Dragon Age

by David Gaider

  Meghren snorted with derision. “And how is that not good news?”

  Severan fingered the rolled-up parchment nervously. “It . . . is uncertain we will be able to hold it, Your Majesty. It was very difficult to take. There were . . . unexpected circumstances.” A new bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Severan prayed that Meghren did not notice it.

  Thankfully, he seemed more occupied with his own annoyance. He tapped a boot on the wooden floor impatiently, his hands on his hips as he looked around the stables, perhaps in search of someone to commiserate with him. Finally his head snapped back toward Severan. “Unexpected circumstances?” he said viciously. “The remnants of those fool rebels, that’s all that were left there, you said. I sent the chevaliers and half the men that took West Hill. More than enough, you said.”

  “Prince Maric is alive,” Severan said. “He was in Gwaren.” He immediately regretted it, as Meghren’s eyes went wide with rage. Even so, he said nothing immediately. He merely stared at Severan, and the mage began to consider if he should retreat.

  “Alive? How?” Mother Bronach asked. She looked truly shocked, Severan noted. So she had not heard that part, at least. He supposed he should take some small satisfaction from that fact. It would provide him a modicum of comfort should he be inadvertently skewered.

  “Yes,” Meghren snarled. “How is he alive? Again? And how could he be in Gwaren?” He pulled out his sword from the scabbard, his look menacing.

  Severan frowned at him severely. “I will remind His Majesty that I said we had not found the prince’s body at West Hill!” He slammed his fist down on a nearby wooden post, startling one of the horses. “How many times did I protest that we needed to be certain before you made your announcements? From all my reports, Prince Maric appeared in Gwaren just prior to the attack. The entire town thinks he rose from the dead! Raised up by the Maker!”

  It was a gamble. Severan maintained his angry stare, the sweat continuing to pour down his brow, and after a moment Meghren sighed and pouted. “But there were so many burned corpses! You said any of them could be the boy!”

  “I said they might be. I told you to give me time for our search parties to make sure! If you had at least waited until we had recaptured Gwaren . . .”

  Meghren turned toward Mother Bronach, throwing up his hands. “Bah! This is your doing, woman!”

  “My doing?” She stood up from her stool, gathering her red robes around her. “Prince Maric or no, how is it that we were not able to defeat a small group of rebels? The boy may have survived the battle, but he cannot work miracles!”

  “We did defeat them,” Severan said. “It was a close thing. They managed to get the help of dwarves from somewhere. Not a large number, but they were difficult to take down.” His eyes glanced toward Meghren nervously. “They were able to cleave through almost half the chevaliers. The casualty numbers have been . . . extraordinary.”

  “Half!” Meghren exploded. Then he closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm. “But you said they were defeated? The rebels, dwarves, and all?”

  Severan nodded. “Our numbers were too great. They retreated into the Brecilian Passage, where we would have followed and slaughtered them all . . .”

  “Would have?”

  “That is when the riot began. Before the commander could regroup your forces and begin the chase, the people of Gwaren rose up. Swarmed the lines, I’m told, completely unexpectedly. Commander Yaris was killed, among others.”

  Mother Bronach took a step forward, alarmed. “That is no riot, surely.”

  “Rebellion,” Meghren breathed. His eyes were wide with shock.

  Severan held up the parchment, nodding. “The fighting in Gwaren has been bloody, and the town is aflame again. We’re not sure what is happening now, but there is the possibility that the rebel force may have doubled back and attacked Gwaren once more.”

  “Can we not send more men?”

  “It gets worse,” Severan began uneasily. “Word has gotten out.”

  Meghren snorted. “So?”

  “Perhaps you don’t understand, Your Majesty.” Severan strode toward Meghren and looked him straight in the eyes. “Word has gotten out that Maric lives. That he has returned from the dead, presumably to save these poor Fereldan fools from your rule. There was a riot in Redcliffe this morning, and the talk is spreading.”

  Meghren backed away. He spluttered indignantly, but at the same time he looked precariously uncertain. “What? Riots? How dare they!” He waved a finger in Severan’s direction. “Send the call out! I want levies supplied! Every last member of the Bannorn will send troops this time!”

  “They won’t send men if they’re frightened that their own lands are going to rebel underneath them. The Arl of Redcliffe has sent word asking you for assistance, asking you to send men to help him right away. He won’t be the first.”

  “I am not here to help them!” Meghren stormed about the stable, outraged. “I want executions! Anyone who might even be suspected to be a sympathizer for those rebels, I want them hanged! These Fereldan dogs must learn who is their master!”

  “Your Majesty . . . ,” Severan cautioned.

  “Do it!” Meghren roared. The horses in the stables reared up on their hind legs, whinnying in response. “They will see what it means to trifle with the might of Orlais! Them and the dog prince both!”

  Both Severan and Mother Bronach stared at him, somewhere between shock and horror. Meghren looked from one to the other, as if waiting for one of them to speak. As if insisting on it, in fact. Neither the mage nor the priest knew quite what to say, however. The prospect of preemptive executions being committed throughout Ferelden might not have the effect he imagined. Even a beaten and cowed dog might still bite, if cornered.

  “King Meghren,” Mother Bronach began slowly, in the tone she reserved for those times she knew she was about to make him truly angry. “Perhaps now is the time to be merciful. Prove to the people you are the worthier king, and marshal your strength first before you—”

  “Never!” he bellowed, spinning on her. His face was red, and Mother Bronach took a step back reflexively, stumbling against the stool behind her. “This is not a contest! I am the only king, and these others are . . . are malcontents! I will not let this spread further!”

  With a step he was up close against her, his gritted teeth barely an inch away from her face. The Mother pressed herself against the wall, turning her face away from his in terror. Severan even thought for a moment that perhaps he should intervene; this was the Grand Cleric of Ferelden, after all. Even Meghren could not hurt her without consequences. But then he remembered that he didn’t particularly like the woman. Let her squirm.

  “You will tell them,” Meghren commanded, his tone low and threatening, “that this dog prince is no savior, that he has not returned from the dead. You will tell them this, yes?”

  She nodded, refusing to look him in the eyes. “I . . . I will say it was a mistake—”

  “Not a mistake! He is a demon. A thing of evil risen from his grave.”

  She nodded again, quickly.

  “That’s not bad,” Severan considered, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “That might work.”

  “Of course it will work.” Meghren stepped away from Mother Bronach, and she exhaled loudly. She composed her robes, beads of sweat running down her forehead. He turned toward Severan, much calmer now. “You will deal with the rebels, my mage. You can do this, yes?”

  Severan nodded. “I will send word to the Emperor. He promised us two full legions in his last letter, if we needed. But he warned us that there would be no more after that, Your Majesty.”

  Meghren stared at the floor, considering. “Will it be enough?”

  “Added to what we have left? Yes. It should be more than enough. We can finish the rebels and then turn our attention to any uprising. They haven’t the strength to stand against you.”

  “Then do it.”

  Severan turned to leave, but Meghren grabbed
him by the arm and spun him about. Meghren’s stare was intense. “But this will be your last chance, my mage. That is clear, yes?”

  Severan nodded, and he was released. It may be your last chance as well, Your Majesty, he thought to himself. He merely bowed low, however, and retreated from the room. A moment later, Mother Bronach did the same. She did not look pleased. Meghren was oblivious of them both, already wrapped up once again in an annoyed inspection of his golden armor.

  As Severan crossed the long hallways back into the palace proper, thoughts whirled about in his head. If he was careful, this situation could still be turned to his advantage. Meghren had been forced to recognize that the situation was serious. A quick defeat of the rebels would make him most grateful—a better result even than defeating the rebels at Gwaren would have been.

  Already most of the palace knew to look to Severan for their commands. The Orlesian commanders responded solely to his orders. The nobility came to him when they needed problems solved. Even the chamberlain came to Severan when it came time to determine Meghren’s daily schedule, and they both made sure that he was kept busy doing what he did best: pleasing himself. Ostensibly all decisions were made by him, but anyone who was anyone important in Ferelden knew better. Without Severan, Meghren wasn’t capable of finding his smallclothes.

  He still had to handle Meghren with care. Severan hadn’t yet gotten to the point where he could survive a direct confrontation, should the man get it into his head to realize what was happening. And with Mother Bronach still whispering into his ears, that was always a possibility.

  With any luck, his rage against her tonight could be stoked. It was something to consider. For now, however, he had to keep his mind on the rebels.

  A young page came around the corner and spied Severan approaching him, and responded by running up nervously. “My lord Severan!” he cried. The lad was out of breath.

  “Another message?” More news from Gwaren would be welcome. If it was bad news, Severan at least had an excuse to avoid Meghren for a while yet.

  “No, my lord,” the lad gulped, nervous. “There is a woman. She sent me to find you. I’ve been looking everywhere!”

  “A woman?”

  “An elf, my lord. She told me to say her name is Katriel.”

  He paused. “Katriel, you say? Where is she now?”

  “In your quarters, my lord.”

  Severan didn’t wait for the page to reply, breezing past him quickly. Katriel had done excellent work at West Hill, but had then disappeared under suspicious circumstances. He had wondered if she had been killed, perhaps found out after she had finished her work. There had been several unanswered questions, which had begun to make him suspicious. If she was back, however, this boded well.

  Provided, of course, that she could supply an explanation for her absence.

  It took several minutes for him to reach his quarters, even moving at a steady pace. He considered briefly calling the guards, but decided that would be unwise. It was unlikely the guards would dare to question him, but rumors spread far too easily. Who knows what Meghren might happen to overhear?

  Instead he paused at his door and cast an enchantment of protection over himself. As unlikely as it was, if she intended him harm, it was good to be prepared. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and entered.

  Katriel was as he remembered, golden curls down her back and majestic green eyes sizing him up. She wore dusty leathers and smelled faintly of sweat and horses. She had traveled here quickly, then, and had not stopped even to wash herself up? A good sign, then. His room was shadowed except for the flickering light of a lantern on his desk, and Katriel thumbed idly through one of his journals.

  “I trust you have a good reason for your disappearance,” he said evenly. “And why you haven’t contacted me prior to your appearance here?” Severan didn’t like to show off his magic, but he held out a palm and allowed a lick of magical flame to spin itself into existence. He imagined it drove home the point sufficiently.

  “I do,” she responded. The elf seemed far more solemn than he recalled. She closed his journal quietly and stared at Severan without challenge. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

  “Good,” he said. The ball of fire hovering over his palm winked out, and he stepped farther into the room. He kept a wary eye on her even so. “Are you still situated in the rebel camp with Prince Maric? Or did they lose you at West Hill, as well?”

  “I am still with the Prince, or at least I was until their victory at Gwaren. Then I came directly here, though it was not easy to escape detection.”

  Severan waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. He frowned, nettled. “Victory? Then their counterattack was successful? They are back in control of Gwaren?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Though not before your men slaughtered half of the town. That will cause quite a stir when news of it gets out.”

  He waved away the matter, frowning. “That isn’t important now. With your help, we can strike at the rebel force and finish it once and for all. I assume the prince in Gwaren is actually him? Not some pretender?”

  “It is,” she replied.

  “Pity. Well, he will have to die. Thankfully you can make certain it is done properly this time.” Severan paused as he felt a buzzing sensation in the back of his head. Uncertain what it was, he increased the magical aura of protection around him and watched Katriel more carefully. What was she up to?

  The elf seemed oblivious of his discomfort, merely shaking her head as she glided toward him around his desk. “No,” she murmured. “I’m not going to do that.”

  “I see,” he said stiffly, ignoring the buzzing. “And what about our contract? I was led to believe you bards held your honor above all else.”

  Katriel paused at his desk. “Let us assume for the moment that our contract was not canceled the moment you changed the plan at West Hill.” She folded her arms, frowning. “I would need to remind you that my contract was to deliver Prince Maric to you, alive. Nothing more, nothing less.” Her green eyes glinted dangerously at him.

  Severan paused. The buzzing in his head got worse, and numbness crawled up his skull. He ignored it. “Would you bring me the Prince now, as we agreed, if I asked you to do it?”

  She shook her head. “No. I would not.”

  “I see.” He raised his palm again, and the ball of fire reformed. It was brighter now, flickering blue at the edges. His eyes bored into hers, daring her to try to strike him with the daggers she surely had on her person. “Then we are going to have an issue, yes?”

  Katriel didn’t move. She merely stared at Severan expectantly, her arms still folded. He concentrated, but the buzzing only got worse. The ball of flame sputtered and then disappeared. He would have gasped in shock, but the numbness had spread to his face. He could only open his mouth and then click it shut again.

  The room began to spin, and he reached out to grab on to a wooden bedpost to steady himself. He felt the strength in his legs draining out from underneath him.

  Katriel gestured toward the door. “A contact poison, coated on the doorknob.” As she slowly walked toward Severan, his hands slid down the post and he collapsed to the floor. Any attempt of his to cry out elicited only a painful wheeze as his throat constricted up tight, making it difficult to breathe.

  The elf stood over him, looking down with sadness in her green eyes. She did not seem to be enjoying what she was doing, though that hardly brought him any satisfaction. His heart leaped madly about in his chest, just as his mind screamed at him to move, to find some way out of this trap of paralysis.

  “I do not intend to kill you,” she said quietly. “I should do it, but you are right on that count, at least. My honor, for what it’s worth, forbids it.” She crouched down over him, absently adjusting his robe so it did not bunch up around his throat.

  Severan tried to reach out for his staff, propped up next to his bed not far away. His fingers flexed, the effort to do so making his face turn red and swea
ty, but he could not move his arm. Katriel watched his effort passively. “Consider this, mage: if I had slain you, it would have been your pride that was your undoing in the end. If my time as a bard has taught me anything, it is that men with power can still be approached. The more power they believe they have, the more vulnerable they are.”

  He looked up at her, wanting to hurl furious insults, wanting to reach up and strangle her slender throat, but he could do nothing but wheeze and spit. Her eyes hardened as she stared down at him. “I am not your servant, mage,” she said dispassionately. “I am no one’s servant any longer. That is what I came to tell you.”

  Katriel stood up and moved toward the doorway, and he continued to lie there, struggling feebly against the poison in his blood. She opened the door and paused, looking back at him.

  “If you are wise, you will abandon your plans and return to wherever you came from. If you continue here, you will die, of that I assure you.” She looked off into the distance, her countenance softening for a moment before she shrugged off the feeling. “Consider that warning a courtesy.”

  And then she was gone.

  Severan lay on the cold stone of his bedroom floor, trying with increasing success to reach out toward the staff. He supposed he should be glad for his life. He was a fool to let his guard down so completely, after all. As the beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, however, all he could truly think of was revenge.

  For this indignity, she will suffer. Then the rebel prince after her and all the rest.

  Oh, they will suffer.

  17

  Loghain watched Maric quietly from across the room.

  They were all exhausted after the days of battle, finally resulting in Gwaren being successfully defended from the usurper’s attack, but still Maric toiled away at his table, writing letter after letter. How many he had written so far, Loghain could only guess, but three riders had already been sent westward, carrying word into the Bannorn and other parts of the land.

  Loghain was fairly certain that word of Maric’s return would spread faster than any horse could, but Maric was determined to make a personal appeal to the Fereldan nobility while there was still time to capitalize on their victory. It had come at a heavy cost, after all. The number of dead within Gwaren had been staggering. The Orlesians had been brutal in their efforts to deal with the uprising, so much so that Maric had felt compelled to turn the army about even though they had been barely in fighting form and had been fleeing for their lives.