Unknown: Dragon Age

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.

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