Unknown - Dragon Age

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 lost 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?

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