by David Gaider
Suddenly, the knight motioned for the riders behind him to stop—and they did, several of the horses rearing up and prancing on the spot. The wounded soldier with the dagger in his leg awkwardly pulled his mount back as he hissed and swore under his breath.
Loghain coughed painfully, but slowly got to his feet as he and Maric stared at the riders. Why they didn’t attack he had no idea. Perhaps they intended to force them to surrender? In that case, he would send at least one or two of them to the Maker. He stepped in front of Maric and raised his sword, wincing at the spasm this sent through his cracked ribs.
“The first one that comes for us,” he vowed, “is losing an arm. That I guarantee.”
A couple of the riders backed up a step, glancing questioningly toward the green-plumed knight. He stayed where he was, silently watching Maric and Loghain.
“Maric?” the knight spoke, the voice strange coming from within the helmet.
Maric gasped in astonishment. Loghain, sword still raised, glanced back at him. “You know each other?”
The knight sheathed his sword. Reaching up to his helmet, he pulled it off, and Loghain realized the man’s voice had sounded strange because it wasn’t a man at all. Masses of thick brown curls were plastered against the woman’s sweaty pale skin, yet Loghain found it didn’t mar her striking appearance. She had high cheekbones and a strong chin that a sculptor would have ached for, yet carried herself with a confidence that told him the armor was no affectation. She was as much a soldier as the men she led, and while it was not unheard of in Ferelden for a woman to be skilled in the art of war, it was uncommon enough to be surprising.
She paid no attention at all to Loghain and instead stared with shock at Maric. He looked fairly shocked himself. “Rowan?” he asked.
The brown-haired woman slid off her black horse, holding her helmet tucked under one arm and not taking her eyes off him. Passing the reins silently to one of the other horsemen, she strode forward to stand before Maric. Loghain let her, backing out of the way without dropping his blade. She said nothing, staring with her dark eyes as if she expected Maric to respond somehow.
He looked distinctly discomfited. “Err . . . hello,” he finally said. “It’s good to see you.”
She remained silent, her mouth thinning into an angry frown.
“Aren’t you happy to see me at all?” he asked.
She punched him. Her gauntleted fist slamming into Maric’s jaw sent him sprawling on his back. Lifting a curious brow, Loghain watched Maric lie there, groaning and clutching his face, and then turned back to regard the female knight. She was furious now, her look daring him to go ahead and defend Maric.
He sheathed his sword. “Yes, you definitely know him.”
Maric was glad to see Rowan. Overjoyed, in fact. Or had been, until she punched him in the face. As far as he was concerned, there had been entirely too much punching in the face lately. After picking himself up off the ground, hasty explanations were made—and none too soon. Rowan had stirred herself into a fury. He had always had a knack for provoking her temper. When he was a child he often blithely enraged Rowan and then ran to his mother for protection. She would simply smile down at him in amusement and leave him to Rowan’s tender mercies. By the time he got older, he’d learned to see the warning signs for himself . . . though apparently that skill had become a tad rusty.
Rowan and her men had seen their fire from a distance and assumed Loghain was Maric’s captor. In fact, she had seen Maric reclining and believed him unconscious or dead. Upon discovering that he not only didn’t run away when he had the chance but actually defended Loghain, she had then assumed they were conspirators and Maric had . . . what? Run away, he supposed, though she stopped short of saying just that. It took a considerable amount of convincing before Rowan grudgingly believed that they had been on their way to the rebel camp and that Loghain was, in fact, responsible for Maric’s survival to date.
“Oh,” Rowan said, finally looking at Loghain. She didn’t seem all that impressed. “I suppose I owe you an apology, then, ser.” Her overt suspicion didn’t make it sound much like an apology, but Loghain seemed more amused than offended.
“It seems that you do,” he said, offering his hand. “Loghain Mac Tir, at your service.”
“Rowan Guerein.” Her look remained dubious, probably since most men would have bowed and perhaps taken her fingers in the usual courtly fashion, even if Maric knew she didn’t care for it. She took Loghain’s hand, and he gave it a firm shake. She removed her hand from the contact a bit too eagerly, as if Loghain had some unsightly and possibly infectious skin condition that she was much too polite to comment on. “And I doubt I’ll be needing your service, ser.”
“It’s a figure of speech, not a proposal.”
“It’s Lady Rowan,” Maric interjected helpfully. “She’s the daughter of the Arl of Redcliffe . . . who is probably still with the army, I hope?”
“Yes . . .” Rowan’s gaze lingered uncertainly on Loghain a moment longer before she turned her attention back to Maric. She frowned at him with concern. “We searched everywhere for you, Maric. Father’s all but given you up for dead. He’s wanted to move the army for days, now, but I begged him to let me keep looking.” She softened, touching his cheek with uncharacteristic tenderness. “Maker’s breath, Maric! When we heard what they had done to the queen, we were so afraid they’d killed you, too! Or worse, put you in one of the usurper’s dungeons . . .” She hugged him tightly against her breastplate. “But you’re alive! You are!”
Maric allowed himself to be crushed, sending Loghain a pleading look that said, For the love of the Maker, help me! Loghain merely stood by, appearing vaguely entertained. When Rowan released Maric, she paused and stared at him as if uncertain how to proceed.
“Your mother . . .”
“They killed her in front of me.” He nodded miserably.
“The usurper had her body sent to Denerim. He’s declared a holiday, had her paraded—” She stopped herself short, her voice raw. “You don’t want to know this.”
“No. Probably not.” He’d heard about the usurper’s fondness for putting his enemies on display, and no doubt the Rebel Queen was a great prize for him. His mind shied away from the unbidden images that conjured. None of them were pleasant.
Loghain leaned forward, clearing his throat with exaggerated politeness. “Not to interrupt, Your Ladyship—”
“Rowan will do,” she interrupted.
Loghain glanced questioningly at Maric, who spread his hands as if helpless. “Not to interrupt, Rowan,” he repeated, “but perhaps we should get under way. You might not be the only one who saw our fire.”
She stepped back from Maric, all business once again. Studying the horizon with concern, she nodded. “Good point.” She turned back to the horsemen watching politely from nearby. “Leave two of the horses here. The rest of you can double up. I want you to ride back and inform my father that I’ve found the Prince.”
The men looked uncertain, perhaps reluctant to leave her unguarded. “Go,” she repeated more forcefully. “We will be right behind you.” And they went, exchanging their places on the horses without comment—the one soldier whom Loghain had dragged from his steed limping and needing assistance—before riding off in a cloud.
“Father’s had some odd reports,” Rowan commented to Maric as they left. “There’s been a lot of men sighted in the Hinterlands. The usurper’s men, looking for you—or so we thought.” She sighed heavily. “We may have stayed here too long.”
“And you sent away your guards?”
“As distractions,” Loghain said with a hint of approval.
Rowan remounted her horse. “If we did run into the enemy, a few more men wouldn’t make much difference.” She glanced at Maric and smiled mischievously. “Besides, as I recall, you’re a fine rider. We’ll just outrun them if need be.”
Maric ignored her and mounted his own horse. It was a shaky business, requiring several bounces as the
startled animal proceeded to pace forward and drag him along before he was actually on top. Once perched precariously on the saddle, he did his best to try to stay there. His discomfort was pronounced enough to make the horse nicker nervously. “I fall off horses,” he explained to Loghain with a sickly grin. “It’s this thing I do.”
“Let’s not run into anyone, then.” Loghain seemed to have no trouble riding, and as if to prove it, he trotted around Maric and brought his horse to stand beside Rowan’s. Maric watched him with a grimace and thought, Well, of course he’s a good rider, too. Why wouldn’t he be?
Rowan seemed to be thinking the same thing, glancing curiously at him. “You have experience riding? That’s unusual for a—” She paused, searching for a tactful word.
“A commoner?” he finished for her. He snorted derisively. “That’s an interesting worldview coming from someone who lives in the wilderness and probably has to beg her meals from cowards.”
Rowan’s jaw set and her eyes flashed with anger. Maric decided against warning Loghain about her temper; he was a grown man, after all. The sort who could ride and everything. “I meant,” she said curtly, “that it’s not everyone who has access to horses.”
“My father raised them on our farmhold. He taught me.”
“Did he teach you your manners, too?”
“No, that was my mother,” he replied coldly. “Or at least she tried to before she was raped and killed by the Orlesians.”
Rowan’s eyes were wide as Loghain turned and rode away.
Maric steered his horse over toward hers with difficulty. “So,” he announced, “that was a bit awkward.”
She stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two extra heads.
“Just to change the subject—” He cleared his throat. “—are we planning on following those other men you sent off? Because if we are, they’re getting out of sight really quickly. Really quickly. In fact . . . Well, there they go.”
“No,” Rowan said firmly. “We’re taking a slightly different route.”
“Shouldn’t we get under way, then?”
“Yes.” She put her helmet back on and rode ahead without another word, the green plume trailing behind her.
Watching her, Maric wondered how it might have been for Rowan in a normal world. Fereldans were a rugged and practical people, and women who could hold their own in combat were respected as much as the men, but it was different among the nobility. Had it not been for the rebellion, the Arl would have had his daughter wearing fine dresses and learning the latest dances from the Orlesian court rather than helping to lead his army.
Rowan’s family had made many sacrifices for the rebellion. Arl Rendorn had given up his beloved Redcliffe to the usurper. His wife, the Arlessa, had died from fever on the road, and he had sent his two younger sons, Eamon and Teagan, away to live with cousins in the far north. Who knew if the Arl’s sons would even recognize him if they returned now?
They had given up a great deal to help Maric’s mother. And now she was gone. This wasn’t a normal world at all.
They rode into the hills, taking a route that Rowan was noticeably familiar with. Maric wondered just how often she had passed over this territory looking for him, and why she had bothered. He was his mother’s heir, without question, but it must have seemed quite hopeless that anyone would chance across him out in the open after the first few days. They should have moved on without him.
The rocky terrain was difficult to ride through, and Maric was pleased that he managed to stay on his horse. They stopped only once when he realized that Loghain was still bleeding from the wounds in his chest left by the flail. Maric flagged down Rowan, and then practically had to wrestle Loghain off his horse so they could bandage him properly. Loghain, naturally, seemed more irritated than anything by the delay, causing Maric to wonder if he could take a flail to the chest delivered from horseback and still walk away to be stubborn about it. Probably not.
Eventually they started to see evidence of the rebel army’s presence. They rode past several sentries who saluted Rowan before they recognized Maric and stared, mouths agape. Evidently the word had not quite gotten out.
It wasn’t long before they got among the tents and into the heart of the camp, situated mostly in a small valley that almost completely hid it from sight. Maric’s mother had loved the Hinterlands because it had so many valleys just like this one, so many spots for the army to take refuge in. They could access most of the northern lowlands quickly while still being able to retreat quickly. His mother had slowly built the army here from nothing to a force that had been the vexation of the Orlesians for more than a decade now.
Loghain looked around at the many tents they passed with some degree of surprise. It looked much like the outlaw camp had, to tell the truth, but on a larger scale. The tents were worn and dirty, as were most of the soldiers, and generally it was all that anyone could do to keep so many hundreds of men fed from day to day. The rebels were the product of years of recruitment from among the ranks of angry noblemen, men who had decided it was worth abandoning their own lands and taking what loyal followers and supplies they could to join an uncertain cause without much hope of compensation. Those who couldn’t join sometimes offered food and shelter when they had it to spare, which wasn’t often. Maric’s mother had been reduced to begging more than once—Loghain had been right on that point, too.
As soon as the first cry of “It’s the Prince!” went up, men and women started spilling out of the tents and surrounding their horses. Only a few at first, but after a short time they were mobbed. The soldiers surrounded them, joy showing on their filthy faces as many hands reached out toward Maric.
“The Prince!”
“He’s alive! It’s the Prince!”
A general cheer welled up from the crowd, a sound of relief and excitement. Some of the older men were actually crying—crying— and some of them were hugging and pounding their fists in the air. Rowan removed her helmet, and he saw there were tears in her eyes, as well. She reached over from her horse and raised Maric’s hand, and the cheer escalated to a roar of approval.
They had loved his mother this much. It must have been devastating to lose the very reason most of them were here. Deeply moved, Maric realized that having him back among them was a victory, of sorts, like having a piece of Queen Moira back. He choked up at the thought of her.
Rowan squeezed his hand. She understood.
Loghain remained slightly behind them, looking pained and out of place. Maric turned and urged him forward. If anything, he was the main reason Maric had made it back to the army at all. Loghain shook his head, however, and remained where he was.
Thunderous footsteps resounded as a ten-foot-tall creature made of stone slowly lumbered toward the crowd from deeper in the camp. The cheering dimmed as some of the men respectfully got out of the creature’s way, but most just accepted the creature for the common sight it was here.
Loghain’s stared at it in shock. “What is that?”
Maric chuckled, wiping his eyes. “Oh, that? That’s just the golem, nothing to get excited about.” He would have laughed at Loghain’s incredulous look had the golem’s owner not appeared and pushed through the crowd of soldiers. He was tall, but thin enough to appear gaunt and spindly as opposed to intimidating. If men scrambled to get out of his way, it was because of the bright robes marking him as a ranking Enchanter of the Circle of Magi.
“Prince Maric!” he called out, frowning with familiar impatience. The mage had served the Arl as a retainer and advisor for years now and had been on good terms with Maric’s mother. He had always treated Maric himself as a recalcitrant student sorely in need of discipline, however, though this was not unusual. The mage was perpetually displeased, always frowning and looking down past his hawkish nose at others. Still, he was loyal and trustworthy. So Maric swallowed his distaste and nodded to the man as he approached.
“I found him, Wilhelm!” Rowan laughed.
“I can see tha
t, my lady,” the mage grumped. The cheering continued, but Wilhelm ignored it and turned to regard Maric with open suspicion. “Rather convenient timing, Prince Maric.”
“Why do you say that?”
“First, let’s see if you are who you claim.” Wilhelm made subtle gestures with his hands, his intense gaze seeming to burrow into Maric’s skull. Glowing embers swirled around him, brightening until the magic was evident to the entire crowd. The cheering skidded to a halt, and most of the men immediately near the spell backed up so quickly, many of them actually fell.
“Wilhelm!” From her horse, Rowan grabbed his wrist. “This is not necessary!”
“It is!” he snapped, wrenching his hand free. He finished casting, the words uttered just barely audibly under his breath, and Maric felt the magic wash over him. It was a tickle of pinpricks dancing upon his skin and behind his eyes. Loghain watched nervously from nearby but only worked to keep his horse calm.
Wilhelm then stood back, apparently satisfied by whatever his magic had discovered. “My apologies, Your Highness. I had to be sure.”
“I think I would know Maric if I saw him, don’t you?” Rowan said crisply.
“No, I’m not sure that you would.” Wilhelm turned to face the quiet masses of soldiers that were now staring at him. “Men!” he called out. “You must prepare for battle! Your prince has returned to you! Now ready to defend him!” As if to punctuate his shouts, the stone golem fell into place directly behind him, scanning the crowd with its fearsome, baleful eyes.
The soldiers immediately burst into life, several commanders among them bellowing orders. Maric stared at the mage with growing alarm. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Come, I’ll let the Arl explain.” The mage turned and briskly walked deeper into the camp, the golem lumbering after him.
Maric and Rowan exchanged a look and dismounted. A man ran up and took their horses. Loghain remained mounted, however, and looked down at Maric awkwardly. “Perhaps this is a good time for me to leave,” he said.
