by David Gaider
Several figures moved out of some of the buildings and began to run furtively toward the chevaliers. The horsemen wheeled on them immediately, drawing their swords and preparing for an immediate counterattack. The new figures shrieked in fear, however, and cowered before the blades. They were commoners in dirty rags, some of them splattered in blood. The chevaliers realized this quickly and relaxed their weapons, though not completely. Shouts went up along the enemy line, and the commoners were grabbed and brought before the mage and his commanders in the middle of the square.
Three women and one old man, and Loghain recognized only one of them. The young woman with the curly chestnut locks, her face covered with smudges of soot, was Rowan. She had volunteered to play what Loghain considered a risky role. Her father had nearly forbidden it, but Rowan had insisted—Loghain wasn’t the only one who should have to risk his life in these plans, she had said, glancing toward him when she said it. He had kept his eyes strictly on the ground. In the end, the Arl had relented. Maric had commented that he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Rowan in a dress, filthy and tattered though it was.
And now she was on her knees before the dark-skinned mage as he studied her and the others who had run out with her. They were locals, fishwives and an old carpenter, who had begged Maric to let them help. Loghain had argued that only Rowan should go. What if one of these fools were to betray them? All they needed to do was blurt out that the rebels were hiding in the buildings, or collapse under the pressure. But Maric’s belief was unshakable. Let them help, he had said. It will make Rowan more believable. The Arl had agreed, and Loghain watched nervously now, wondering if they would be proved fools after all.
So far, so good. The fishwives and the old man were suitably terrified and prostrating themselves before the mage. Loghain could clearly hear them babbling about the rebels attacking and then fleeing, but they gave away nothing of the plan. Indeed, they sounded like they were trying desperately to tell the mage anything and everything they possibly could. Rowan was bowing her head, but saying nothing.
“Silence!” the mage shouted angrily, the commoners immediately quieting and prostrating themselves again. The dark-skinned mage glared back at the commanders, who were now removing their helmets and looking far more peevish than concerned. If the cowardly rebels had actually fled, they were not going to have a battle after all. “Now, one of you—only one! Tell me how it is that the rebels fled!”
Rowan looked up now, seemingly nervous but calm. “They left on the ships, ser.”
“What ships? What are you talking about, woman?”
“There were ships, many of them. They came and took them away.”
“Lies!” he roared, slapping her across the face. Loghain almost leaped out of his hiding spot right then, but controlled himself. Rowan was no wilting flower—she put on a good show, cringing from the mage in fear and holding her cheek, but Loghain knew her far better than that. “The ships all left here days ago!”
“I . . . I don’t know what to tell you, Ser Mage.” She sounded desperate. “There were ships! I don’t know who they belonged to!”
The mage seethed in rage and raised his hand to strike her again. One of the commander knights distracted him, however, stepping forward to whisper in his ear. After the two conferred for a moment, the mage seemed displeased but no longer furious. When the commander left the mage’s side, he shouted orders to the chevaliers that were still slowly riding into the town. They were in Orlesian, but Loghain understood the intent well enough and smiled. It was too easy for them to believe, after all, that the lowly rebel prince would rather run than fight.
The old mage turned back to regard Rowan once again. “Stand up,” he commanded her. Reluctantly she did so, covering her tattered dress and keeping her eyes averted.
“Describe these ships,” he snapped.
“They were large,” she stammered. “They had a picture on their sails, like some sort of golden beast. I . . . didn’t get a very close look.”
“A golden beast? Was it a drake?”
“I think so, Ser Mage.” Rowan dropped her head low. “They were not here long.”
The mage stroked his chin thoughtfully. Loghain could almost see the calculations running through the man’s head. Golden drakes were the symbol of Calabria, a nation far to the north. The idea of an alliance between Calabria and the rebels was unlikely, but enough to give even him pause.
The Orlesian commanders were conferring among themselves, and after a long minute, they turned and spoke quietly to the mage. He nodded reluctantly, and more orders were shouted. These, too, Loghain could understand in spirit. Stand down your guard. Search the town for supplies. Send someone up to the manor. They were the orders he would have given in their stead, had he been as eager as they to walk blindly into the town to begin with. The chevaliers were already visibly relaxing, chatting in their foreign tongue as they started to spread out. Many began moving farther into the square, calling for the supply wagons to set up tents.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Satisfied, the mage turned back to Rowan. He smiled lasciviously and held out his hand before him. Raw power coalesced around him, the air crackling with energy, causing the other commoners to scramble away from him in terror. Rowan looked up, standing her ground, and the energy surged toward her. It curled around her like tendrils, lifting her up off the ground while holding her still. She did not struggle, but instead kept her face stony and calm.
The mage stepped close, brushing some dirt off her dress just above her breasts. Rowan recoiled from his touch, eliciting a delighted leer from him. “My,” he said admiringly, “rather pretty for a common little mutt, no? It is sad that the rebels did not take you with them when they left.”
His hand stroked across one of Rowan’s breasts, and she violently spat in his face. The mage paused, nonplussed, and wiped the spittle from his cheek. The tendrils of energy tightened around Rowan. She hissed in fury but still did not struggle against the mage’s spell.
“Brave,” he said, his tone a mixture of amusement and contempt. “And fiery, too. I cannot say that I mind this at all.” Almost casually he struck her with a backhand slap, hard across her face. “But you must learn your manners.” He chuckled.
The mage turned away from Rowan, rubbing his hand, when suddenly he stared with shock at his chest. An arrow had sprouted there, the dark stain of blood already spreading on his yellow robes. He turned to look helplessly at an Orlesian chevalier who stood nearby, and as the two stared at each other in quiet horror, another two arrows flew toward the mage. One narrowly missed him, and another lodged in his throat. He went down gurgling, clutching at the arrow uselessly.
“Now! Attack now!” It was Maric shouting, leaping out of the bakery window with his sword held high. The archers beside him were already firing into the chevalier lines, and more men were running after him. The rest of the rebels suddenly sprang into action, spilling out of their hiding places throughout the square.
This wasn’t the plan. It was too soon! Damn you, Maric! Loghain swore. With a sharp wave of his hand, he called the Night Elves beside him to action. They began firing into the gathered crowd, trying to protect Maric as he charged madly toward Rowan. One armored knight turned to skewer Maric as he passed, only to fall as Loghain placed an arrow neatly into the flesh near the base of his helmet.
In the erupting chaos, a great roar of noise could be heard outside the square. Loghain was sure Arl Rendorn was charging the rear flank, closing off those within the square from reinforcement. There was no way the enemy would have committed their entire force to walking into Gwaren, so they’d planned to lure as many enemy soldiers inside as possible before bisecting their line and blocking the narrow main street that led to the square.
Had they waited long enough? Loghain watched Maric carefully as the man finally reached Rowan in the great melee. She had been released from the spell and was crouched low, and when Maric drew near, he tossed her a blade. The
first thing she did was use it to stab the gasping mage on the ground, sinking the point deep in his chest. She even put her weight into it, causing blood to gush from the mage’s mouth as he groaned in agony. Maric stared at Rowan in momentary shock, but was forced to deal with two knights who suddenly rushed at him from behind.
“Cover the Prince and Lady Rowan!” Loghain called to his men. More arrows flew. Rowan leaped to strike at one of the knights who had attacked Maric, but he was having trouble with the other. The chevalier was skilled, parrying Maric’s blade easily. One or two arrows struck home, but not enough to slow the chevalier down. With a sudden rush, he closed in on Maric and thrust his sword deep into the Prince’s flank. Maric struggled to push his attacker off, and then weakly collapsed.
“Maric!” Rowan screamed in terror.
With a kick, she pushed away the knight she was battling and launched herself at the one who had wounded Maric. Her sword banged uselessly against the knight’s armor, and when he turned to face her, she spun around and slashed her blade across the man’s neck. Blood sprayed from him as he stumbled back.
The other chevalier rushed at Rowan’s back, and she turned too late to face him . . . only to watch him hit by several arrows at once. One of them hit him in the side of the head, and he was knocked aside before he ever reached her.
She didn’t pause, turning instantly and racing to Maric’s side as he lay bleeding heavily on the ground. Rowan tried to rouse Maric, but he didn’t move, and when she tried to adjust his armor to see the extent of his injury, her hands came away coated with thick blood. Her eyes went wide with horror, and she looked about helplessly. All she saw, however, was the intense battle around her as more of the rebels poured into the square.
Loghain grimaced and tossed aside his bow, drawing his sword. “Cover me,” he ordered the Night Elves as he leaped over the window’s ledge and sprinted into the street.
The battle continued for several hours afterwards, though of course Maric had been aware of none of it. By the time he finally awakened in his tent, it was already dark out. Wilhelm’s magic had healed the worst of his wounds, but the mage still commented sharply that Maric had very nearly bled to death. If Loghain and Rowan had not dragged him from the middle of the battle and staunched the gaping wound in his side, he almost surely would have perished.
“So Rowan is all right, then?” Maric asked.
Wilhelm regarded him with a puzzled expression. “Alive, last I checked. I shall do so again, with your leave?” At a nod of assent from the Arl, the mage bowed and withdrew.
They had not trapped as many of the chevaliers inside the town square as they had hoped, due in no small part to Maric’s early attack—or so Arl Rendorn sternly reminded him. Still, the Arl could hardly fault Maric for protecting his daughter. And in the end, the chaos had proved sufficient. Two other mages had been slain, and the chevaliers in the square had been routed. Arl Rendorn had chosen to open the main road and let them flee rather than wait for the larger force outside Gwaren to press the attack. The few commanders who got away were more interested in regrouping as far away as possible. The Arl let them go, sending as many archers to harry them as the rebels could afford.
“They will be back,” the Arl informed Maric solemnly, “but we have time to prepare. We have options, for once.”
“What kind of options?”
The Arl considered carefully. “The forest path forms a narrow approach,” he said. “We can guard it quite easily. By the time the usurper assembles a force large enough to chance a crossing, we might be able to acquire enough ships that we could move the army up the coast.”
Maric blinked, surprised. “Ships? Where would we get ships?”
“We could hire them . . . or build them, if necessary. If there is anything that Gwaren is not short of, it is lumber and fishing boats.”
Maric mulled the information over. “So . . . the town is ours, then?”
The Arl nodded. “It is. For now.”
Despite the caution in the Arl’s voice, Maric lay back on his pillows and smiled. They had freed a town, clawed back a chunk of Ferelden away from the Orlesians for the first time in many years. He wondered what King Meghren would say now, how he would explain this embarrassment to the Emperor. For all Maric knew, he might send the King another dozen legions of chevaliers to crush Gwaren into dust, another show of how mighty the Empire was.
It was a disheartening thought.
“Despite our hope that one of the mages killed might be the King’s right hand, Severan,” the Arl frowned, “it seems we have no such luck. None of the three dead mages match the description our informants gave us. These were all men freshly sent from the Circle of Magi in Orlais.”
“At least that means the Fereldan Circle has kept to their word,” Maric offered.
Arl Rendorn nodded. “There is that.”
Maric suddenly brightened. “And Loghain? Is he well?”
“Injured, but not seriously.” The Arl sighed. “He was so furious at you, he swore that he would wring your neck. He did not leave your side until Wilhelm arrived, however. And even then, we could not pry Rowan away until she was certain you would live.”
“I have good friends, what can I say?”
The Arl studied Maric for a moment, frowning. He seemed as if he was about to say something but then thought better of it. He smiled faintly. “Who knows what that mage might have done to Rowan had you not acted? You might have saved her life, Maric. I think she knows this.”
“She would have done the same for me.” Maric shrugged.
“Of course.” The Arl abandoned the effort. He reminded Maric of numerous sundries, some reports of looting in Gwaren, and the need to restore order to the populace as soon as possible. He also mentioned the idea of sending out messengers to other Fereldan nobles to announce Gwaren’s liberation, but by then, the details were swimming in a haze of fatigue. Maric’s injured side was throbbing, and before he knew it, he was drifting in and out of consciousness.
Finally Arl Rendorn chuckled and told Maric he would handle the remainder of the details himself. He told Maric to rest, and then left the tent.
Maric listened for a time to the sound of the men putting up other tents in the manor’s courtyard next to his own. It amused him to eavesdrop on their banter, their earthy jokes and easy laughter. Eventually they realized they were outside the Prince’s tent and started shushing each other in increasingly loud measures before finally finishing their task and leaving to raid the cellar of an abandoned tavern they had spotted down by the docks. Part of Maric wanted to go with them, but chances were he wouldn’t even have successfully crawled out of his bed. It was for the best, he supposed. Chances were he would just have made the men nervous, anyhow.
With silence came sleep. He had no idea how much time passed before he stirred again. The shadows were deep in the large tent, and his wounded side throbbed far less than it once had. A figure was quietly entering through the flap, a flickering lantern in its hand casting the shadows that had stirred him.
Maric blinked his bleary eyes, and for a moment he thought he saw the silhouette of a shapely woman behind the light. “Rowan?” he asked uncertainly.
But as the figure entered, he saw quite clearly that it was not her at all. Katriel, the elven messenger, stood at the entrance, clean and changed into fresh garments. Maric thought the glow of the lantern made her seem almost unearthly amid the shadows, her golden locks falling around her shoulders like a beautiful, ethereal spirit that had come to visit him in the night.
“I . . . I am sorry if I am disturbing you, my lord,” she said hesitantly. Her green eyes fluttered away from Maric, and he realized that aside from his bandages, he was covered only by the thick furs on his bed. “I should leave you be.” She covered the lantern with her hand and made as if to retreat.
“No, wait,” Maric said quietly, sitting up. He could not get up, of course, and pulled the furs to keep himself covered. He blushed, but at the same time was
grateful the elven woman hesitated.
She looked back at him, biting her lower lip nervously. He found himself admiring the curve of her simple white dress. “I see someone found something for you to wear?” he asked. “Those men did not hurt you, did they?”
“No, my lord. You came just in time, in shining armor just as in the tales.” She smiled at him, and their gazes touched, and bashfully she looked away. She then noticed the bandages around his midsection as if for the first time. “Oh, no! It’s true! They said you had been injured badly, but I had no idea!” Almost unwillingly she stepped forward and touched his bandage with her delicate hands.
She was full of nothing but concern, but still Maric’s back stiffened at her touch. His blush deepened as she jumped back.
“Oh, I apologize, my lord, I should not have—”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “No need to apologize. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, there’s no way we would have had time to prepare. We are in your debt.” Then he paused, perplexed. “But . . . I have to admit I’m not sure why you’re here. In my tent.”
She stood there awkwardly, staring back at him, and then slowly smiled. He thought her smile looked very warm and genuine. “I . . . I had to see it for myself, my lord. I prayed that the man who so bravely saved my life would not perish, but I had to know for certain. . . .”
“I’m fine, Katriel. Really I am.”
Her eyes twinkled with sudden delight. “You . . . remember my name?”
Maric was taken aback by the statement. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
“I am just an elf, my lord. Your people . . . Most of them do not see us. They look, but they do not see. My mother was maid to a human man her entire life. He never once called her by her name.” She then realized whom she was talking to and looked horrified, curtsying low. “Oh, my . . . I am forgetting myself. I should not—”
