125. Garott Brosca's Flying Circus
Four days. It took them four days to put their plan in motion. Had Finian been leading the operation, it would likely have taken half that (his Warden was ever one to jump in with half a plan and a hunch), and had it been their stalwart Cousland commander, they would likely have been bursting through the door in one, and damn the consequences.
But, no. They had Garott, and the dwarf was ever careful and particular. He was a trapper at heart, planning and predicting to the last detail, deadly in his precision. At any other time, Zevran would have sat back and appreciated watching a master at work.
But not this time. They had two Wardens in prison, and it had taken them four days before Brosca was satisfied with the preparation. It was unacceptable.
Even so, Zevran waited, using the time to stock up on his poisons and hone his blades until they could cut a hair in half the long way. He and Morrigan entertained between themselves the possibility of simply storming the place, but they were both practical enough to see the foolishness in that. They would be of no use to their Wardens if they were locked in the cell beside them, after all.
But then, finally, the dwarven Warden was satisfied, and they headed for Fort Drakon in a small, garishly-dressed group. That was to say, the others were garishly dressed, while Garott and Zevran ghosted behind the group in much more sensible leathers.
Oghren led the strange procession, dressed in a flow of colorful silks that hid a suit of chain armor quite nicely. Behind him walked Wynne, with Finian's lyre slung across her back. They had managed to get Hugo to sit still long enough to paint him, though not without some rather convincing pouts on the mabari's part. Finally, there was Sten, in babarian gear and sporting a mask that hid most of his true nature, holding a (purposefully weak) chain with a bear on the other end.
Morrigan had let out a few rather impressive curses when she found out she would be playing the part of a dancing bear, complete with fluffy skirt for comedic effect. Of course, when Garott had revealed her part after that, she had calmed down.
Oghren played his part with an amusing amount of gusto, declaring boisterously at the gates that they were the Bhelen Bros. Circus, and that they had been hired by an anonymous guard to surprise the prison warden for his birthday. The two gate guards were too amused to give more than a cursory questioning, and their attention was too focused on the troupe to notice Garott and Zev stepping up behind them and giving them each a good dose of Soldier's Bane. They dropped immediately, and the two rogues dragged them around to a concealed corner of the wall.
They had timed it so that the shift didn't change for two hours. With a little luck, no one would even notice them missing.
They continued to follow the troupe, who were proving to be a very effective distraction. Dwarf and elf flitted between shadows with expert finesse, but it was to the point where Zevran doubted that they even needed to. A bear in a tutu proved to be quite the effective distraction.
The others turned down a corridor toward where their maps had shown the warden's office to be, and the two shadows broke off in the other direction, toward the cells. Zev could already hear Oghren shouting his lines with much aplumb, while Wynne struck up a few chords on the lyre (Circle Tower classical training had proved quite handy, in that respect).
They would likely have only a few minutes before the warden tired of the show, and Morrigan was forced to move onto the next phase. Hopefully, they would have their wayward Wardens by then.
They had debated at length about the merits of trying to pass as guardsmen for this operation, but in the end, it had boiled down to the fact that no one would find an elf and a dwarf believable as guardsmen, and they both fought better in leathers anyway. Thus, they were sneaking in the fun way... slipping through the hallways like ghosts and pricking each guard they came across with a dash of Soldier's Bane for an impromptu nap.
That had been Wynne's suggestion... not killing the guards outright, but poisoning them. It took a bit more finesse to pull off—though, when it came to things like this, Zevran had little but finesse—but would prove far more beneficial to their cause in the long run. Best not to kill a hundred of Ferelden's soldiers right before trying to woo Ferelden to their side, and all that.
There were shouts behind them, followed by the distant sound of a bear's angry roar, and Zev spotted a flash of Garott's grin.
This would be the next phase of the distraction, then... and the most important one. An angry bear getting loose in the halls would be most dire a situation, after all, calling guards from all kinds of posts to capture it. Especially if that bear managed to barrel down a particular corridor that ended in a hidden three-way split and then somehow disappeared. Why, the entire garrison would be searching that part of the prison for a large furred form, and paying no attention to a pair of shadows on the complete opposite side of the prison.
The pair of them slipped into an armory and waited behind a stack of crates as footsteps rushed past to go help take care of the situation. They stayed there for a minute or two, waiting for all the guards to leave the wing that would.
A light scurrying sound rounded the doorway, and a small, rabbit-like rodent skittered into the room.
Garott chuckled. "Have fun, did ya?"
The creature chattered crossly, and Zevran tilted his head. "What is she, exactly?"
"Nug. Orzammar's answer to the lack of common pests."
Zevran twitched a smile. "And yet, I have seen much worse being used as household pets in Antiva."
"C'mon, should be clear now. We're almost to the high priority cells." Garott stooped and offered his arm, and Morrigan climbed up onto his shoulder.
They headed out of the armory, still taking care to hug the wall. It was largely unnecessary, as very few guards were left on this wing of the prison.
They came to one row of cells, then another. Sometimes, they were occupied by bleary-eyed convicts. Other times, they were occupied, but not by the living. Still, none proved to be their pilfered Wardens. It was to be expected; they had read in the intercepted reports that the two were being kept further down... "for ease of questioning."
Zevran could only bite his tongue at that and keep moving forward.
Finally, they rounded a corner and saw their golden adonis of a commander, stripped to his smallclothes and watching their approach expectantly.
Zevran could not help a hum of appreciation. The man really was quite an exquisite specimen, though his skin had been marred with myriad newly formed cuts and bruises.
Morrigan changed back to human form without even alighting from Garott's shoulder, and the dwarf let out a grunt as she shoved off him. She strode up to Percival and settled before the cell, her arms crossed.
"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"
The Warden's face was a hard mask. This was hardly a change, from what Zevran had seen, but he would have expected something like imminent rescue to at least make him crack a smile.
"I'm not going to apologize for turning myself in, Morrigan."
"Then you have obviously gone soft in the head. Perhaps we should leave you in here, as it appears you do not appreciate the hardship you have put us through."
The noble arched a brow, and Zevran had to chuckle. "Allow me to apologize, then, if I worried you."
"What...? Worried?" Morrigan sputtered. "Who said anything about worry? I merely meant the excruciating inanity of the dwarf's so-called plan."
"Hey, it's working so far, ain't it?" Garott, while they spoke, had broken out his picks, and now set to opening the lock. "Now we just gotta find the elf."
Percival's face fell, immediately and totally, and Zevran's stomach dropped.
"Where is said elf?" Zevran asked, forcing his voice to stay light.
"They took him down to the... down." Percy crossed his arms and nodded down the corridor.
They took him. Zevran swept off down the indicated corridor, the dwarf's cries of, "Hey! Wait!" following him unheeded.
It wasn't a long path, passing a few more cells before it terminated down a set of stairs into a torture chamber. Zev cast on glance around and his blood ran cold.
His Warden was strapped to a table, blood flecked all over his bare skin, particularly around his hands, where the fingers had been mangled beyond recognition. The Warden's eyes were unfocused, and he appeared to be mumbling something, judging by the movements of his lips, but the blood was rushing too loudly in Zevran's ears for him to hear it.
For there was another person in the room: a human in an apron standing over the elf, holding a serrated saw to his Warden's throat and looking up at Zevran with expectant glee.
"One more step," the man's voice said over the rushing in his ears, "and the Warden-"
Zevran threw his dagger with better precision than he ever had before, and the interrogator's words were cut off as it lodged in his throat.
The man spent a moment gagging in reflex, and Zevran pressed his advantage, leaping upon him with cold fury. He sliced with his sword at the same time that he yanked out his dagger and ducked into a spin behind the human. Deftly, he stabbed a very particular spot in the man's back, severing his spine, and the human's legs collapsed out from under him.
He was a heap on the ground, the saw forgotten as he clasped at the puncture in his own throat.
"Now, muerto, let us not be hasty," Zevran purred as he crouched over the man, drawing the tip of his sword lovingly along the edge of one of the human's eyes. "In fact, let us be very, excruciatingly slow." He dug the tip in, just enough to scratch the eyeball, to sting. He leaned down, tapping the man's chest with his dagger. "Your tortures are effective enough, I'm sure... but allow me to extend to you my generosity, and teach you all the best methods of extracting pain, straight from Antiva." He cut through the cloth of the man's blood-splattered apron, smiling coldly. "A truly generous offer, from one tradesman to another, don't you think?"
"Zev, don't..." the cracked, warbling voice from the table paused the movement of his blades, but he dared not take his eyes off this scum.
"Do not fret, amor. I am merely going to give this man the death he deserves." A long, lingering one.
"Please, Zev. I just want to go."
The broken note in his lover's voice tore his gaze from his quarry.
The others had arrived, and Garott was working at releasing the cuffs that bound the elf to the table. Morrigan had pulled out a couple poultices for the more grievous of his wounds, while Percival manned the door. All the while, Finian's eyes stayed on Zevran, and the exhaustion and fear in them was completely unmasked. His Warden had been stripped bare of his honey through pain, and still he asked mercy of the man who had obviously done that to him.
Zevran's heart ached, and he turned back to the interrogator, who was still helpless beneath him. With a sigh, Zevran stabbed in and upward with the dagger, neatly piercing the man's heart. "The things I do for you, amor."
As he stood up, Fin tried to smile, and that just hurt to see. Zevran came to his side, studying his lover's bare form. With each new scar and laceration, he could only grit his teeth and regret that the man dying behind him would not be afforded a slower death.
The hands were the worst thing... the interrogator had set to them with intent: breaking every finger at least once, pulling off fingernails, burning the palms... Zevran ran a finger gently along his Warden's wrist and tried not to show how worried he was that the other would never be able to play that silly little lyre of his again.
Garott released the bonds with a victorious grunt, and Finian immediately tried to sit up, only to pale and keel over immediately, one arm crossing a bruise in his abdomen. Zev leaned in to support his Warden's flagging body.
"He cannot walk like this," Zevran declared, a voice in the back of his mind cataloguing his lover's injuries with cold precision. "Morrigan, can you heal him?"
"I've done all that I am capable of. The old woman will be far more suited to this task than I."
"Then we must take him to her." He fretted for a moment, wondering whether he'd be strong enough to transport his Warden, much less as quickly as necessary not to draw the guards down upon them.
"I can carry him." Zevran's head snapped up. Cousland had his arms crossed over his broad, bare chest, and something in Zevran quailed. "I've done it before."
Reflexively, Zevran cradled his Warden a little tighter. Then, a mangled hand touched his arm, and his Warden said, "Zev..." A single syllable, but full of something that soothed and reassured him enough to nod, just once.
Percival stepped forward and moved to the opposite side of the table. Gently, Zevran passed Finian's hunched form to the larger man, who carefully shifted him to lay in his arms. Even that had the elven Warden biting back hisses and winces, but there was nothing for that. Then, they all started out the door.
Before he left, Zevran afforded one last kick to the interrogator's corpse. Just because.