They watched in silence for several minutes, saying nothing. Only the wind rustling against the rocks could be heard, along with the occasional dragon roar far off in the mist.
“She’s beautiful,” Rowan finally murmured.
Loghain didn’t say anything at first. It had been difficult to remain, to feel her anger when she looked at him. Rowan hadn’t forgiven him; he knew that. Very likely she never would. But Maric had asked—no, demanded—that he put Ferelden first. And so he had done it. And now he would see this through.
“They say that Ferelden is in revolt,” he finally said. “Denerim is burning, or so the last rider that joined us during the night told us. The usurper is paralyzed.”
Rowan nodded slowly. “Considering what the Chantry said, I’m not surprised.”
“What they said?”
She looked at him curiously. “You hadn’t heard? The Grand Cleric of Ferelden herself, Revered Mother Bronach, declared that Maric was the rightful holder of the throne. She went as far as to call Meghren a dangerous tyrant, and proclaim that the Maker had sent Maric to save Ferelden.”
Loghain’s eyes went wide. “The usurper isn’t going to like that.”
“Evidently he has his hands full at the moment.”
“You mean he hasn’t put her head on a pike yet?”
“He’d have to catch her first, wouldn’t he? Perhaps she shouted her pronouncement very loudly from the windows of her speeding carriage.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t very convincing. The Revered Mother had put the Orlesian bastard on the throne in the first place; more than likely she had merely detected which way the wind was blowing.
He suspected it might be a good move on her part. When news of their slaughter of Ceorlic and the others had gotten out, only a handful of the nobility had bothered to raise an outrage. Every single one of the families of those men had angrily sworn they would fight with King Meghren to the last, though it was doubtful they would have ever done otherwise, but for the others? Many seemed to hear the news, and they did just as Maric had predicted they would. The ranks of the army had swollen dramatically over the last two days alone.
Loghain realized that Rowan was staring at him, lost in thought. Off in the distance, the dragon roared again. The beast swooped low and disappeared off into the hills as the fog banks were slowly burned away by the rising sun. He tried not to stare back at Rowan, tried not to notice how she looked radiant in the wind, a warrior queen that the minstrels would no doubt one day sing about in awe.
“Are we truly going to go into battle without Maric?” she asked.
It was a good question, one he had asked himself. “You know where he is.”
“I know where he should be. He should be here. These men need to see him, they need to know who they’re fighting for.”
“Rowan,” he said firmly, “he is doing what he feels he must.”
She frowned, turning and staring off into the valley again. A strong breeze swept across the ridge, freezing them both, and she shivered in her armor. “I know,” she breathed, her tone anxious, “I just fear what might happen to him. He could die, with no one with him to help. We’ve come too far to lose him now.”
Loghain smiled at her, hesitantly raising a hand to brush her cheek. It was a small gesture, and she closed her eyes, accepting it . . . but only for a moment. Rowan’s eyes fluttered open and she pulled away slightly, uncomfortably avoiding looking in his direction. It was enough. There was a gulf between them now, and it wasn’t crossed so easily.
He let his hand drop. “He could die anywhere, even here.”
“Would you refuse his chance to do this one thing alone?”
She thought about it, and then her eyes dropped. “No.”
There was stirring in the camp around them now, and Loghain could see why. The sun was beginning to clear the horizon, setting the clouds ablaze, but more important there were signs of activity down in the valley. The vanguard of the Orlesian force, he suspected. They would have to move quickly.
He turned to tell Rowan, but she was gone. She already knew.
Not two hours later, the rebel army had assembled. They were gathered behind him now, a great unruly horde of riders and bowmen, knights and commoners. He barely could remember who most of them were; the small force they had left Gwaren with constituted only a small core of those who were present here. Standing prominently in front of them was a handful of dwarves, less than a third of the Legion of the Dead that had fought with them in Gwaren. Nalthur had been pleased to return just in time for the battle, and had grinned madly when Loghain had informed him of the odds they faced. He grinned still, watching Loghain from where he stood with his men, all of whom were given a respectful berth by the other soldiers.
Nearly a thousand men, all told. Far more undisciplined than Loghain would have liked, and even with the veterans such as the Legion they had had almost no chance to train together or work out ways to communicate strategy properly. It could potentially be a nightmare. Anything could go wrong.
But then he remembered the dragon.
The chevaliers were down in the valley and had already become aware of the rebel force assembling above them. They were scrambling to assume a defensible position and recall those horsemen they had already ferried across the river. It was either that or abandon them and retreat to higher ground, which they weren’t going to do. Not yet. They would count on their superior mobility to pull them out of trouble if it came to that.
Which was why Rowan was riding with her horsemen to the other side of the valley right now, to cut off any means of escape. They would crush the enemy here or die trying.
Loghain turned his horse to face the soldiers behind him, all of them waiting with steel gleaming in the light and breath blowing white in the cold. Loghain’s black cloak billowed in the crisp wind, and as his stern blue eyes traveled over each of the men present, they stood a little straighter. He was wearing his old armor, the very suit of studded leather that his father had made long ago. For good luck, he thought.
“There was a dragon in the sky,” he shouted to the men, his voice competing with the whistling wind. “I saw it myself, flying in the mountains. If dragons can rise from defeat, my friends, than why not Ferelden?”
The army howled its approval, raising swords and spears and shaking them until finally Loghain held up his hand. “It feels good to fight,” he shouted, “to stand up to those Orlesian bastards and tell them no more!”
They howled again, and Loghain raised his voice even further. “Your prince is not here! But when he returns to us, we shall hand to him his stolen throne! Here at the River Dane is where the Dragon Age begins, my friends! Today they will hear us roar!”
And roar they did. If the Orlesian knights in the valley looked up at that moment, they shivered as they listened to the sound of a thousand men shouting with rage, the kind of sound that only those who demand freedom can muster. They froze in their saddles as they watched the rebel army spill over the ridge and come charging down the valley toward them.
And perhaps off in the Frostback Mountains, a dragon lifted her head in a shadowy cavern and heard the rebels’ long roar, and she approved.
Severan gathered his ermine cloak closer around him, cursing the Fereldan cold. It wasn’t even truly winter yet, but already at this time of night the air nipped worse than it ever did in his own homeland. The cold air blew in from the southern currents and the wastelands beyond the Korcari Wilds, making every winter here a thing to be endured. One explanation, perhaps, for the land’s harsh and unrelenting populace.
It was on moments such as this that he began to wish he had never come. Let Meghren flee back to Orlais and beg the Emperor to let him remain there and never return, as it was what he truly wanted anyhow. Let the Fereldans have their piece of dirt and their dogs and their cold. He would be better off returning to the Circle of Magi and starting over.
But then he shook his head. No, he had too much invested here. The revolts were far worse than he ever could have predicted, but once the rebel army was crushed, the locals could be pacified, one town at a time if need be. By the time it was all over, Meghren would be so utterly grateful and so utterly dependent on Severan that the mage would have free rein.
And then there would be some changes. Oh, yes indeed.
As it was, he was currently facing nothing but problems. He turned to glare at the young page cowering by the entrance to his tent, holding up the missive that the lad had brought to him and crumpling it in his fist. “Why,” he seethed, “is my intelligence being insulted? Are you telling me that not a single one of our scouts has returned yet?”
“I don’t know, Ser Mage!” the page protested. “I . . . I just brought the message?”
Severan scowled, and then tossed the crumpled paper at the boy. He squealed in fear, flinching as if he had been hit by a rock. Snorting in disgust, Severan waved his hand and dismissed the boy, who ran off gratefully.
There was no point in taking his anger out on anyone, much as he might like to. Severan had brought his army out to meet the legions of chevaliers arriving overland from Orlais, but currently the legions were nowhere to be found. Severan had been delayed by the riots at Highever, and then forced to send messages back to Denerim once he heard of Bronach’s decree, and that had delayed him even further. Now he arrived at the rendezvous point only to find no chevaliers, and his efforts to gather intelligence from ahead were meeting with nothing but more problems.
Could it be the rebels? Could they have come this far west already? The last reliable report placed the rebel army at a village in the Bannorn, where Prince Maric had performed his surprising executions of Ceorlic and the others. That had been almost three days ago, however, and before that Severan hadn’t had reliable intelligence for almost a week. It seemed unlikely that the rebels could seriously challenge two legions of chevaliers with the mishmash of forces they currently claimed, but doubt plagued him.
If only Katriel had not turned on him. How the thought of that elven woman galled him! Severan paced around his tent, kicking aside the silken cushions in agitation. He had already sent word to his contacts in Orlais, arranging a rather unpleasant surprise for her the moment she returned to her bard compatriots. He had paid good coin to arrange for her assistance, and now he had paid even more to acquire another, who unfortunately would not arrive for at least another week.
More delays, he fumed. He was tempted to storm out of the tent right now, kick the commanders awake despite the late hour, and demand the army march immediately. They could leave the rendezvous, head farther west, and perhaps intercept the chevaliers en route. But he made himself calm. He disliked having his hand forced, so he would school himself to be patient for now.
Severan shivered again, gathering the white ermine cloak tighter around him once more. He turned to the stove in his large tent, deciding that since the servants were not going to come and replace its coals, he had best deal with it himself. Then he stopped short, confronted with a man standing in the back of his tent by the rear flap. It was a blond man in brilliant plate armor and a purple cloak, holding a pale longsword before him that glittered with magical runes. The deadly glare of the man made his intent clear.