Rowan stepped quietly onto the rocks beside him. Her brown curls fluttered in the crisp breeze, frost clinging to her armor, which had been newly polished for the coming battle. Loghain kept his eyes on the distant dragon, trying not to lose sight of it as it dipped low into the foggy valley. It could always turn and fly up here and feast on the men conveniently clumped together in the camp, but somehow he knew it wouldn’t.
They watched in silence for several minutes, saying nothing. Only the wind rustling against the rocks could be heard, along with the occasional dragon roar far off in the mist.
“She’s beautiful,” Rowan finally murmured.
Loghain didn’t say anything at first. It had been difficult to remain, to feel her anger when she looked at him. Rowan hadn’t forgiven him; he knew that. Very likely she never would. But Maric had asked—no, demanded—that he put Ferelden first. And so he had done it. And now he would see this through.
“They say that Ferelden is in revolt,” he finally said. “Denerim is burning, or so the last rider that joined us during the night told us. The usurper is paralyzed.”
Rowan nodded slowly. “Considering what the Chantry said, I’m not surprised.”
“What they said?”
She looked at him curiously. “You hadn’t heard? The Grand Cleric of Ferelden herself, Revered Mother Bronach, declared that Maric was the rightful holder of the throne. She went as far as to call Meghren a dangerous tyrant, and proclaim that the Maker had sent Maric to save Ferelden.”
Loghain’s eyes went wide. “The usurper isn’t going to like that.”
“Evidently he has his hands full at the moment.”
“You mean he hasn’t put her head on a pike yet?”
“He’d have to catch her first, wouldn’t he? Perhaps she shouted her pronouncement very loudly from the windows of her speeding carriage.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t very convincing. The Revered Mother had put the Orlesian bastard on the throne in the first place; more than likely she had merely detected which way the wind was blowing.
He suspected it might be a good move on her part. When news of their slaughter of Ceorlic and the others had gotten out, only a handful of the nobility had bothered to raise an outrage. Every single one of the families of those men had angrily sworn they would fight with King Meghren to the last, though it was doubtful they would have ever done otherwise, but for the others? Many seemed to hear the news, and they did just as Maric had predicted they would. The ranks of the army had swollen dramatically over the last two days alone.
Loghain realized that Rowan was staring at him, lost in thought. Off in the distance, the dragon roared again. The beast swooped low and disappeared off into the hills as the fog banks were slowly burned away by the rising sun. He tried not to stare back at Rowan, tried not to notice how she looked radiant in the wind, a warrior queen that the minstrels would no doubt one day sing about in awe.
“Are we truly going to go into battle without Maric?” she asked.
It was a good question, one he had asked himself. “You know where he is.”
“I know where he should be. He should be here. These men need to see him, they need to know who they’re fighting for.”
“Rowan,” he said firmly, “he is doing what he feels he must.”
She frowned, turning and staring off into the valley again. A strong breeze swept across the ridge, freezing them both, and she shivered in her armor. “I know,” she breathed, her tone anxious, “I just fear what might happen to him. He could die, with no one with him to help. We’ve come too far to lose him now.”
Loghain smiled at her, hesitantly raising a hand to brush her cheek. It was a small gesture, and she closed her eyes, accepting it . . . but only for a moment. Rowan’s eyes fluttered open and she pulled away slightly, uncomfortably avoiding looking in his direction. It was enough. There was a gulf between them now, and it wasn’t crossed so easily.
He let his hand drop. “He could die anywhere, even here.”
“I know that.”
“Would you refuse his chance to do this one thing alone?”
She thought about it, and then her eyes dropped. “No.”
There was stirring in the camp around them now, and Loghain could see why. The sun was beginning to clear the horizon, setting the clouds ablaze, but more important there were signs of activity down in the valley. The vanguard of the Orlesian force, he suspected. They would have to move quickly.
He turned to tell Rowan, but she was gone. She already knew.
Not two hours later, the rebel army had assembled. They were gathered behind him now, a great unruly horde of riders and bowmen, knights and commoners. He barely could remember who most of them were; the small force they had left Gwaren with constituted only a small core of those who were present here. Standing prominently in front of them was a handful of dwarves, less than a third of the Legion of the Dead that had fought with them in Gwaren. Nalthur had been pleased to return just in time for the battle, and had grinned madly when Loghain had informed him of the odds they faced. He grinned still, watching Loghain from where he stood with his men, all of whom were given a respectful berth by the other soldiers.
Nearly a thousand men, all told. Far more undisciplined than Loghain would have liked, and even with the veterans such as the Legion they had had almost no chance to train together or work out ways to communicate strategy properly. It could potentially be a nightmare. Anything could go wrong.
But then he remembered the dragon.
The chevaliers were down in the valley and had already become aware of the rebel force assembling above them. They were scrambling to assume a defensible position and recall those horsemen they had already ferried across the river. It 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.