Unknown - Dragon Age

Arl Rendorn was quick to realize that order was needed. After waking a number of officers who were still half drunk from the previous night’s exertions, he got much of the rebel army up and moving. Men were sent to patrol the streets and spread the message: The people of Gwaren would be safe under Prince Maric. The grain stores were opened and matters of shelter seen to for those who had spent the night huddling in the

burned-out husks of their homes. Most important of all, the soldiers started collecting the dead.

It was not long before plumes of black sickly smoke rose from the pyres, quickly snatched up by the breeze and scattered. The stench of burning flesh was everywhere, and a dark grease settled over every surface. Those who ventured outside did so with handkerchiefs covering their mouths. Even so, laundry was still hung on the lines, and a smattering of fishing boats still sailed out into the waves. Life had to go on, no matter who ruled.

Atop the hill overlooking the town, the manor was largely peaceful. Those who had not been wakened to assist with the activity in town slept on, though here and there signs of activity could be seen. A few of the Teyrn’s servants had tentatively returned, uncertain of their status but unwilling to abandon the only home they had ever known. Likewise, the camp followers that kept the army in food and clean linens were already tiptoeing about the manor’s halls, taking stock of its food supplies and sweeping up the worst of the debris.

The manor’s stables were still quiet, the majority of its new occupants either sleeping on their feet or munching away quietly on hay. One of the larger warhorses had been brought out of its pen, and patiently soaked in the dusty morning sunlight as Loghain saddled him. There were several saddlebags waiting to be tied on, as well, though none of them were particularly heavy. One did not load a warhorse down with giant packs like a mule.

It was fortunate, then, that Loghain had little to take. He had found his old studded leathers in one of the supply wagons during the night after an hour’s search by torchlight. It felt good to be wearing them again, like a pair of familiar boots long ago worn in. After a bit of hesitation, he had decided to keep his lieutenant’s cloak as well. He had earned it, after all.

Then he had acquired a tent and some camping gear with the help of a very startled young maid. All of this had been done quietly, with the hope that he would be gone and on his way before the rest of the manor awoke.

Sadly, that was not to be. Loghain heard angry steps approaching and identified them as belonging to Maric even before he stormed into the stable.

The Prince was sweating and pale, blond hair askew. The fact that he had arrived in a rush was painfully apparent, as he was wearing neither shoes nor shirt—only a pair of baggy trousers no doubt donned in haste. The heavy bandages around his chest were already spotted with dark bloodstains from the exertion. Maric leaned heavily on a wooden staff he was using as a crutch and stood panting in the doorway, glowering at Loghain indignantly.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Maric demanded, gasping for breath.

Loghain ignored him, keeping his attention focused on tying up the saddle.

Maric frowned and hobbled inside, scattering the loose hay that covered the floor. A fat tabby, which had been cleaning itself contentedly nearby, decided that enough was enough and trotted out the door he had left open, tail jutted indignantly up in the air. Maric marched over to Loghain and stopped an arm’s length away, almost stumbling and cursing the staff as he tried to maintain his balance.

“I know you’re not due to ride anywhere,” he said warily. “And I already know that you’ve been sneaking around, collecting your things.”

Loghain didn’t look up. “I’m not sneaking.”

“So what do you call it? Saddling up before dawn, not bothering to say anything to anyone? Where are you going? Are you coming back?”

Loghain finished tying the saddle with an exasperated tug

and then spun on Maric, his teeth clenched in fury. He paused, sighing inwardly as he saw Maric’s confusion growing. With a grimace, he looked Maric straight in the eyes. “I should have left a long time ago. I said I was going to bring you back to your army, and I did. But now it’s time for me to go.”

“I knew it!” Maric stormed a step away and then spun back about, clearly frustrated that his injury prevented him from properly pacing. “As soon as they told me what you were up to, I knew that’s what you were doing!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Maker’s breath, Loghain, why now? What brought this on, all of a sudden?”

Loghain’s face was stone. He turned back to his horse, picking up one of the sacks. “It’s simply time. You’re fine, Maric.” His tone sounded hollow, even to himself. “You don’t need me.”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Maric scoffed. Then he stopped, regarding Loghain curiously. “Are you angry at me about the charge yesterday? I had no idea what that mage was going to do to Rowan, I just thought that—”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then what?”

“I need to go back,” Loghain stated firmly. The emphasis was such that Maric didn’t need to ask where he meant. “I need to find . . . what’s left of my father. I need to bury him. I need to know what happened to everyone else, if they got away or not. What happened to Sister Ailis?” He looked at Maric seriously. “These are people he cared about. He wouldn’t want me to abandon them. I’ve done my part, here. I need to go and . . . I have a duty. And not just here.”

“So why does it feel like you’re running away?”

Loghain sighed. This was the man who had stumbled into Loghain’s life and brought all his troubles with him. Because of him, Loghain’s father was dead and Loghain had been swept up into a war he never even wanted to become part of.

Yet somehow over the last three years, Maric had become his friend. How had that happened? He still wasn’t sure.

Outside, the sounds of the manor stirring to life could already be heard, men shouting and boots running. No doubt Maric had roused the entire army before coming. He wasn’t about to make this easy, was he? How very like him.

Loghain chuckled wearily, scratching his head. “I’m not used to talking this much,” he admitted.

“Nonsense. You talk to me all the time. Rowan always says I’m the only one who can make you string more than three words together at once.” Maric grinned, and then his face became very serious. He reached out and put a hand on Loghain’s shoulder, the hand of a concerned friend. “So talk to me. Do you really have to do this now?”

“If not now, then when? It’s been three years.” Loghain turned back to the task of tying the saddlebags. “I’m not one of your rebels, Maric, not really. Nor am I one of your knights. There’s no place for me here.”

“I could knight you.” It sounded almost like a threat.

Loghain locked stares with Maric, and the challenge hung there in the air for a long moment. Then Maric relented, reluctantly. Nothing more needed to be said on the matter.

Maric leaned on his crutch and watched Loghain prepare his bags and gather his quiver. He remained silent, though it was evident that he desperately wanted to continue objecting.

The sounds of activity increased outside until Loghain heard new footsteps arriving. Armored footsteps. He stiffened and sighed inwardly, purposely not looking as Rowan walked in a moment later, her heavy plate newly scrubbed and gleaming. Her brown locks were still wet from washing, the damp curls plastered against her pale skin. She was still lovely, he thought, even if her expression was icy and stiff.

“What is going on?” she demanded.

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