The Last Warden

Chapter Eleven

"Now we will speak."

Alistair stopped short as the Qunari stepped round, blocking the path. They had not gone far from Denerim, following the low road as it snaked south cross the Bannorn. According to the aged map that he had bought, Haven lay somewhere high in the Frostback Mountains, near the range's southern edge. The shopkeeper had had to seek out the faded parchment; the village didn't appear on newer maps at all.

Raising his eyes to Sten's, he quirked a brow. "Oh now is it? Here I thought we might wait a bit, discuss it over a nice cup of tea."

As he moved to sidestep him, the big man lay a hand against his chest. Alistair blinked down at it, feeling the welling frustration, the sleepless nights overtake him at last. "Move. That's an order."

"No."

"Okay then. Move. Or else."

The sigh was almost a chuckle. "I should fear your mercy?"

"Oh, what? Because I didn't kill that knight, you're going to make fun of me?"

"You turn your back on your enemies. Now you turn it on the archdemon."

"I told you Arl Eamon can help us." Folding his arms, Alistair scowled.

"I am no nursemaid. I swore only to help you stop the Blight."

"Way I remember it, you swore to follow me so I'd let you out of that cage. Maybe I should have left you in there."

"Perhaps."

"But I didn't. So you'll follow me. To Haven. Or until I don't have any use for you."

The others had paused now on the path ahead, watching in silence. Zevran's eyes narrowed.

Leliana, though, stepped forward, laying a hand on his arm. "Alistair, what are you—?"

It rose on the air, the howl echoing, piercing, mournful. In the deepening dusk it prickled, that familiar certainty, the faint cry of a dying scream. Looking up at the big man, Alistair shook his head. "Hold that thought."

Ahead the road curved, cutting between the hills. The others followed as he ran, stopping at the broken barricade, blinking out across the narrow clearing. More barricades there were, the branching paths blocked with crates and wagons, a settlement of some sort.

Crouching, Leliana disarmed an unseen tripwire. "Bandits. A trap for refugees making their way to Denerim."

"Then what did this?"

Bandits there were and in abundance but they lay silent, scattered, weapons still to hand. Dead to a man.

"Darkspawn, perhaps." Morrigan moved behind him. "'Tis no concern of ours."

Leliana and Zevran had already moved into the camp, begun sifting through the crates.

But still Alistair felt... unsettled. "A trap for us, too. But something cleared the way."

"What makes you think that?" Wynne stood now at his elbow, openly curious.

He ran a sheepish hand through his hair. "Just a feeling, I guess. I think I might be going mad, actually."

She chuckled, patting distractedly at his arm. "There are many things that even the Circle does not understand. It is not wrong to indulge the occasional bit of madness, I think."

"Right. What does that even—?"

The howl again. Closer now, just around the bend. Moving quick, Alistair slipped between the wagons.

It hulked there, the last bandit falling still as it buried its face against his neck. The same mabari, he was sure of it this time. Raising its head, it tensed, lips twitching in a rumbling snarl. Alistair remembered then to be afraid, realized that his fate was being weighed in those eyes. After a moment it blinked, darting into the hills.

"Is that the same dog from Redcliff?" Leliana watched it go.

"I-I think so."

The whispered chuckle sent him spinning round, meeting Wynne's thin-lipped smile. "You have a guardian of your own, it seems."

But there was another sound now, the whimper plaintive, pained, human. Crouching to a nearby wagon, Alistair helped the man to his feet.

"Thank you! Oh Maker, thank you! The bandits and then that-that thing..."

"You're not a bandit?"

He seemed to straighten at that, running smoothing hands over his close-cropped hair. "Of course not. My name is Faryn. Merchant by trade. Slightly used weapons and armor are my specialty."

"Faryn. Why does that sound—?"

The blow knocked him aside, hand going to his sword before he saw Sten. The big man had the merchant pinned hard against the wagon, his back bending over the side as the Qunari pressed him back.

"Sten?"

"This is the... scavenger that the other spoke of. He names himself."

"Ah, right. Thought it sounded familiar." He moved behind him, holding up a cautious hand. "But do you think you could maybe... take a break from the looming and threatening? It's not really necessary."

"But strikingly effective." Zevran quirked a brow, nodding to the merchant's trousers.

Sten released him, but still stood close. "My sword. Where is it?"

To his credit, Faryn seemed more curious than petrified. "You're one of them giants."

Sten leaned closer. "My sword."

"Right. Yes." The merchant stepped back, butting up against the wagon. "Sold it. To a dwarf named Dwyn. Outta Redcliff."

"Redcliff."

"See?" Alistair tried a smile. "We're going there anyway. We'll get the Urn and then—"

Sten turned with a grunt, starting up the path.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"Redcliff."

"And how is that any different than—? You can't!"

Still he did not look back. "Stop me."

Alistair's mouth worked once, twice, but the big man's long strides had already taken him round the bend and out of sight. Sinking back against the wagon, he let his chin sink to his chest.