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9:0 Dragon

Ferelden

Since the dawn of the Neolithic Age, men were as keen to make war with one another as they were to make war with the other races. It is in their nature, for mankind was as capable of wanton destruction as they were capable of creating. If there was one thing common in the Age of Dragons, it was that somewhere in the many realms of men, one kingdom was fighting another. Territorial disputes, slighted honors in need of satisfaction, blood feuds and many more trivial reasons to sow the earth with blood and corpses.

Such was the fate of Ferelden, home to the humble descendants of the Alamarri tribes who broke away from what later became the Tevinter Imperium. Since the death of Calenhad the Great, founder of House Theirin, the kingdom had suffered one tyrant after another. Orlais, greedy as all empires were wont to be, entrusted Ferelden into the hands of a particularly cruel hedonist, the so-called Honorable Meghren, better known as 'Usurper' to the people. It was no secret that the Fereldens chafed beneath the heel of Orlais since their annexation, but Meghren's rule gave enough reason for the people to rebel.

Maric Theirin, son of the rebel queen Moira Theirin, took up his sword after the brutal murder of his mother and waged a war of rebellion in the name of his oppressed homeland. The fledgling commander spent the better part of the next two years training with the rebel army in order to shape them into a decent force to combat the Usurper's armies. So far, the rebels have been lucky with their brief skirmishes with the Orlesians and Ferelden loyalists. Although, Maric still had his doubts.

They were alone, facing an empire alone. It was no wonder everyone was telling him that leading the rebellion was doomed from the start, his mother's defeat was evidence enough of its supposed futility.

Maric carried these burdens as she did, but revealed it not to anyone. Not even to his closest friends.

The rattle of sabatons scraping the pebbles of the hill alerted the prince to the arrival of Loghain Mac Tir, who acted as his unofficial adviser. Without a court of his own and considering his general inexperience in matters of war, Maric saw everyone in the rebel camp as his unofficial adviser. Loghain, his childhood friend Rowan, and even Rowan's father Arl Rendorn.

Loghain glanced up at the darkening skies above the Hinterland mountains overlooking their little camp in the valley. Streaks of lightning were arcing back and forth through the clouds, almost unnaturally so. "I'd expect a heavy downpour from those clouds. Won't be good for cavalry or armored footmen, it'll muddy up the path good and turn the fields into a swamp."

"Whose cavalry?" Maric smiled, "Ours? No no, I think this will be perfect. The Orlesians fancy sending their chevaliers on almost every opportunity. The best part about these skirmishes is that we pick the battlefields, not them."

"True, but by now they're as familiar with the Hinterlands as we are. Our luck's going to run out, soon we'll have to face them on even ground. Then what the hell are you going to do then?"

Maric picked up his helmet and tucked it under his arm, "There won't be an even ground. The day will come when we get to hit them where it hurts, so hard that Orlais will buckle and cede their hold on Ferelden before they even mount a decent defense."

The two friends descended from the hill to join their men on another skirmish, this time to attack a vulnerable garrison protecting a supply outpost crucial to the Orlesian war effort. A successful attack would cripple supply lines and in turn free this part of the Hinterlands from Orlesian control.

As they discussed the plan all over again, a cry of alarm caused everyone to look skyward. "Dragons!" The word alone sent everyone scrambling for cover.

Maric couldn't believe what he was seeing. A swarm of small drakes, the size of horses or large dogs, were taking on a far larger dark blue dragon at the behest of an even larger dragon with white gold scales. And as if the sight couldn't be more chilling, the clouds parted to reveal an enormous obsidian-black dragon that dwarfed any of the others- and it was angry.

The overwhelmed dark blue dragon twisted and turned in mid-air, belching fire in all directions as it attempted to break free from the swarm of biting teeth. The white dragon struck with a bolt of lightning spewed from its mouth, eliciting a pained howl from the beast as sparks flew all over its body. Down they went, across the mountains and right over the camp. Rebel archers were shooting arrows into the sky, more or less ignored by the beasts. The battle of the dragons was long and ferocious, but soon the dark blue dragon lost the fight. The obsidian giant dragged it down from the sky and smashed them both into the face of the mountain not far from the rebel encampment, sending a powerful quake that split the ground into faults along the valley.

Realizing the futility of their attempts to fight back against the dragons, and unwilling to risk their wrath when it became apparent that the beasts had no interest whatsoever in them, the Fereldan rebels chose to hang back and watch.

To everyone's surprise and amazement, the dragons spoke. Their voices thundered with godlike power, but were not too far from the comprehension of mortal ears.

"Why? Why did you betray them?" The dark blue dragon, his scales ruptured and bleeding from a hundred wounds, crouched on trembling legs. "Mercerandres, has power clouded your minds so? Do you not hold loyalty for the Norsa anymore?"

"Silence, Kellendramaath!" The obsidian dragon, the one called Mercerandres, roared. His bellows were enough to shake the mountain once more and brought the brittle stones crumbling to the sundered valley. "You cannot speak to me of loyalty when you so readily choose the lives of quicklings over your kin! The Norsa are the echoes of a bygone age. This has always been the plan. Father's soul now courses through you, as it does with us. We fly as lords of earth and sky- we are gods, brother! We are meant for greater things!"

Kellendramaath snarled angrily at the white golden dragon, "And what about you, Nimea? Do you stand with this powerlusting fool? Father loved the Norsa, as you once did! The blood of our mothers, quicklings all, flow through us too!"

Nimea looked to her brother but said nothing. It was as though she was ashamed.

"Enough!" Mercerandres declared, grabbing his brother by the neck and slamming him face-down against the earth. "You wish to tread the soil as one of the quicklings? To grovel in the dirt as a mortal worm? By all means, let your wings be forfeit!"

His massive jaws yawned wide and clamped down hard against the base of Kellendramaath's left wing. His teeth tore through scale, flesh, sinew and bone as a knife through paper. Kellendramaath howled in agony and struggled beneath his brother's iron grip, but to no avail. With a cruel snap, Mercerandres wrenched the wing free and tossed it away. He repeated the act on the other wing, forever robbing his brother of his dominion of the skies.

Nimea flinched but again said nothing. Kellendramaath groaned, exhausted from the fight as well as his injuries. The swarm feasted upon the severed wings, devouring the strength therein which grew them from lowly drakes to full fledged dragons.

Mercerandres turned his attention to the Fereldens and addressed the rebel prince when his eyes fell on Maric, "Behold quicklings, my traitor brother! Show him no mercy, I command you, for he deserves none!"

With that, the dragons took to the skies, leaving a bewildered rebel army and an injured Kellendramaath to contend with one another.

Against the wishes of his advisers, particularly Loghain who pressed the prince to move the camp away from such a dangerous creature, Maric boldly approached the crippled dragon on foot. He was backed by a handful of loyal knights, but not much else. It wouldn't be enough should the dragon turn violent, but Maric trusted that the creature would see that his intentions were pure.

Kellendramaath remained where he had fallen, but his eyes followed Maric warily as he drew near. The prince, in his modest leather cuirass, was within biting range. If he willed it, the dragon demigod could easily overpower the rebel army and their prince with them. But before he could let instinct take over, Kellendramaath heard Maric speak and his murderous tendencies subsided somewhat.

"Well... that's a sight you don't see everyday."

Kell snorted, "You are cruel to bring jests before a god in agony."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Maric stepped closer, mindful of the dragon's bared teeth. "Not the best introduction I had in mind, but we're here now so... are you in need of aid? Is there anything we can do for you?"

Kell pushed himself off the ground on shaky but determined legs. He towered above the prince by several good meters, and would have been an awesome sight if he wasn't so terrifying. "Can you bring my wings back?"

Maric paused, considering the question. Later, after noticing the dragon's impatience, he quickly gave his uncertain reply. "No?"

"Then there's nothing you can do for me."

"Look, you're wounded and I may be no expert on the anatomies of dragons... but I can clearly see you won't get far without help." Maric offered, "We have healers among us. It might not be much, but maybe we can help get those wounds patched up."

Kell glowered at him with annoyance. "And what do you expect me to give in return for your 'help'?"

Maric shrugged, "Dragonfire can come in handy in battle. Suffice it to say that you'll be helping a good cause if you side with us for the time being."

"All mortal causes are 'good' causes to one or other. But I am too exhausted to play judge." Kell said weakly, feeling very faint from bloodloss. "Very well... bring me to these healers of yours and I will destroy your enemies in return."

Maric smiled gleefully, for it wasn't often a rebellion could enlist the aid of a dragon. This day was his lucky day, "So do we carry you or...?"

"No." Kell closed his eyes and took his human form, burning away the dragon in a blinding shower of orange sparks. Amazed, the Fereldens watched a tall man emerge from the flames. Kell's bronze skin was beaten and soaked with blood from dozens of cuts and scratches. His bare back had two ugly gashes with fresh scabs covering the crimson wounds, the same spots where Mercerandres ripped his wings from in his dragon form. He swayed unsteadily and would've fallen if Maric didn't reach out to hold him. Kell, ever the proud demigod, smacked the prince's hand away so he could walk on his own.

"Do you have a name, ser?" Maric asked.

"I am Kellendramaath, son of Old Val'kun and Alessia of the Norsans. Men call me Hundred-Pierced Kell or Ten-Men Kell."

"Kell it is then?"

Kell nodded, "Yes."

The arrival of the demigod Kellendramaath at the main encampment of the Ferelden Rebellion was the talk of the town. The events at the Hinterlands mountainhold became the subject of much conjecture and wild speculation, and it only worsened when the rebels' position grew all the more tenuous as the Orlesians pressed tightly from the South. People were getting desperate, praying for a miracle as winter slowly approached. It wasn't long before they were looking to Maric for a quick solution, particularly one concerning Kell.

True to his word, the prince brought the injured demigod to the camp's mages, who were the experts on the art of healing. Kell proved to be a difficult patient, for he put little trust in the magics of men. Though he suffered the ignominy of having to rely on mortal aid, it was challenging to feel their hands on his skin.

Lady Rowan, daughter of Arl Rendorn, rode to the camp entrance at the head of a large group of Ferelden light cavalry. She dismounted and removed her helm as the humid air made her skin feel like hot plaster. Her brown curls, released from their steel prison, cascaded freely over her shoulders, drawing the attention of a few undisciplined soldiers. She ignored them, trusting her officers to deal with them should they forget their place. Sweat poured in streams over her pale skin, a travesty she hoped to remedy once she was safely inside her own tent.

The angered howls of some injured beast reached her ears, though Rowan quickly dismissed them, thinking it was the work of the camp cooks butchering supper. She searched the camp for Maric, intent on reporting their latest success. The woman found him standing watch over one of the healer tents, with her father and Loghain absorbed in their own discussions.

"Really?" She caught on to Arl Rendorn's last sentence, "But he doesn't look like much."

"Trust me when I tell you..." Maric replied, "I couldn't believe it the first time I saw it either. Maker willing, he could turn the tide for the Rebellion."

Seeing that the three men hadn't noticed her, Rowan cleared her throat. "Who can turn the tide for the Rebellion?"

More howls, coming from inside the healer's tent, caused Rowan to jump back. She realized it was the same cries she heard upon entering the camp, and that it was a man's voice- not an animal. "Get away from me, you're not helping!"

An exasperated healer pushed aside the tent entrance flap and approached Maric. Rowan was ignored for the moment, for it became apparent that something inside the tent was more important than her success in the battlefield. The healer, her apron soaked in blood, spoke to the prince of her patient's condition. "Alas, ser. Nothing we can do for him. His wounds cannot be bound, neither medicine nor magic could do him good."

"Are you certain, Masha?" Maric asked, "Then what can we do?"

The aforementioned patient burst out of the tent, startling everyone present. Kell, wrapped in bleeding bandages from head to toe, seethed in burning agony. Rowan stared at him, dumbfounded. She'd seen shirtless men before in the camp, more times than she cared to count, and it always made her blush mad like an innocent farm girl. Embarassed, Rowan immediately looked away and pursed her lips together. Kell growled at Maric, "Your healers are pathetic."

Masha put her hands on her hips and scowled at her ungrateful charge, "Maker help me, I have half a mind to tear you a new one."

"I need blood..." Kell turned away from the others, speaking to himself as he stumbled in the direction of the camp's kitchens. "I need flesh... warm and juicy flesh!"

Before anyone could stop him, the demigod pushed his way into the cooking pit, where a fat bull was roasting on a spit. The cooks, startled by his disheveled appearance, stepped back and away from Kell. His eyes, wild with desperation, went from the sweet smelling roast beef to the calves penned up some three meters away from the pit. Without a word, the demigod reverted into his dragon form and feasted on the rebel army's supply of meat. The poor animals lowed and screamed as the dragon tore them into pieces, devouring them by the mouthful so that their flesh might give him strength to mend his wounds. Old Gods demanded blood and flesh as tribute in the ancient days for a reason, Kell was no different.

"Stop him! Somebody stop that thing! He's going to eat up our supplies for the winter!" The head cook shrieked, furious that Kell had trespassed into his domain. The footmen assembling outside the kitchen pen hesitated to get any closer to the dragon. As far as they were concerned, better to let the thing feast on cows rather than men- so they just stood there while the head cook screamed at them.

Kell's lips parted with deep satisfaction, feeling his wounds slowly close from the paltry offering. The calves were a decent meal, but they weren't enough to heal him wholy. The wingless dragon knew now what he needed, and Maric was going to give it to him.

He turned to the prince, "You have failed to hold up your end of the bargain, prince. Now, hear my demands. You will point me in the direction of your enemy's nearest outpost, and you will do nothing to hinder or forestall my actions."

Rowan hadn't known the dragon long, and to hear him order her people around like he owned the place made her furious. Even worse, it didn't look like Maric was making any move to resist. All of a sudden, it looked like the rebels had lost their courage. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"A god." Kell replied, "One who calls your prince out for a bargain unfulfilled."

"Maric, what in Maker's name is going on here?" The woman demanded, "I leave you for half a day, and all goes to shit with a dragon rampaging freely through the fucking camp?"

"Calm down, Rowan." Maric said, firmly but respectfully. "Allow me to clear things up. First, I'd like you to meet Kell."

Rowan refused to calm down and glared daggers at the dragon.

"Kell, this is Rowan. She's a good friend of mine, and she cares very much about her people- enough to be willing to fight a dragon on behalf of some slaughtered calves."

"I need blood and flesh." Kell repeated, "Your magic is weak, and I cannot be healed through them. I intend to hold up my end of our deal by feasting on the corpses of your enemies, but you must point me in the right direction."

"See?" Maric threw up his hands as though dismissing all the doubts his people had for his plan to use the demigod for their battles. "Just a misunderstanding, everyone! We can help each other, and we will!"

The prince turned back to Kell after addressing the whole camp, "I will lead you to the Orlesians. You will have your blood and flesh."

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A/N

Just a little note, the sources of Maric and Loghain's early adventures, as mentioned here in the buildup chapters, are found in 'The Stolen Throne' novel published by Bioware.