Dragon Age

by David Gaider

  “No need to exert yourself for my benefit.” He waved her off contemptuously. “Do you know who Prince Maric is?”

  The elven woman paused, thinking. “Yes, I think I do,” she said, her tone now all business. “The son of the proper Queen of Ferelden, out hiding with her in the wilderness somewhere? Is that not so?”

  “The Rebel Queen is dead. You might have seen her head outside the gates.”

  “Is that what that was? It was looking a little green and putrid. Queen wasn’t the first word that came to mind.”

  “Nevertheless, the boy is her heir. And he is alive. I need you to get close to him.”

  The elf considered the idea, twirling one of her locks between her fingers thoughtfully. “That will take time.”

  “Time we have.”

  “And are we to negotiate my reward, then?”

  “Complete your task first,” he said dismissively. “Afterwards, King Meghren can and will provide whatever reward you desire.”

  She stood from the bed and then bowed again, this time low and servile. “Then it seems you have a bard at your disposal, my lord.”

  Severan nodded, pleased. One more chance, then, to destroy the rebellion.

  In the distance he heard the muffled sounds of forced laughter in the throne room. The laughter was punctuated by someone screaming in pain, probably for Meghren’s amusement. It was the only reason the King delighted in such gatherings. Someone always had to suffer before the night was through.

  Someone always suffered.

  7

  In the months that followed their retreat from the valley, things were as difficult for the rebel army as Arl Rendorn had predicted. Pressing farther into the western hills made it too dangerous for the usurper’s forces to follow, but left them in harsh territory with little food or supplies. They fished in the mountain streams and hunted in the thin forests, but still the men hovered just short of starvation. With few proper tents, few blankets, and fewer ways to stay occupied and entertained, they were scattered, restless, and short of nearly everything.

  Nor were they left alone for those months. Small groups of the King’s soldiers made occasional forays into the hills to probe the rebel defenses, a threat that kept the rebels vigilant. Stretched to the point of exhaustion, they found it more and more difficult to maintain a watchful eye. When a small group of enemy soldiers made it right to the command tent and were taken down by guards not twenty feet from where Maric ate his scant dinner, Arl Rendorn determined that they could no longer afford to just stay hidden within the hills.

  It was Loghain who led the first small groups of archers out under cover of darkness. Elves naturally saw better in darkness than men, so he recruited those few that marched with the rebels as runners and camp followers to join his group. Though surprised by their sudden elevation, they quickly stepped up to the challenge. Within weeks they had racked up an impressive body count, enough so the enemy began to fear the appearance of the “night elves” in their camps. It was a name Loghain took for his group as a badge of courage.

  The enemy could not react effectively to these constant strikes, spread out as they were in their struggle to keep the rebels enclosed in the hills and starving. More attacks followed as Rowan led her horsemen in raids during the day. Should the enemy dare to try to follow her men back into the hills, Maric and the Arl would ambush them in the narrow passes.

  The rebels were taking losses, but they were exacting a toll from the enemy in far greater numbers. As they were stretched to the breaking point, it came as a great relief when their scouts finally reported that the enemy was pulling back from the hills to a safer distance.

  Within days the Arl gave the order to march, and the army was split into four groups that slipped through the northern passes under a full moon. It was a tense night, the march made slow by the lack of torchlight, but in the end they were successful. The outlying enemy camps did not detect their movement, and by dawn the army was almost to the southern shores of great Lake Calenhad.

  Here there were numerous friendly farmholds that were willing to barter and even provide a little secret assistance. Riders were sent out to several of the local villages, and even as far as Redcliffe, to quietly gather supplies.

  The celebration when the first of those supplies started arriving to the camp was as spontaneous as it was jubilant. The mere appearance of soap was enough to send Rowan and Maric into a mad display of joy. Biting into a fresh apple seemed heavenly. Fresh linens appeared, along with new tents and medicine. That evening there was music and laughter and dancing around the campfires, and for a single night the war was forgotten.

  Arl Rendorn awarded Loghain the rank of lieutenant and commissioned the Night Elves as an actual company. Reluctant to accept the honor, Loghain did so only after being cajoled by his fellow archers and teased by Rowan. Maric presented the red cloak of his rank to him in a brief ceremony in front of the collected army. Loghain looked distinctly uncomfortable throughout, disparaging the need for such a display, but the resulting cheer from the men was so vigorous, not even he could deny the positive effect it had on morale.

  Reasons to celebrate were, after all, few and far between.

  The rebel army had lost a great number of its men, and it became apparent that much of Ferelden assumed the rebellion had died with its queen. It was a notion that the usurper worked hard to spread.

  Still there were those who knew better and were willing to offer help, no matter how surreptitious. After months spent traveling along the mountains and then eastward across the hilly coastlands, the army found shelter in the gentle forests near the coastal port of Amaranthine. Whatever his reasons, Arl Byron of Amaranthine ignored their presence and quietly let it be known that they could remain for now. It was not the first time the rebels had needed to rely on someone looking the other way, so Maric accepted Arl Byron’s generosity—for now.

  To Maric, their primary was task to regain their lost momentum. This meant splitting up so they could cover more ground spreading the word, at least for a time, and though Arl Rendorn seemed grave at the risk it represented, he agreed that the effort was necessary.

  Rowan and Loghain rode out first, though their pairing naturally didn’t come without argument. Neither of them was inclined to leave Maric’s side, nor did they particularly relish the idea of traveling together, but in the end Maric’s insistence won out. They reluctantly left the camp, taking with them a handful of men who were familiar with the Bannorn, the fertile heartlands of central Ferelden. For months they traveled together, camping where possible while Rowan and Loghain made short trips into nearby villages to spread what word they could. Occasionally they would make a visit to one of the local banns who they felt might be receptive to overtures.

  Rowan found herself impressed by Loghain’s ability to quickly assess whether a bann was legitimately interested or just eager to gain favor with the King by trying to trap them. Once she had become infuriated with Loghain as he pulled her away from a dinner table without explanation, only to belatedly realize that guards had been quietly maneuvering in the shadows. He had seen it coming, not her. Blades were bared and the two of them were forced to fight back to back in order to escape capture.

  In such situations, Loghain never once treated her as if she required saving or any sort of special protection. He expected her sword arm to be as strong as his own, and she made sure it was.

  Once they had been in an area for too long, they usually moved on quickly, often chased by agents of one nobleman or another. There seemed to be no shortage of those who were willing to sell out their rightful ruler, especially when it seemed the usurper had all but won.

  Occasionally, Rowan’s heartfelt pleas would find a ready audience among banns whose fortunes had dwindled and who remembered better days. The Orlesians had taken a harsh toll on the Bannorn, their taxes plundering the countryside as surely as any army. Fear, however, made many hesitant to consider helping the rebels, especially when they might be a los
t cause. Too many graphic examples had been made by the usurper; rotting carcasses hung in cages at nearly every fork in the road, glaring examples of Imperial justice.

  Still, the will of the Fereldan people was not completely broken, and Rowan and Loghain saw evidence of their stubbornness and independence during those months of traveling the heartland. Men with little more than rags on their backs and skin on their bones would listen as Loghain told them of Prince Maric’s survival, and their eyes would shine with a fierce determination, a hope that perhaps not all was lost. Old men would spit angrily into tavern fireplaces and speak of the days when Maric’s grandfather still ruled, of the great war with Orlais and the bitter defeat that followed. Those listening in the flickering shadows would nod their heads grimly, and one or two would quietly approach Rowan and Loghain afterwards.

  The belligerence Rowan remembered from first meeting Loghain gradually vanished, though she was not quite certain why, and was replaced by something that varied between gentlemanly courtesy and indifference. Loghain was quiet to begin with, but just as Rowan believed he was warming toward her, he would promptly cool.

  In fact, the only time Loghain said anything to her of real significance came on an evening in the middle of winter. They were camping in the woods to avoid a pair of bounty hunters that Rowan was certain had been hired by Bann Ceorlic, both of them huddled on opposite sides of the tiny campfire, shivering in their woolen blankets. Their breath came out in white plumes and Rowan considered once again asking for the fire to be built up. Undoubtedly Loghain’s response would be a stern frown. It would give away their position, she knew that. But freezing to death simply didn’t seem like a helpful alternative.

  Rowan glanced across the fire then and realized that Loghain was staring at her. He said nothing, and the intensity in those icy blue eyes made her heart skip. She looked away quickly, wrapping the blanket around her more tightly as she shuddered. How long had he been staring at her so quietly?

  “I haven’t thanked you,” he stated.

  She looked up, confused. “Thanked me?”

  “Back at the battle, you rode to my rescue.” He smiled grimly. “Quite literally, in fact.”

  “There’s no need to—”

  “There is,” he cut her off. She watched with fascination as he took a deep breath and then stared straight into her eyes, as if he wanted to be certain she understood his sincerity. “I know what you did, and I’m grateful. I should have told you so before.”

  The cold went away.

  Loghain nodded curtly, having made his peace, and quietly turned his attention back to the fire. He went back to warming himself like nothing had happened, and she had no idea what to say in response. So she had said nothing.

  In the end it made little difference, for they had much to do during the months they were on the road. Often they struggled just to stay alive. Rowan preferred traveling companions who were more personable, perhaps, but she could not deny that Loghain’s competence saved her from real trouble many times over. If he had ever owed her anything for her defying her father, he repaid it with interest. She could see why Maric was so keen on him.

  Maric, meanwhile, was also spending months on the road. Throughout the winter he traveled secretly with the mage, Wilhelm, and a small honor guard to visit nobles who had been friendly to the rebels previously. He went to remind them that the rebellion was not over, and to urge them to consider throwing their lot in with the army.

  The lesson of his mother’s death was still fresh in his mind, of course. He never trusted his safety to any of these men and women, despite their past associations. Times were desperate, and if the Queen could be fooled into thinking men like Bann Ceorlic were genuine, then so could he. Every meeting was a carefully arranged affair, the ill-tempered mage fretting right up until it took place. On the few occasions that one of the nobles tried to ambush him, the sudden appearance of Wilhelm’s stone golem made short work of the attackers.

  The main thing that helped Maric during those long months was the usurper’s unpopularity. By ruling through fear, Meghren made no secret of his antipathy toward his own subjects. This meant most of those Maric sought out were at least willing to listen and offer sympathy even if they were skeptical of actually joining the rebel cause. Joining the cause, after all, meant abandoning one’s home. It meant having one’s ancestral lands handed over to an Orlesian lord who would bleed them dry, and many of the nobles were reluctant to subject their people to such treatment.

  No, only the truly desperate and those without options joined the rebels. What made Maric optimistic, as well as sad, was that as the months passed, it became apparent that more and more nobles were being pushed to that extreme. Already Maric had heard of banns that had been forced off their estates and took what men they could muster and made for the rebel army. King Meghren might have gained an Orlesian ally in whatever lord he handed their land to, but Maric gained a loyal and determined rebel as a result.

  Real trouble came in the spring, once rumor had begun to circulate of a small group of strange travelers with a conspicuous golem moving through the Hinterland roads. When the usurper’s men descended upon them, Maric was forced to flee for his life. Wilhelm insisted they return to the army, but instead Maric veered north and made the journey to Kinloch Hold, the ancient tower that was the home of the Circle of Magi. The spire rose impossibly out of Lake Calenhad, the impressive remnants of the old Imperial Highway still leading out to it even though boats were required to actually reach the tower today.

  The mages were ostensibly neutral in any political conflict, and the First Enchanter received Maric nervously at the tower entrance. He was a tiny man, almost wizened in his advanced age, and he informed Maric in a tremulous voice that the Grand Cleric was in attendance at the same time. The implication was clear: the Chantry didn’t yet know about Maric’s arrival and the mages would be more than happy if he simply moved on, nobody the wiser.

  Their concern was understandable enough. The Chantry watched the Circle of Magi closely and offered them no trust whatsoever. If there was even the suspicion of involvement by the mages with the rebellion, the Chantry’s templars would be unleashed upon them. Very likely even Wilhelm’s presence was cause for alarm.

  Still, Maric had never met Mother Bronach previously. He knew her only by reputation. When else was he ever going to have a chance to meet the woman when she wouldn’t be flanked by an army of templars?

  The First Enchanter blanched when Maric explained his intention. Maric almost felt sorry for the man. After a great deal of fuss and many terse messages sent back and forth to the Grand Cleric’s entourage, Maric was finally ushered alone into the vaulted assembly chamber at the heart of the tower.

  It was an impressive room, great columns reaching up to a ceiling a hundred feet up while small glass bulbs dangled and glowed with dim magic to form a starlike array overhead. Normally it served as a forum of debate for the senior mages, but today it would serve as neutral ground. The Grand Cleric sat stiffly by herself, wrapped in her glittering red robes, and rhythmically tapped her withered fingers on her chair. As he approached, she eyed him accusingly but did not deign to acknowledge him otherwise.

  He was sweating profusely. How very large the chamber was, for just the two of them. He felt dwarfed and somehow insignificant.

  “Prince Maric,” she said with forced politeness as he reached her.

  He fell to one knee and lowered his head in a show of respect. “Mother Bronach.”

  A tense silence ensued, after which Maric rose to his feet again. The priest regarded him with interest, not entirely displeased by his display. “You are fortunate,” she began crisply, “that I am not here with a proper honor guard. I would have taken you prisoner immediately. Surely you understand that.”

  “We wouldn’t be talking, if that were the case.”

  “Indeed.” She tapped her fingers on the chair again, and Maric got the feeling that she was studying him. Looking for a weakness, pe
rhaps? Trying to see if he matched his no doubt lacking reputation? He wasn’t sure. “Are you an Andrastian, boy? A believer in the Maker and His Chantry?”

  He nodded. “My mother taught me the Chant of Light.”

  “Then submit to the proper ruler of Ferelden. End this nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense,” he snapped. “How can the Chantry support putting an Orlesian on Ferelden’s throne?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. Mother Bronach was not accustomed to contradiction, he surmised. “It is the Maker’s will,” she said with belabored patience.

  “He is a tyrant!”

  She paused, pursing her lips as she watched him. “How many innocent lives had your mother wasted in this hopeless struggle? How many will you? Do your people not deserve peace?”

  Maric felt rage bubbling up from within him and threatening to explode. How dare she? He closed the distance between them, marching up to her chair and stopping directly in front of her, fists clenched at his sides. It was all he could do to stop himself from throttling her. She still deserved respect, despite her arrogance. He had to remind himself of that.

  He breathed out slowly, forcing himself to calm. Mother Bronach watched him, seemingly undaunted by his proximity and his unspoken threat. He could tell that she was nervous, however. He could see the bead of sweat on her forehead, watch as her eyes flicked toward the nearby doors. “Is it true,” he asked icily, “that he put my mother’s head on a spear outside the Denerim palace? My mother, your rightful queen?”

  A long minute passed as they locked gazes. Finally, Mother Bronach rose imperiously out of her chair. “I can see there is nothing for us to discuss,” she said with just the slightest quaver in her voice. “You are an impertinent boy. I suggest you take your men and leave while you can, and pray to the Maker that when your end comes you receive more mercy than your mother did.” With that, she turned and strode out of the room. Maric’s knees turned to jelly as she left.