Dragon Age

“My doing?” She stood up from her stool, gathering her red robes around her. “Prince Maric or no, how is it that we were not able to defeat a small group of rebels? The boy may have survived the battle, but he cannot work miracles!”

“We did defeat them,” Severan said. “It was a close thing. They managed to get the help of dwarves from somewhere. Not a large number, but they were difficult to take down.” His eyes glanced toward Meghren nervously. “They were able to cleave through almost half the chevaliers. The casualty numbers have been . . . extraordinary.”

“Half!” Meghren exploded. Then he closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm. “But you said they were defeated? The rebels, dwarves, and all?”

Severan nodded. “Our numbers were too great. They retreated into the Brecilian Passage, where we would have followed and slaughtered them all . . .”

“Would have?”

“That is when the riot began. Before the commander could regroup your forces and begin the chase, the people of Gwaren rose up. Swarmed the lines, I’m told, completely unexpectedly. Commander Yaris was killed, among others.”

Mother Bronach took a step forward, alarmed. “That is no riot, surely.”

“Rebellion,” Meghren breathed. His eyes were wide with shock.

Severan held up the parchment, nodding. “The fighting in Gwaren has been bloody, and the town is aflame again. We’re not sure what is happening now, but there is the possibility that the rebel force may have doubled back and attacked Gwaren once more.”

“Can we not send more men?”

“It gets worse,” Severan began uneasily. “Word has gotten out.”

Meghren snorted. “So?”

“Perhaps you don’t understand, Your Majesty.” Severan strode toward Meghren and looked him straight in the eyes. “Word has gotten out that Maric lives. That he has returned from the dead, presumably to save these poor Fereldan fools from your rule. There was a riot in Redcliffe this morning, and the talk is spreading.”

Meghren backed away. He spluttered indignantly, but at the same time he looked precariously uncertain. “What? Riots? How dare they!” He waved a finger in Severan’s direction. “Send the call out! I want levies supplied! Every last member of the Bannorn will send troops this time!”

“They won’t send men if they’re frightened that their own lands are going to rebel underneath them. The Arl of Redcliffe has sent word asking you for assistance, asking you to send men to help him right away. He won’t be the first.”

“I am not here to help them!” Meghren stormed about the stable, outraged. “I want executions! Anyone who might even be suspected to be a sympathizer for those rebels, I want them hanged! These Fereldan dogs must learn who is their master!”

“Your Majesty . . . ,” Severan cautioned.

“Do it!” Meghren roared. The horses in the stables reared up on their hind legs, whinnying in response. “They will see what it means to trifle with the might of Orlais! Them and the dog prince both!”

Both Severan and Mother Bronach stared at him, somewhere between shock and horror. Meghren looked from one to the other, as if waiting for one of them to speak. As if insisting on it, in fact. Neither the mage nor the priest knew quite what to say, however. The prospect of preemptive executions being committed throughout Ferelden might not have the effect he imagined. Even a beaten and cowed dog might still bite, if cornered.

“King Meghren,” Mother Bronach began slowly, in the tone she reserved for those times she knew she was about to make him truly angry. “Perhaps now is the time to be merciful. Prove to the people you are the worthier king, and marshal your strength first before you—”

“Never!” he bellowed, spinning on her. His face was red, and Mother Bronach took a step back reflexively, stumbling against the stool behind her. “This is not a contest! I am the only king, and these others are . . . are malcontents! I will not let this spread further!”

With a step he was up close against her, his gritted teeth barely an inch away from her face. The Mother pressed herself against the wall, turning her face away from his in terror. Severan even thought for a moment that perhaps he should intervene; this was the Grand Cleric of Ferelden, after all. Even Meghren could not hurt her without consequences. But then he remembered that he didn’t particularly like the woman. Let her squirm.

“You will tell them,” Meghren commanded, his tone low and threatening, “that this dog prince is no savior, that he has not returned from the dead. You will tell them this, yes?”

She nodded, refusing to look him in the eyes. “I . . . I will say it was a mistake—”

“Not a mistake! He is a demon. A thing of evil risen from his grave.”

She nodded again, quickly.

“That’s not bad,” Severan considered, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “That might work.”

“Of course it will work.” Meghren stepped away from Mother Bronach, and she exhaled loudly. She composed her robes, beads of sweat running down her forehead. He turned toward Severan, much calmer now. “You will deal with the rebels, my mage. You can do this, yes?”

Severan nodded. “I will send word to the Emperor. He promised us two full legions in his last letter, if we needed. But he warned us that there would be no more after that, Your Majesty.”

Meghren stared at the floor, considering. “Will it be enough?”

“Added to what we have left? Yes. It should be more than enough. We can finish the rebels and then turn our attention to any uprising. They haven’t the strength to stand against you.”