by David Gaider
“Loghain,” Maric began slowly, “I know you never promised you would stay. I know I was dumped in your lap and all of this should never have happened.” He grinned sadly and shrugged. “But it did. You’re here and I’ve come to rely on you. We all have, even the Arl. Please don’t walk away from this.”
Loghain winced. “Maric . . .”
Holding tightly on to the staff, Maric got down on his knees. Alarmed, Rowan ran over to support him, to try to pull him back up, but he refused. The staff quivered, and he grunted with effort as he dropped down fully and then looked up at Loghain. “Please, I’m begging you. You and Rowan are the only friends I have.”
Rowan stopped short, her hand flinching away from Maric as if he were red hot. She stiffly backed away from him, her face a mask of stone.
Loghain stared down at Maric, horrified by the grandiose gesture. Worse, he felt his resolve crumbling. This had felt so much clearer in the night. Now he felt like a coward. “You are opening your wound,” he complained at Maric.
Maric winced, holding his bandaged side gingerly. “Umm . . . probably, yes.”
“Must be from all the exertion,” Rowan commented dryly.
Loghain shook his head in disbelief. “Maker’s breath, man, aren’t you supposed to have some dignity? Somewhere?”
“Me? Dignity?”
“Being the supposed future King and such.”
“I think Rowan took my dignity.”
She snorted derisively, folding her arms. “There was nothing else worth having.”
Maric chuckled and then looked up at Loghain again, serious. “So does this mean you’re staying, then? I practically ran here in my smallclothes, you know.”
“If you had, that would certainly make this quite the picture, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m serious.” Loghain could see that he was, serious beyond a doubt. “I don’t think we can do this without you.”
Apparently he should have sneaked off while it was still dark, leaving his leathers and everything else behind. Because there was no other way he was going to escape, was there? He sighed irritably at Maric. “Well, if you intend to come running after me every time I try to leave—”
“Not every time.”
“Very well. I’ll stay.”
Maric grinned broadly and struggled to stand back up, but did so far too quickly. He cried out in pain and almost fell, but Rowan rushed forward and caught him first. Her armor scratched against his bare chest, and he flinched in her arms, laughing at the same time. “Ow! Careful with those!”
“How very manly you are, my prince,” she sighed.
They laughed and smiled at each other, a moment that quickly faded as Rowan’s smile faltered. After she helped Maric to his feet, she moved away. He glanced after her, baffled, before the quickly spreading bloodstain on his bandages drew his attention. “Ahhh,” he breathed, “Wilhelm will frown at me for certain now!”
Loghain regarded his warhorse, standing there all saddled up and ready to go. With a silent shake of his head, he began untying the bags. Rowan turned to go, but Maric held up his hands to stop her. “Wait!” he shouted. Then he grabbed the staff and quickly hobbled out the door, a man on a mission.
She stared after him, frowning. “What has he planned now?”
Loghain shrugged. “With him, it could be anything.”
The two of them stood there in the dust and hay listening to the faint sounds of commotion outside and the occasional nickering of the horses. Loghain thought he should speak, but as the tension built, it seemed to become an insurmountable obstacle. He returned his attention to the saddle, feeling Rowan’s eyes on his back.
After what seemed like forever, she spoke, her voice pained and hesitant. “Were you leaving because of me?”
He stopped. “I was leaving because I was the lesser man. According to you.”
She flinched.“I . . . shouldn’t be the only reason you stay.”
“You’re not.” He turned toward her, his gaze hard. “He is.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes brimming with tears she didn’t shed. He didn’t have to say anything else. They stood where they were, the distance between them filling the entire room, neither of them speaking. The moment stretched into agony.
Loghain wondered if he would have to remember this moment, if he would have to memorize the curve of her jaw, the gray eyes that blinked at him from under those brown curls, the strength behind her desperately unhappy frown. He wondered if he would need this memory as a shield, if he was indeed going to stay. Surely he was mad.
Eventually Maric hobbled back through the door, Arl Rendorn and several other soldiers in tow. Rowan and Loghain looked away in different directions, their moment abruptly ended. The Arl appeared nonplussed and quizzically looked at Maric, who seemed rather pleased with himself.
“I think we need to do what we were discussing a few days ago, Your Grace,” Maric announced, breathing heavily and sweating from all the running about.
The Arl looked dubiously at Maric. “You mean now?” Then he noticed the warhorse and the packs, and frowned. “Going somewhere?” he asked Loghain directly.
Loghain shrugged. “Not anymore.”
“Yes, I think we should do it right now,” Maric insisted.
Arl Rendorn chewed on that thought for a moment as the other soldiers looked at him questioningly. Then he nodded. “As you wish. Perhaps it is for the best.” He turned to face Loghain. “Loghain Mac Tir, you have served your prince well in these past years. You have proved yourself to be an able leader of men, and there is—”
“Wait,” Loghain interrupted. “I said I would stay, I don’t need—”
“Let me finish.” The Arl smiled. “There is not a day that has passed where Maric and I have not commented on how we value your presence. Your current rank is no indication of your importance to our cause. Thus, despite your lack of knighthood, we feel it is fitting that you be given the rank of commander.”
Loghain had been about to interrupt again, sensing some kind of reward forthcoming—but he stopped short. He’d no idea that Maric intended this. The protest caught in his throat, and he stared at the Arl, flabbergasted. Maric grinned in delight.
“This places you immediately beneath me in the chain of command, Loghain,” the Arl continued. “My orders to the other officers will be relayed through you, and I would expect you to take on more logistical duties. This is provided, of course, that you are willing to accept the promotion?” The corner of the Arl’s mouth twitched ever so slightly with amusement. “You have proved yourself to be . . . unpredictable over such matters in the past, after all.”
Loghain stared, his mouth agape.
“It’s not a bribe,” Maric mentioned. “I just wanted you to know that I was—”
“I’ll do it.” The words tumbled out of Loghain’s mouth almost before he realized he was saying them. He looked up and saw the Arl’s hand offered to him and shook it numbly.
“Well done.” The Arl grinned.
Loghain retrieved his hand and turned toward Maric, who was grinning and offering his own hand. Loghain stood there silently and stared at it as if he had no idea what it signified.
After a moment, Maric awkwardly lowered his hand. “Err . . . is something wrong?”
“No.” Loghain stared hard at the ground, grimacing.
Then he awkwardly lowered himself to one knee before Maric. His face felt hot and flushed, and he knew he must have looked quite the fool. The shocked soldiers behind the Arl looked at each other incredulously.
Maric looked down at him with abject horror. “What are you doing?”
Loghain frowned thoughtfully, but then nodded. He knew this was what he needed to do. “I may be no knight,” he said firmly, “but I’m certain it wouldn’t do to have a commander in your army who hadn’t sworn an oath of some kind.”
Now it was Maric’s turn to be flabbergasted. His mouth dropped open, and he looked helplessly from Arl Rendorn to Rowan and back to Lo
ghain. “No! No, no, I don’t need any kind of oath from you!”
“Maric—”
“You misunderstand, I would never . . . I mean I know how you feel, your father was a completely—”
“Maric,” Loghain interrupted. “Shut up.”
Maric’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.
Behind them, Rowan slowly retreated to the doorway. No one noticed as she silently turned and left.
“If you really want me to stay,” Loghain began, looking up at Maric, “then I will. And if you are going to trust me with your army, if you’re going to trust me that much, then I’m honored. I may not be highborn, and I have no idea how much my word is worth to you . . . but you have it. You are my friend and my prince and I swear to serve you well.”
Maric swallowed hard. “Your word means a great deal to me, Loghain,” he said simply. He seemed deeply touched.
Slowly Loghain stood back up. Arl Rendorn nodded at him silently, pride in the old man’s eyes. The soldiers behind the Arl saluted. He stood there dumbly in front of them, not sure what to say.
Maric grinned like a fool. “Commander Loghain,” he said aloud, as if testing out the title.
Loghain chuckled ruefully. “That does sound strange.”
“I’m willing to bet there’s still a wine bottle or two to be found from last night.”
Loghain snorted. “Full of swill, perhaps.”
“And what better way to celebrate your promotion?”
“Will you put on a shirt, at least?”
“Fine, fine. If you insist.” Maric chuckled, shouldering his staff and hobbling out the door.
Loghain waited a moment, shaking his head in quiet disbelief. I am a fool, he thought.
Then he followed Maric out.
10
The main hall of Gwaren’s manor was crowded, as it was never intended to be used as a royal court. Not even a court presided over by an exiled prince, attended by nobility already part of the rebel cause and a smattering of those who had dared the journey despite the threat of the usurper’s wrath. Even so, Loghain saw that many more had come than he had assumed might. Certainly many more were present than Maric had dared to hope. Loghain had to suppress a grin as he watched Maric sitting on the ornate chair at the head of the hall and becoming more and more nervous, watching his guests crowding among the tables.
The usurper had not made it easy for them over the past several weeks. Fortunately it seemed that there was little King Meghren could do. The Bercilian Passage through the great forest was easily defended, and though the King’s forces had attempted to reach Gwaren several times, they had been forced to turn back long before nearing the town each time. The tactics the rebels had learned in holding the southern hills benefited them here, and Loghain was proud of the role his Night Elves had played in harassing the enemy lines from within the forest. Their reputation among the enemy as brutal killers had only increased, and it was said that many men within the King’s army were refusing to take the night watch for fear it would mean a silent arrow in the throat.
This meant the overland route to Gwaren was closed, but fortunately it was not a route that the town relied on. The port had remained open, and after an initial period of uncertainty, it had resumed a bustling business. Maric had met with the local mayor, a portly fellow who had scraped the floor in abject terror when the men brought him in. The mayor was a decent man, Ferelden-born and ill-treated by the Orlesians who had assumed rule over the land. Naturally he had no reason to believe that the invaders were any different, and was shocked when Maric put him back in charge of the town and gave him discretion in using the rebel army to restore law and order.
After a few nervous tests of his authority, each decision backed by Maric with little question, the mayor performed his duties with vigor. The man’s relief was almost palpable, and by convincing him of Maric’s honest intentions, so, too, were most of the local Fereldans convinced. The acceptance of Maric as the true prince became commonplace, with lines at the manor by the well-to-do who were now only too willing to pledge their allegiance. Efforts accelerated to rebuild and provide shelter to those displaced by the fighting, and there were even reports of some who had fled Gwaren returning to their homes.
Of course, the few local Orlesians who had been unable to flee the terrifying prospect of rebel control were the least pleased by their situation. They were less fortunate folk, servants to the wealthy gentry as well as guardsmen and a handful of merchants and entertainers. Poor or not, Loghain was not about to risk them proving their loyalty to King Meghren by assassinating Maric. The guards had been rounded up and imprisoned in the manor’s dungeon while the rest were being carefully watched.
They weren’t the only potential problems, Loghain was certain. The smiles of the locals would fade quickly if the wind changed direction, without a doubt. Maric scoffed at the idea, but even Rowan agreed that security needed to be tightened around the manor. Taking over a town was one thing; controlling it was quite something else.
In time, the usurper would rouse a sufficient force that they would push through the Bercilian Passage and attack, and Arl Rendorn worried about exactly when that was going to happen. Gwaren was defensible but difficult to retreat from, after all. Their saving grace was that the sea lanes remained unhindered. Ferelden had never been a seafaring culture, and thus the usurper had been forced to resort to offering exorbitant bounties for those willing to raid ships bound for Gwaren. Much to his frustration, there were few takers. Those nobles who had arrived by ship had reported little in the way of obstruction. If the rumors were to be credited, Meghren was fit to be tied over the ability of the rebels to seemingly come and go as they pleased and already had a new set of heads adorning the palace gates.
Arl Rendorn worried that eventually the Emperor would send the usurper a fleet to patrol the coast, but it had not happened yet. For the moment they were safe. Gwaren’s occupation was a black eye to the Orlesians, showing that Maric was strong enough to hold his own court, the first since his grandfather’s time. So the curious had come.
At least half the room, Loghain surmised, consisted of men and women who had never marched with the rebels. On the surface, these were all loyalists, the old and the dispossessed who all were affecting relief and loyalty at the rebels’ progress. The wine was flowing freely, and all the ruddy faces were smiling broadly, but Loghain wondered at the end of the day how many of them would offer more than encouragement? Very few, he imagined, and even then only if the usurper didn’t find out about it.
Rowan insisted that even their presence was a risk, a level of defiance against the King that they would not have dared before Gwaren was taken. After all, how certain could anyone be that news would not reach Denerim? Some of these men had to be spies. The King was not known for giving anyone the benefit of the doubt, so Rowan was certain that either hope or desperation had brought some of these men here.
Remembering the time they had spent in the Bannorn, Loghain was inclined to agree. Still, diplomacy was Maric’s job.
The hall had reached a fever pitch of chattering voices and clinking wine goblets when Maric finally stood from his seat. Loghain thought he looked small in his black robe, an erminelined garment that they had appropriated from the former owner of the manor. He did look regal, however, and would have looked more so were it not for the nervous sweat dripping from his face.
The noise in the hall hushed, and many of the nobles took their seats at the tables. Loghain remained standing, as did the Arl and Rowan and many of the other rebel guards who watched from the walls. A soldier stepped out from behind Maric’s chair carrying a large staff and a scroll. The staff he ceremoniously stamped on the stone floor three times, the thumping sound ringing throughout the hall and causing the last whispers and fidgets to cease. The soldier presented the scroll and read:
“On this, the ninety-ninth year of the Blessed Age, thou art welcomed to the court of Prince Maric Theirin, son to she who was Queen Moira The
irin and heir to the blood of Calenhad, First King of Ferelden. Bare not thy blade, and respect shall be shown to thee in turn.”
The soldier stamped the staff again, once, and Loghain quietly joined the entire room in chanting a low and solemn, “Our blades are yours, my lord.” If only it were truth and not a formality.
The soldier put away the scroll and bowed low to Maric before withdrawing. Maric continued to stand there, gauging the crowd. Some of the nobles began whispering to each other, but most watched closely.
He’s going to disregard everything the Arl told him, isn’t he? Loghain thought to himself. Rendorn had spent many hours coaching Maric on exactly what he should say, the formalities observed in a true court. But Loghain saw in Maric’s eyes that he had different plans.
You cheeky bastard, Loghain thought.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Maric began. His voice carried easily throughout the quiet hall. “Many of you have been asking me about it tonight. I know some of you were at Redcliffe when Arl Rendorn declared my mother the rightful Queen, but I didn’t ask you here to witness a coronation.”
A stir of surprised voices erupted, but Maric held up a hand. “When I am coronated”—he raised his voice over the din—“I intend for it to be while seated on Calenhad’s throne and with the crown that currently sits on the usurper’s head!”
Shouts and cheers greeted Maric’s cry, many of the nobles standing and clapping their hands vigorously. Some were quiet and perhaps even shocked, Arl Rendorn among them. Loghain watched the poor man pale, seeing his careful coaching go awry. Maric looked out at the hall intensely, fire in his eyes. Loghain approved.
“So why are you here?” Maric began again, before the shouting subsided. He walked forward into the hall, moving slowly among the tables. The noise in the room quickly quieted. “Part of it is to recognize that we have made the first step in reclaiming our homeland. If only Teyrn Voric were still alive. He was a friend of my mother’s, and I would have been very happy to see him sitting back on this chair that belonged to him. But we know what happened to him, don’t we?”
