by David Gaider
In the distance, the sounds of the pursuit were getting louder again. The traitors might have heard Maric’s struggle with the bearded man. He needed to leave. He needed to run, to keep going. Yet he could not will his legs to move. He sat in the dark forest, his bloody hands held out in front of him as if he had no idea where else to put them.
All Maric could think of was his mother’s voice the last time she had returned from battle. She was in full armor, covered in blood and sweat, and grinning madly. Maric had been dragged in front of her by his trainer for brawling with a commoner boy. Even worse, Arl Rendorn had been with his mother, and he asked if Maric had at least won the fight. Burning with shame, Maric admitted to being soundly beaten, causing the Arl to snort and ask what sort of king Maric could possibly make.
And then his mother had laughed merrily, a laugh that could dispel anything serious. She had taken Maric’s chin in her hand and looked in his eyes, and with a gentle smile told him not to listen to the Arl. You are the light of my life, and I believe in you.
Grief brought Maric close to laughing and crying at the same time. His mother had believed in him, and yet he had gotten lost in the woods in less than half an hour. Should he somehow elude his pursuers, make it out of the forest, and obtain another horse, he still needed to find a way to locate the army. He was so used to being led around, being told where to go and where to ride, that he hadn’t paid attention to any route they’d taken. He had followed as he was bidden. Now he couldn’t even guess his location.
And thus passes the last true King of Ferelden, he thought with bizarre amusement. He wanted to be a good king, but he didn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground.
Mad giggling threatened to overtake his tears, but Maric shut down both reactions. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking of the past, or grieving. He had just killed a man with his bare hands, and there were other enemies nearby. He needed to run. He took a deep, ragged breath and closed his eyes. Deep down inside of him there was steel. He embraced it, tasted its bitter edge and let it shut out the whirlwind inside of him. He needed to be calm, even if only for a moment.
When he opened his eyes again, he was ready.
Maric cast about calmly for any sign of the sword that had flown out of the other man’s hand. Everything around him was somehow moving very slowly, none of it seeming quite real. There were too many bushes, too many odd dips and clumps of trees where the sword could be hiding. He couldn’t find it. Then he heard another man’s voice, this one calling out from somewhere close. There was no more time.
Standing gingerly, Maric listened for where the voices were coming from. As soon as he ascertained their source, he headed in the opposite direction. It was an awkward hobble at first. His legs were bruised and cramped and he might have broken some bones, but he ignored the pain. With effort, he grabbed on to low-hanging branches and pulled himself farther into the darkness.
They would pay for what they had done. If he did only one thing as King, he would make them pay.
“Something’s happening,” Loghain muttered, frowning.
He stood at the edge of the forest, absently wiping mud off his leathers. The effort was pointless, as his clothing was as worn and as filthy as one might expect from a poacher. The Orlesians, of course, had less kind names for him and the others like him: criminals, thieves, and bandits, too, though only when desperation forced their hand.
Not that Loghain much cared what the Orlesians called him, since it was their fault his family had been forced off the farm. The Orlesians didn’t believe in anyone owning land but their fancy, painted-up nobility, so it came as no surprise that they didn’t look favorably on Ferelden’s freemen. An extra “tribute” tax was concocted by the Orlesian Emperor, and any freemen who couldn’t afford it had their lands confiscated. Loghain’s father had managed to scrape together enough to pay the tax the first year, so naturally it was decided the tax could stand to be even higher. The next year, his father refused to pay, and when the soldiers came, they determined that not only was the farmhold forfeit, but his father should also be arrested for tax evasion. Loghain’s family resisted, so now they lived out in the Ferelden wilds, banding together with other desperate souls to eke out a living however they could.
Loghain might not have cared what the Orlesians thought of him, but he did very much care to avoid being arrested. The local constable over in Lothering was a Fereldan man, and so far he had been tolerant of their band. So long as they didn’t prey on travelers and restricted their thefts to the petty sort, the constable made only token efforts to track them down. Loghain knew that the man was going to be forced to hunt them in earnest someday, and hopefully he would be decent enough to let them know about it in advance. They would move on, as they had already done many times. There were enough forests and hills in Ferelden to hide an entire army, after all; even the Rebel Queen knew that. But what if the constable didn’t warn them? That thought worried Loghain now and had him staring into the forest. Men didn’t always get to do as they’d prefer.
A cold wind blew across the field, making him shiver. It was late, and the moon shone down from a cloudless night sky. He wiped the black curls out of his eyes, resigned to the fact that his hair was no doubt as dirty as his hands, and pulled his hood up. The spring had been more of a lingering winter that had refused to let go. The cold nights he and his band had spent in their makeshift tents had been less than comfortable, to say the least, but the accommodations were preferable to some of the alternatives.
Dannon, a big brute of a man with an untrustworthy air, walked up behind him. Loghain suspected that Dannon had once been a thief, the dedicated sort who lived in the cities, picking pockets and robbing travelers, and that he was here with them now because he wasn’t a very good one. Not that Loghain was in much of a position to judge him. They did what they could, all of them, and Dannon pulled his weight. That didn’t mean Loghain had to feel comfortable around the man.
“What’s that you’re saying? You saw something?” Dannon scratched his beak of a nose while he adjusted the carcasses he was carrying. There were three rabbits slung over his shoulder, the prize of the evening’s work, poached from the fields of a lord known for his Orlesian sympathies. Hunting in the dark was never easy, especially when one took more care to avoid being spotted then to actually hunt, but they had been fortunate for once.
“I said that something’s happening,” Loghain repeated irritably. He turned and glared at Dannon, and the man backed away a step. He had that effect on people. Loghain had been told before that his blue eyes lent him an icy, intense air that could put people off. And that was fine by him. Loghain was still considered young by most in the camp, Dannon especially, and he preferred that the man didn’t get any notions about trying to give him orders. “Are you telling me you haven’t noticed?”
Dannon shrugged. “There’s some tracks. I think maybe there’s some soldiers about.”
“And you didn’t think that was of any interest?”
“Agh!” He rolled his eyes. “Karolyn down at the village already told us that there’d be soldiers, didn’t she? Said she saw Bann Ceorlic marching through the north field with some of his fellows just this morning.”
Loghain frowned at the name. “Ceorlic is a lickspittle. Desperate for favor with the Orlesian usurper, everyone knows that.”
“Yes, well, Karolyn said he was marching well out of sight, and didn’t even stop at the inn. Like he didn’t want to be seen.” He gestured at the rabbits Dannon carried. “Look, whatever he’s up to, it doesn’t have anything to do with us. Nobody saw us hunting. We’re good. We should go.” He smiled, a nervous, friendly smile meant to be reassuring. Dannon was afraid of him. Which was as Loghain preferred it.
He looked back into the forest, his hand grazing the sword belted at his side. Dannon’s eyes followed the motion, and he grimaced. Dannon was skilled enough with a knife, but hopeless with anything larger. “Aw, come on, now. Don’t go making trouble,” he groused
.
“I’m not interested in making trouble,” Loghain insisted. “I’m interested in avoiding it.” He advanced toward the forest’s edge, crossing over a ridge that led him downhill a ways. “Nobody has to have seen us hunting to know that we’re here. You know as well as I that we may have overstayed our welcome.”
“That’s not for you to decide,” Dannon said, but he followed quietly after that. It was Loghain’s father who would decide, after all, and even a man like Dannon knew that Loghain and his father were seldom of different minds when it came to such matters. As it should be, Loghain thought to himself. His father hadn’t raised a fool.
The pair of them descended into the dark forest, pausing only once to let their eyes adjust to the patches of moonlight that managed to snake through the canopy above. Dannon grew increasingly agitated by the treacherous ground, even though he had sense enough to stay quiet. For his part, Loghain was beginning to think Dannon might have the right of it.
He was just about to turn them both around when Dannon stopped short. “You hear that?” he whispered.
Good ears, Loghain thought. “Animal?”
“No.” He shook his head, uncertain. “Sounds more like shouting.”
The two of them stood still, and Loghain tried to be patient and listen. The breeze rustled the branches overhead, a significant distraction, but after a moment he heard what Dannon was referring to. It was faint, but in the distance he could pick up the sounds of men calling to each other, engaged in some kind of search. “It’s a foxhunt.”
“Huh?”
Loghain restrained the urge to roll his eyes. “You were right,” he said tersely. “They’re not here for us.”
Dannon seemed pleased by the news. He shifted the rabbits on his shoulder and turned to go. “So let’s not wait around, then. It’s late.”
But still Loghain hesitated. “You said Bann Ceorlic passed through. How many men did he have with him, you think?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see them, did I?”
“What did your bar wench say, exactly?”
The big man shrugged, but his back stiffened in quiet rage. Loghain noticed with a vague interest that he had hit a sore spot. A dalliance, then? Not that Loghain truly cared, but it was better to avoid provoking the big man needlessly. “I don’t know,” Dannon gritted out. “She didn’t say. It didn’t sound like a lot.”
Loghain figured there must easily be twenty men out there. Surely if Bann Ceorlic had brought that many men near Lothering, it would have caused more comment. So what was going on, exactly? The fact that it involved one of the Fereldan noblemen most notorious for his open allegiance to the Orlesian tyrant did not sit well with him. Whatever Ceorlic and his men might be up to, it was undoubtedly not good for the band—even if it didn’t involve them directly.
As Loghain stood there, trying to ignore Dannon’s impatience, he conceded to himself that there might be nothing he could do either way. The political goings-on of Ferelden were none of his concern. Survival was his concern, and anything political was important only when it affected that survival directly. He sighed irritably, staring off into the shadows as if they would provide the answer to his mystery.
Dannon harrumphed. “You sound like your father when you do that.”
“That may be the first compliment I’ve heard from you.”
He snorted derisively, glaring at Loghain. “It wasn’t intended.” He spat down between them. “Look. This doesn’t involve us, like you said. Let’s go.”
Loghain didn’t like being challenged. He met Dannon’s glare with his own, and for a long moment he said nothing. “If you want to go,” he stated quietly, “then go.”
Dannon stood his ground, though Loghain saw the man shift nervously. Dannon didn’t want to be in this position. Loghain could almost sense him thinking about his knife there in the dark, wondering if he would need to use it, wondering how he would get back to camp if he did so. Loghain was tempted to push it further. He wanted to step right up in front of Dannon’s face and take his measure. Maybe Dannon had the guts to knife him and be done with it. For all Loghain knew, he was a murderer, the sort who liked to cut people just to hear them scream, and that was the past he had fled. Maybe Loghain was being foolish by not going along with his suggestion.
But he doubted that.
The silence between them was long and tense, intruded on only by the sound of the wind in the trees and the far-off shouts of the hunters. Loghain narrowed his eyes, not even touching his sword hilt, and was inwardly pleased as Dannon was the first to look away.
The moment was broken by the sound of someone approaching.
Dannon leaped at the interruption, letting the urgency of the new threat cover up the fact that he had just backed down. As though their standoff had never happened. But Loghain knew.
Something was coming toward them, fast and clumsy. Whatever it was, it scrambled madly through the bushes, heedlessly pushing branches away in a panic. The fox, Loghain surmised. Of course it would end up right in their lap, wouldn’t it? If there truly was a Maker up in the heavens, as the priests said, He had a troublesome sense of humor indeed.
Dannon retreated a few feet, nervous and agitated, while Loghain drew his sword, waiting. Their guest suddenly fell into view, deposited out of the shadows like an unwanted gift, and then stopped short, staring at the two of them with wide, fearful eyes.
It was a young man, Loghain’s age or perhaps younger. His fair hair and fairer skin were obscured under scratches, leaves, dirt, and a healthy dose of blood. He certainly wasn’t dressed for a run in the woods, wearing only a tattered shirt and enough mud to make one think he had escaped whoever he was running from by crawling around on his belly. The blood covered his face as well as his hands. Probably not all his. Whoever this man was, he had likely killed to get away, which told Loghain just how desperate the intruder might be.
The new arrival crouched before them in the shadows like a caught animal, frozen between fight and flight. Behind him, the shouting drew near. Loghain slowly raised a hand, carefully showing his palm to the fugitive to demonstrate that he meant no harm. And then he put his sword back in its scabbard. The blond man didn’t move, only narrowed his eyes suspiciously. His attention darted nervously behind him as more muffled shouts came through the trees.
“Let’s get out of here!” Dannon hissed behind him. “He’s going to lead them right to us!”
“Wait,” Loghain whispered, not taking his eyes off the fugitive. Dannon bristled, and Loghain caught a glimpse of the knife now in his hand. Holding out his hands to calm both of them, Loghain turned back to look at the blood-covered man in the shadows. “Who’s chasing you?” he asked slowly.
The blond man licked his lips, and Loghain saw calculation in his eyes. “Orlesian dogs,” he said evenly. Still he didn’t move.
Loghain glanced at Dannon. The big man was grimacing, but Loghain could tell he wasn’t without sympathy for the fellow’s situation. No doubt he was interested only in his own hide, but finally he relented with a grunt.
“Good answer.” Loghain took a step back and half turned as if to leave. “Come with us.”
Dannon swore unhappily, refusing to look at anything but the ground as he sheathed his knife and stalked off. Loghain made as if to follow him, but watched to see if the fugitive would fall in, too. For a long moment, the blond man was visibly torn. Then, without further hesitation, he sprang up from his crouch and ran after them.
The three proceeded quietly back the way Loghain and Dannon had come, the blond man trailing and Dannon staying ahead as if he were close to leaving them behind. The set of the big man’s shoulders said he was angry and resentful. Loghain didn’t care.
They kept up a brisk pace, and after a short time, the shouts of the blond man’s pursuers were left behind. The stranger seemed relieved, and appeared even more at ease as they approached the edge of the forest and moonlight could be seen more clearly overhead. Getting a better look at him,
Loghain couldn’t help but be a bit mystified. The man’s clothes, while torn and dirtied, were plainly of quality if not fancy. The boots in particular seemed solid, made of fine leather, the sort that Loghain saw templars wear on occasion. So no pauper, certainly. He was also shivering and jumped at every strange forest sound, so this hike was no normal event for him. Not by a long shot.
“Dannon, wait,” Loghain called out as he came to a halt. Dannon stopped only reluctantly. Loghain turned to the blond man, who now edged back with renewed suspicion, his eyes darting between them as if wondering who was going to come after him first. “This may be as far as we can go,” Loghain reluctantly acknowledged.
“Thank the Maker!” Dannon muttered under his breath.
The blond man considered for a moment, looking around as if to judge his location. The field outside the forest could be seen from where they were. “I can find my own way from here.”
Loghain couldn’t place the young man’s accent, but from the way he spoke it was clear he was educated. A merchant’s son, perhaps? “Is that so?” He gestured at the blond man’s tattered clothing, noting he didn’t even have a cloak. “You look more likely to freeze before you even reach town.” He raised an eyebrow. “If that’s where you intend to head, with those men after you.”
“Why were they after you?” Dannon demanded, shoving his way up beside Loghain.
The blond man paused, glancing between Loghain and Dannon as if uncertain to whom he should be responding first. Then he looked down at his hands and saw the dark stains of blood in the moonlight as if for the first time. He was clearly repelled, despite his efforts to fight down his reaction. “I think I killed one of them,” he breathed.
Dannon whistled appreciatively. “They won’t give up easily, then.”
Loghain’s brow furrowed. “These were Bann Ceorlic’s men, I take it?”
“Some of them,” the blond man agreed reluctantly. “They killed . . . a friend of mine.” The pain that crossed his face told Loghain that the last statement was true enough, at least. The blond man closed his eyes, shivering again and trying vainly to wipe some of the blood from his cheek. Loghain glanced at Dannon, and the big man shrugged in response. Whatever the full story was, Loghain doubted they were going to get it. And perhaps it wasn’t necessary to do so. This stranger wasn’t the first person they had encountered who had crossed the Orlesians. And if Loghain was in this man’s shoes, he wouldn’t trust them either. There was definitely more here than met the eye, but Loghain’s gut told him that whatever this was, it wasn’t a trick. And his gut was seldom wrong.
