Unknown - Dragon Age

the Fereldan people with new taxes or he must go to his Emperor with cup in hand to ask for more.” He grinned mischievously. “We intend to take it from him.”

The hall erupted into exclamations of shock and angry questions. Loghain saw that many of these men were worried, and leaned to shout questions into each other’s ears. He could imagine what they were. They didn’t know Maric as he did. They knew his mother, and perhaps Arl Rendorn. Of Maric, all they knew was that he was either bold or foolhardy enough to capture Gwaren, a town he might not hold for very long.

Two of the younger banns, small landholders from the north who had been hovering unenthusiastically near the back even before Maric revealed his plan, now quietly made their exit. Loghain caught Rowan’s eyes across the room, and she nodded almost imperceptibly in response. She and three other soldiers inconspicuously followed after the banns.

Maric would not approve, Loghain was certain. But Maric didn’t have to know.

The shouting went on for a full minute as Maric listened, seemingly unconcerned as he returned to the chair at the head of the hall. One of the elder banns, a well-known and respected man Loghain remembered from his time in the Bannorn, stood and held up a hand for attention. As eyes turned toward him, the volume in the room diminished greatly.

“Bann Tremaine, isn’t it?” Maric asked him, loudly enough to be heard.

The Bann bowed respectfully, his heavy blue robes threatening to topple his weathered bones to the floor. His skin was like pale parchment, and when he spoke, his voice was a quiet rasp that the rest of the room had to strain to hear. “My prince,” the Bann began, “I do not understand. How will you reach West Hill? The usurper is said to have his army camped on the Brecilian Passage. Must you not do battle even to reach the north?”

Maric nodded. “Ships. The usurper does not control the seas yet, so we have contracted several Antivan galleys to ferry our men to the northern coast.” He grinned slightly. “I’m not going to say exactly where, if you’ll forgive me.”

There were a few knowing chuckles among the crowd, but concerned glances as well. The elder Bann Tremaine appeared confused and asked what most others were likely thinking. “But . . . does this mean you will be abandoning Gwaren?”

Maric listened to the shouts of approval that accompanied the Bann’s question. “We need to strike at the usurper’s support,” he stated firmly. “If we do not, we will not be able to hold Gwaren no matter what we do.”

Several shouts of “But what will happen here?” went up from the crowd. Loghain noticed the portly mayor of the town seated at one of the tables, his face pale as a bedsheet. It would be very easy, Loghain imagined, for some to construe the mayor as having supported the rebel’s presence. No doubt the mayor was thinking about how the usurper might view those who had done so, should Meghren regain control.

Maric held up a hand, but the concerned chatter barely stilled. “We have no choice!” he shouted. “We shall leave a garrison, and hope to draw the usurper away to the north! But if he comes, we cannot stop him!”

General upset arose again, with numerous men jumping up from their chairs and shouting angrily at Maric. The idea of abandoning the first town the rebels had liberated did not sit well with them. Loghain knew Gwaren was not defensible enough to last against a full assault from the usurper, and with nowhere to retreat to, it was foolish to try and hold the town with a small force. But most of these men knew nothing of the sort.

Maric looked nervous now, sweating more profusely as he watched the room fall out of his control. Bann Tremaine sat down, shaking his head in sad disbelief, and many of the

other nobles seemed to take that as a sign of condemnation. Loghain watched the men who were already part of the rebel cause and saw that they remained quiet in their chairs, their lips pursed.

Why the approval of any of these men was required, Loghain wasn’t certain. But Maric wanted it, hoping that approval might mean additional support and even more recognition from the Landsmeet that he was still the rightful ruler of Ferelden. It was risky, in Loghain’s mind. What if they refused him? Even if they approved, would that equate to more soldiers? The rebellion stood to lose more than it gained with this court. Loghain had argued as much and had been overridden.

“What does Arl Rendorn think of this?” The shout came from a gray-haired noblewoman, and was repeated as several others leaped on the idea. Others began to turn to the Arl, who glowered uncomfortably from near Maric’s chair. He said nothing as the cries increased in volume, until finally Maric grimaced and nodded.

Looking ill at ease in his formal coat, the Arl stepped forward, and the room quickly hushed. “I will not lie,” he announced gruffly. “I do have my misgivings about this plan.” His words were met by an immediate uproar of disapproval, which he had to bellow to be heard over. “But! But it is not without merit, my friends!”

Many of the nobles in the room were now on their feet, some looking ready to walk out. Arl Rendorn stepped forward, his brow knotted in consternation. “What Prince Maric says is not untrue—remaining here is not an option! It is true that we are spending all that we have on these ships, and it is a risky plan, but imagine what will happen if it works!” The sound of chatter hushed even further. “Have you all lived so long under the Orlesian thumb that you do not remember what it was like to strike a real blow against them!” Some cheers greeted his words, with several men pounding on their tables. “My misgivings are

those of an old man . . . all the successes that your prince has enjoyed so far have been due to such risks!”

The Arl stepped back as a smattering of applause rang through the hall. Maric smiled at him in gratitude. Loghain knew it could have been much worse. Arl Rendorn’s objections in private had been strenuous. He did not trust the sea, like any good Fereldan, and the idea that the rebels should spend all the silver they had plundered in Gwaren on ships left him cold. All the more reason to do so, as far as Loghain was concerned.

Still, the Arl’s endorsement was hardly ringing. Skepticism reigned, and the babble of argument among those gathered increased. Maric stood, and it took several tries for his shouts to be heard over the din.

“The reason I am bringing this before you,” Maric yelled, “is that we need your help! If those who wish Ferelden to be free do not rise up now, they will never have the chance to! We cannot shoulder this burden alone!”

More negative cries rang out, and Loghain watched Maric’s heart sink. His words were being ignored. They didn’t believe him, didn’t think the plan had real merit, or they were frightened. The notion of Mad Meghren’s vengeance had kept most of them from joining the rebels to this point. Arl Byron had been the most powerful man to abandon his lands for Maric, and what had happened to him? Old men shook their heads, and many were getting ready to leave.

Loghain was done listening. He strode forward, elbowing past several others to enter the middle of hall. “It can be taken!” he roared. He drew his sword, and the metallic sound combined with the appearance of a weapon jarred the room. Those who had been about to leave stood still, while others stared openly in shock.

“You doubt our ability to take West Hill,” he shouted, turning to glare defiantly at the faces in the crowd, “and yet how

many of you would have thought we could be standing here tonight? How many of you did I meet with that said you were certain that the death of the Rebel Queen meant that the rebellion was over? Yet here we are!”

Silence greeted his words. He turned and looked into the crowd until he spotted the blond elven woman who had brought them Arl Byron’s information. She stood against the far wall, now garbed in an elegant green dress but staying almost hidden in the shadows. Loghain had initially assumed her to be little more than a messenger, but after considerable interrogation he had grudgingly revised that opinion—indeed, it seemed likely that the elf had been instrumental in acquiring the information on West Hill in the first place. They were unable to ask Arl Byron now about her history as his agent, but her skills alone made her valuable. They were fortunate that she had made it to Gwaren in one piece.

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