The Stolen Throne

“No!” he screamed in horror, realizing what the Prince had done.

Maric stood over the mage, snarling in fury as he held the longsword by the hilt and plunged the blade down. The point of the dragonbone struck Severan’s protection spell and flashed bright sparks. Severan was not hit, but he reeled in pain as the magic blade cracked the energies of his shield.

As Maric raised the blade up high again, Severan screamed in pure terror. He put up his hands defensively, trying to summon another spell, but it was too late. The blade came down with Maric’s full weight behind it. With a great flash of light, it shattered the protection spell, thrusting through it and plunging into Severan’s heart.

The mage gasped, feeling agony exploding through him like white fire.

Thoughts raced through his head. No! This cannot be how it ends! Not like this! He tried to bring to mind a spell that might save him, a healing spell or even a rite to pull his spirit from his body and preserve it. But the numbness left him powerless, left him screaming in his mind as his pulse slowed and the lifeblood seeped from his wound.

Then the staff rolled from Severan’s fingers and he was still at last, his disbelieving eyes focused on nothing.

The blizzard inside the tent vanished, disappearing as if it had never existed. The frost and ice it had deposited remained, coating the entire inside of the tent and the scattered furniture with a thick whiteness and a chilly mist that hung in the air. Confused shouts rang throughout the camp outside, some of them coming very close.

Maric looked down at the mage dead beneath him, the bright blood a stain spreading slowly in the frost. With a grimace, he yanked the sword up from the corpse. The mage did not move.

“Thank you, Katriel,” he murmured, and felt the grief welling up inside him. He had found the letter and the tiny chest in her quarters the next morning, left by her out in the open, where he couldn’t possibly miss it. She had known. She had known she was followed to Denerim, she had known what awaited her when she returned. She had written that there could be no forgiveness for what she had done, and then she had explained in detail how Severan could be approached and killed.

Without him, she had written, the usurper is lost. And then she had wished him well.

Maric cried. He hunched down in the ice-filled tent and the tears flowed freely for Katriel, for his mother, for the part of himself that he had somehow lost along the way. But it was done. He had sworn to his mother that he would find a way, and he had. All that was left now was to finish it.

Two soldiers burst into the tent, skidding to a halt as they saw their dead master on the floor and Maric crouched above him. One of them overcame his shock and ran at Maric, shouting an angry war cry as he raised his sword.

Maric stood and slashed his blade around in a wide arc at the same time. The longsword cut through the man’s brigandine easily, leaving a deep gash that fountained blood. The man stumbled to his knees, and as Maric leaped past him, he stabbed downward into the side of the man’s neck. The soldier died, gurgling.

The other saw Maric charging, and his eyes went wide in fear. He turned to run and began to shout for help at the same time, but Maric pulled his blade out of the first soldier and thrust it quickly into the chest of the other. The man’s shouts died on his lips. Grimly and quietly, Maric stepped forward and finished running the soldier through.

There were more shouts nearby. The camp was in confusion, but the distractions he had planted would last for only so long. They would all be here soon.

Looking back at the dead mage, Maric paused. The man had paid for his arrogance. He had paid for helping the usurper keep his iron grip on the kingdom, and for whatever plan had brought him to Ferelden in the first place. If Maric owed him anything, it was for sending Katriel to him. For that, Maric had faced him alone. He had made it quick.

But now there would be no mercy.

I’m coming for you next, Meghren.

With that silent promise, Maric turned and stepped into the darkness outside and fled. Loghain and Rowan had fought a battle for him today, but the rest he intended to fight for himself. The stolen throne would be returned, and Ferelden would be free once more, and let the Maker pity any of those who stood in his way.

EPILOGUE

“But did they win?”

Mother Ailis smiled with amusement at young Cailan as he squirmed in excitement in his chair. For a twelve-year-old lad, he had listened rather intently to the tale, she thought. He was always fascinated with such tales, and loved the ones that involved his father the best. And why not? He wasn’t the only boy in Ferelden who idolized King Maric, after all.