“No.” Loghain stared hard at the ground, grimacing.
Then he awkwardly lowered himself to one knee before Maric. His face felt hot and flushed, and he knew he must have looked quite the fool. The shocked soldiers behind the Arl looked at each other incredulously.
Maric looked down at him with abject horror. “What are you doing?”
Loghain frowned thoughtfully, but then nodded. He knew this was what he needed to do. “I may be no knight,” he said firmly, “but I’m certain it wouldn’t do to have a commander in your army who hadn’t sworn an oath of some kind.”
Now it was Maric’s turn to be flabbergasted. His mouth dropped open, and he looked helplessly from Arl Rendorn to Rowan and back to Loghain. “No! No, no, I don’t need any kind of oath from you!”
“Maric—”
“You misunderstand, I would never . . . I mean I know how you feel, your father was a completely—”
“Maric,” Loghain interrupted. “Shut up.”
Maric’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.
Behind them, Rowan slowly retreated to the doorway. No one noticed as she silently turned and left.
“If you really want me to stay,” Loghain began, looking up at Maric, “then I will. And if you are going to trust me with your army, if you’re going to trust me that much, then I’m honored. I may not be highborn, and I have no idea how much my word is worth to you . . . but you have it. You are my friend and my prince and I swear to serve you well.”
Maric swallowed hard. “Your word means a great deal to me, Loghain,” he said simply. He seemed deeply touched.
Slowly Loghain stood back up. Arl Rendorn nodded at him silently, pride in the old man’s eyes. The soldiers behind the Arl saluted. He stood there dumbly in front of them, not sure what to say.
Maric grinned like a fool. “Commander Loghain,” he said aloud, as if testing out the title.
Loghain chuckled ruefully. “That does sound strange.”
“I’m willing to bet there’s still a wine bottle or two to be found from last night.”
Loghain snorted. “Full of swill, perhaps.”
“And what better way to celebrate your promotion?”
“Will you put on a shirt, at least?”
“Fine, fine. If you insist.” Maric chuckled, shouldering his staff and hobbling out the door.
Loghain waited a moment, shaking his head in quiet disbelief.
Then he followed Maric out.
10
The main hall of Gwaren’s manor was crowded, as it was never intended to be used as a royal court. Not even a court presided over by an exiled prince, attended by nobility already part of the rebel cause and a smattering of those who had dared the journey despite the threat of the usurper’s wrath. Even so, Loghain saw that many more had come than he had assumed might. Certainly many more were present than Maric had dared to hope. Loghain had to suppress a grin as he watched Maric sitting on the ornate chair at the head of the hall and becoming more and more nervous, watching his guests crowding among the tables.
The usurper had not made it easy for them over the past several weeks. Fortunately it seemed that there was little King Meghren could do. The Bercilian Passage through the great forest was easily defended, and though the King’s forces had attempted to reach Gwaren several times, they had been forced to turn back long before nearing the town each time. The tactics the rebels had learned in holding the southern hills benefited them here, and Loghain was proud of the role his Night Elves had played in harassing the enemy lines from within the forest. Their reputation among the enemy as brutal killers had only increased, and it was said that many men within the King’s army were refusing to take the night watch for fear it would mean a silent arrow in the throat.
This meant the overland route to Gwaren was closed, but fortunately it was not a route that the town relied on. The port had remained open, and after an initial period of uncertainty, it had resumed a bustling business. Maric had met with the local mayor, a portly fellow who had scraped the floor in abject terror when the men brought him in. The mayor was a decent man, Ferelden-born and ill-treated by the Orlesians who had assumed rule over the land. Naturally he had no reason to believe that the invaders were any different, and was shocked when Maric put him back in charge of the town and gave him discretion in using the rebel army to restore law and order.
After a few nervous tests of his authority, each decision backed by Maric with little question, the mayor performed his duties with vigor. The man’s relief was almost palpable, and by convincing him of Maric’s honest intentions, so, too, were most of the local Fereldans convinced. The acceptance of Maric as the true prince became commonplace, with lines at the manor by the well-to-do who were now only too willing to pledge their allegiance. Efforts accelerated to rebuild and provide shelter to those displaced by the fighting, and there were even reports of some who had fled Gwaren returning to their homes.
Of course, the few local Orlesians who had been unable to flee the terrifying prospect of rebel control were the least pleased by their situation. They were less fortunate folk, servants to the wealthy gentry as well as guardsmen and a handful of merchants and entertainers. Poor or not, Loghain was not about to risk them proving their loyalty to King Meghren by assassinating Maric. The guards had been rounded up and imprisoned in the manor’s dungeon while the rest were being carefully watched.
They weren’t the only potential problems, Loghain was certain. The smiles of the locals would fade quickly if the wind changed direction, without a doubt. Maric scoffed at the idea, but even Rowan agreed that security needed to be tightened around the manor. Taking over a town was one thing; controlling it was quite something else.
In time, the usurper would rouse a sufficient force that they would push through the Bercilian Passage and
