The Last Warden

Chapter Seventeen

"Most impressive." Wynne shook her head, blinking up at the dragon with a bemused smile. "I have heard tales of Chasind witches that could change their shape."

Alistair had fallen forward, bracing his palms against the earth as he struggled to raise his head. Still she wavered just beyond the flames that did not burn, radiant and luminous, one lone and tiny figure against the beast.

"A neat enough trick. But tricks will not avail you." She chuckled. "Size does not matter, as it were."

Flemeth leaned low, jaws cracking with a telltale hiss. Alistair opened his mouth to shout, choking on the words. Too late, again too late.

But Wynne planted her staff before her with both hands, driving it deep as the fire arced round. She seemed to weaken, struggling, but still the shield held, the flame breaking round her in a great V. As the dragon reared back in frustration, Alistair's own shield seemed to break, the fire sucked away as he gulped deep of the cool air. It was the same for Sten, for Shale, both rousing now.

Wynne was striding forward, staff upraised. "How does it feel to be defeated by an old woman?" Again, she smiled. "Though if the tales of you are true, I am quite young indeed."

Flemeth hissed.

With a final thrust, Wynne's arm stretched skyward, the light breaking glaring and golden from the staff's end. Alistair felt his breath catch, warmth spreading cross his chest to race tingling through his limbs. His head cleared, tiredness fading, strength returning. The dragon, though, was roaring, neck whipping from side to side as if blinded.

"Alistair. Now."

Scopping up his sword, he looking to the mage. Still she struggled, staggering to keep the staff aloft, but there was concentration there, a certainty behind the words.

"Alistair!"

"I—" He blinked up at the beast, biting back a curse as the head swept low. With a leap, he caught the flaring scales at the back of its head, feet slipping as the neck bucked beneath him. His stomach twisted, for the moment weightless, but he braced the sword before him, driving deep. Flemeth let out a final, near-human scream and they were falling again, the blade ripped from his hands as he stumbled and rolled clear. Alistair landed crouched in the dirt just in time to see the dragon collapse and fall still.

"Now who is showing off?" Sten helped him to his feet with a bemused snort.

Wynne sagged at last, leaning heavy on her staff.

"Wynne?"

Still her eyes were pinched shut, cheek resting against the wood. She waved him away. "I am fine."

Alistair's arms were around her, pulling her close as she gasped. Releasing her from the embrace, he ran a hand through his hair. "I... we... we thought you were dead!"

"And so I was." He had actually missed that smile. Small, knowing and somehow wicked.

"You don't look dead."

"Kind of you to say so. But what happened on the mountain was..." She shook her head, straightening once more. "You remember our talk of spirits? Of guardians?"

"The one that you said was watching you? Or my giant, slobbering mabari?"

She chuckled. "When I fell, when I sacrificed myself... it was there. I felt it, a warmth, a certainty unlike anything I had ever known. And it is a part of me now."

"The spirit?"

"I felt it enter me on the mountain." At his raised brow, she tsked. "But it has limits, it seems. It sustains me, but its hold on this world is tenuous. I return to you now on borrowed time."

"So you're dying." He scowled. "When?"

"I do not know." Again, she smiled. "But I will do what I can in the meantime."

Sten had watched them in silence, Shale appearing now at his side. "Bah. Another mage."

"You seem to have acquired a golem." Wynne glanced up at him with a curious expression. "And lost your razor."

He stroked his beard sheepishly. "I grew it for you, you know. Sort of a... remembrance."

"If this is what my death has wrought, then it seems I returned just in time."

"Hey!"

But her gaze had strayed across the clearing. Still Zevran lay unmoving, limbs splayed awkwardly, his face buried in the earth. Wynne moved quick, kneeling at his side. "I can revive him."

Right. Zevran. Alistair caught her wrist. It was a long moment that she held his gaze, surprise flickering to understanding before hardening in disapproval. She pulled her hand away.

"Warden?" Behind him Sten shifted, the question plain.

Alistair scowled, shaking himself before coming to his feet. "Fine. Whatever. Go ahead." Even as he turned away he could feel it, that light, that warmth, the soothing echo of her whisper.

"Mmm? What?" With Wynne's help Zevran shifted, his head cradled against her lap as he blinked up at her. "Wynne?"

"There now."

He groaned, testing his movements. After a moment, he chuckled. "I had the strangest dream. I was dead. You were dead." Slipping an arm round her waist, he pillowed his head against her bosom. "It was terrible!"

There was something almost bemused behind her sigh. "Here, let me help you to your—"

Alistair whirled, grabbing the elf by the collar and yanking him bodily to his feet. "Feeling better? Good! Great! Marvelous!" He flung him roughly aside, but Zevran landed in an easy crouch. "Mind telling me why you wanted to get us all killed?"

Smirking up at him, Zevran clucked his tongue. "I did no such thing. Morrigan merely tasked me with making sure the deed was done. And quite successfully, I must say."

"You died!"

"What is a little death between friends, eh?" Straightening, he moved again to Wynne's side. "And such a marvelous opportunity for a daring rescue."

She quirked a brow. "Keep your hands to yourself."

"As you wish." Zevran shrugged, circling Alistair now. "But it seems our Morrigan had reason to be concerned, does it not? How will she react, I wonder, at being proven right?"

"I had it under control."

"What was it she said, hmm? Something about stones... and not the ones in your head." His grin was wicked.

"You think you could do better?"

"I am certain of it. As was she."

"Funny. Every time you try to assassinate someone you end up unconscious. Is that some sort of strategy?"

He sneered.

"You know I've been wondering for a while now. Why wouldn't the Crows send their best? You're clearly no master."

"Perhaps you were not worth the trouble."

Alistair had purposefully turned his back to him, whirling now. "You know what? Go. Just go."

"You are making a mistake, my friend."

"I'm really not."

"The Crows will come. They will not relent. And you will not see them until it is too late." He chuckled beneath his breath, brows drawing dangerously low. "Perhaps I will finish the job myself."

Folding his arms, Alistair again turned away. "Yeah, I'm sure that'll keep me up at night."

With a shake of his head, Zevran took Wynne's hand, brushing a fleeting kiss cross her knuckles. Her eyes narrowed, but her gaze was for Alistair.

Glancing over his shoulder, he glared. "You're still here?"

With a final mocking bow, the assassin backed toward the trees, disappearing into the shadows.

"Alistair..."

"Don't... just don't." Shrugging his shield onto his shoulder, he started up the path.