought?"

"It's a start."

Sten's eyes strayed toward the growing shore.

"I haven't forgotten, you know. We'll find your sword. What was the deal? I find it or you – what? – beat me, kill me, drop me in the lake?"

"It is... likely."

"See? Now that comforts me."