The Stolen Throne

19

A dragon had taken to the air.

Loghain had seen it first thing in the morning. He had been disturbed in his sleep by the strangest sounds coming from far off in the distance, and had gone out of his tent with the sun just barely a sliver of pink and yellow peeking over the western mountains. He had stood there in the dim light, frost clinging to his tent and his breath coming out in white puffs, listening for the sound again.

For a moment he had thought it might be the chevaliers arriving at the river crossing early, that their scouts had been wrong. When he heard the sound again, however, he knew immediately that it couldn’t possibly be them. He couldn’t identify what it was until he walked out past the tents and the sleeping soldiers wrapped in frosty blankets and stood at the edge of the valley. There he hopped up on some rocks and looked at the entire sweep of the land beneath him, the mighty River Dane cutting a twisting path through the rocks with the morning mist still clinging to the ground as if reticent to awaken.

It was a majestic sight, and even better was the dragon that flew over it. From a distance it seemed almost small, gliding slowly in the air with the snowcapped mountain range behind it. Had it been closer, it would have been a giant beast, large enough to swallow a man whole. As it was, when the dragon roared, he could feel the rumble in the ground even from this far away.

They had said there were no more dragons. The Nevarrans had hunted the beasts mercilessly more than a century ago, until they were said to be extinct. But here she was, gliding free in the morning wind. This was the first time she had come to the Fereldan side of the mountains, apparently, as for two weeks now she had been laying waste to the Orlesian countryside.

The Chantry had taken it as an omen. The Divine in Val Royeaux had declared the next age was to be called the “Dragon Age.” Of all things.

The scout who had heard the news said that some were saying it was supposed to mean the coming century would be one of greatness for the Empire. But as Loghain watched the graceful dragon glide through the chill fog, its leathery wings spread wide, he wondered if that was really so.

He heard the footsteps crunching on the frost behind him, but didn’t turn around. The entire camp was still and barely moving, but he already knew who would be up this early. He knew the way she walked, the sound of her breath.

Rowan stepped quietly onto the rocks beside him. Her brown curls fluttered in the crisp breeze, frost clinging to her armor, which had been newly polished for the coming battle. Loghain kept his eyes on the distant dragon, trying not to lose sight of it as it dipped low into the foggy valley. It could always turn and fly up here and feast on the men conveniently clumped together in the camp, but somehow he knew it wouldn’t.

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.”

“I know that.”

“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.

“Prince Maric,” Severan commented. “How . . . unexpected of you to show yourself here, of all places.” It was a surprise, truthfully. Was the rebel army here? Was it about to attack? Surely this fool didn’t come by himself? Keeping an eye trained on his uninvited guest, the mage gestured with his hand, summoning a magical protection spell. A soft glow surrounded him;and the blond man warily moved into the tent, keeping his longsword trained on Severan.

“Your guards are dead,” Maric told him. “I wouldn’t bother calling for them.”

“I could shout louder and bring my entire army here down upon you.”

Maric smiled mirthlessly. “Not before I killed you.”

Severan had to admit he was impressed. This young man looked every bit the King, and a warrior, too. How unlike the rumors about him; they spoke of a man entirely unlike the killer he faced now.

He stretched out his arm and spoke a single word, a command in the ancient Tevinter tongue, and Severan’s ornate staff flew across the tent to land in his hands. He sneered at the young prince confidently. “Is that what you’re here to do? You might find it a bit of a challenge, my prince.”

Maric’s face filled with fury. “Don’t you call me that.”

“My prince? Why ever not?”

Without response, Maric lunged at the mage, bringing his sword down even as Severan held up his staff and blocked the swing. White sparks flew as the weapons connected, as well as a flash of fire. Severan’s eyes went wide as he realized the weapon’s power.

Casting a quick spell, he held out a palm toward Maric, and lightning leaped out, striking the man and sending him flying back, screaming in pain. Maric smashed into a cabinet, knocking it over and nearly bringing that section of the tent down on top of him. Outside, the distant sound of alarmed shouts rang out.

Severan walked slowly toward where the Prince still spasmed in pain, jolts of electricity zapping throughout his armor. “Did you really think you could walk into my camp and defeat me, young man? How did you even find me?”

Maric rolled over, gritting his teeth in agony as he slowly got to his knees. “A present from Katriel,” he hissed, looking up at the mage through slitted eyes.

“She told you?” Severan rubbed his beard in interest. “And where is she now?”

“Dead.” The Prince stood, shaking with the effort and resisting the effects of the lightning with sheer willpower.

Again Severan was impressed. But impressive as he was, the man wasn’t about to beat him with a sword. Holding out his staff toward Maric, he shouted several words again in the Tevinter tongue, and the entire tent flashed as a storm brewed within it. Chill winds suddenly spun within, instantly covering the fabric of the walls and the ground with frost and freezing Maric to the spot.

The silvery armor was quickly frosted up, and Maric doubled over in pain, trying to fight off the winds and snow. The skin on his face froze and cracked, bright blood welling from the wounds. “A shame,” Severan sighed as he walked toward Maric calmly. “I would have preferred to kill the elven wench myself, after what she did to me. If you’ve spared me the effort, I imagine I’ll need to practice the tortures I’ve thought up on you, instead.”

The prince was back on his knees, cringing in pain as Severan stood over him. The mage held out a hand, preparing to cast another spell on his helpless target, when suddenly Maric flung his hand up.

Something flew from his hand at Severan’s face, a cloud of dust or dirt. Severan wasn’t quite sure, but either way, it stung his eyes and burned the inside of his throat, and he stumbled back quickly. Falling over an ice-covered chair, he cried out in pain as he hit the floor, instantly convulsing into a coughing fit as the burning sensation in his throat became even more intense.

He could barely see. Coughing madly, he tried to crawl away from where the Prince must still be, lest the man come running with his blade.

Maric picked himself up only slowly, however. The wind still blew wildly around the tent, flinging small pieces of furniture and books about and threatening to blow the tent itself away. More shouts could be heard through the wind, coming closer. Maric was covered in thick frost and bleeding from cracks in his face and hands, and gritting his teeth, he began to slowly limp toward the mage.

“Another gift from Katriel,” he gasped through his pain. “She left me a letter. It told me who you were, told me how to find you and everything I needed to defeat you.” As Severan’s eyes began to clear, he saw tears running down from the Prince’s eyes, leaving trails on his frost-white skin.

“You won’t leave this place alive!” Severan shouted in rage. He scrambled back more quickly, but the Prince kept advancing. Finally, gathering his will, Severan held up his palm toward the man. His hand wreathed in a burst of flame . . .

. . . and then the flame gutted out. In the back of his head, a familiar buzzing roared into life, and numbness started to spread through his body.

“No!” he screamed in horror, realizing what the Prince had done.

Maric stood over the mage, snarling in fury as he held the longsword by the hilt and plunged the blade down. The point of the dragonbone struck Severan’s protection spell and flashed bright sparks. Severan was not hit, but he reeled in pain as the magic blade cracked the energies of his shield.

As Maric raised the blade up high again, Severan screamed in pure terror. He put up his hands defensively, trying to summon another spell, but it was too late. The blade came down with Maric’s full weight behind it. With a great flash of light, it shattered the protection spell, thrusting through it and plunging into Severan’s heart.

The mage gasped, feeling agony exploding through him like white fire.

Thoughts raced through his head. No! This cannot be how it ends! Not like this! He tried to bring to mind a spell that might save him, a healing spell or even a rite to pull his spirit from his body and preserve it. But the numbness left him powerless, left him screaming in his mind as his pulse slowed and the lifeblood seeped from his wound.

Then the staff rolled from Severan’s fingers and he was still at last, his disbelieving eyes focused on nothing.

The blizzard inside the tent vanished, disappearing as if it had never existed. The frost and ice it had deposited remained, coating the entire inside of the tent and the scattered furniture with a thick whiteness and a chilly mist that hung in the air. Confused shouts rang throughout the camp outside, some of them coming very close.

Maric looked down at the mage dead beneath him, the bright blood a stain spreading slowly in the frost. With a grimace, he yanked the sword up from the corpse. The mage did not move.

“Thank you, Katriel,” he murmured, and felt the grief welling up inside him. He had found the letter and the tiny chest in her quarters the next morning, left by her out in the open, where he couldn’t possibly miss it. She had known. She had known she was followed to Denerim, she had known what awaited her when she returned. She had written that there could be no forgiveness for what she had done, and then she had explained in detail how Severan could be approached and killed.

Without him, she had written, the usurper is lost. And then she had wished him well.

Maric cried. He hunched down in the ice-filled tent and the tears flowed freely for Katriel, for his mother, for the part of himself that he had somehow lost along the way. But it was done. He had sworn to his mother that he would find a way, and he had. All that was left now was to finish it.

Two soldiers burst into the tent, skidding to a halt as they saw their dead master on the floor and Maric crouched above him. One of them overcame his shock and ran at Maric, shouting an angry war cry as he raised his sword.

Maric stood and slashed his blade around in a wide arc at the same time. The longsword cut through the man’s brigandine easily, leaving a deep gash that fountained blood. The man stumbled to his knees, and as Maric leaped past him, he stabbed downward into the side of the man’s neck. The soldier died, gurgling.

The other saw Maric charging, and his eyes went wide in fear. He turned to run and began to shout for help at the same time, but Maric pulled his blade out of the first soldier and thrust it quickly into the chest of the other. The man’s shouts died on his lips. Grimly and quietly, Maric stepped forward and finished running the soldier through.

There were more shouts nearby. The camp was in confusion, but the distractions he had planted would last for only so long. They would all be here soon.

Looking back at the dead mage, Maric paused. The man had paid for his arrogance. He had paid for helping the usurper keep his iron grip on the kingdom, and for whatever plan had brought him to Ferelden in the first place. If Maric owed him anything, it was for sending Katriel to him. For that, Maric had faced him alone. He had made it quick.

But now there would be no mercy.

I’m coming for you next, Meghren.

With that silent promise, Maric turned and stepped into the darkness outside and fled. Loghain and Rowan had fought a battle for him today, but the rest he intended to fight for himself. The stolen throne would be returned, and Ferelden would be free once more, and let the Maker pity any of those who stood in his way.