Dragon Age

by David Gaider

  The fat man reeled and ran away, covering his face while he squealed in agony. The first man scrambled to his feet and lifted his blade as Maric turned to face him. For a moment the two of them stared at each other, their swords at the ready. Maric was calm, but the man licked his lips nervously and clearly wanted to run. More smoke poured into the street as a nearby roof collapsed and flames licked the sky.

  “Still willing to try?” Maric asked.

  Behind the man, four new militia soldiers ran into view. Some were bloodied, and all of them halted as they spotted the confrontation occurring before them. Seeing his comrades, the man in front of Maric suddenly grinned at him.

  “I think I just might,” he snickered.

  Then Maric heard a new sound: hooves pounding on the cobblestone. The four soldiers realized they were being chased and began shouting in fear and running forward again, only not quickly enough. Several horses with armored riders overran them, blades slashing down and dispatching them instantly. One of the riders was Rowan, her green plume fluttering behind her.

  She rushed ahead of the others, her sword held high. The soldier in front of Maric stared at her dumbly, mouth hanging open, and only belatedly did he think to try to run. It was too late. Rowan ran him down, slicing him deftly across the throat.

  Maric grimly watched the man stumble and then slow, his dark blood gushing over the cobblestones. It was unnecessary, he thought to himself. These soldiers were his people, too, were they not? But there was nothing he could do about it. Not yet.

  The horses clattered to a stop as Rowan pulled up beside Maric. She removed her helmet, her face covered in soot and sweat. “Fall off your horse again?” she asked with just a hint of a mocking grin.

  “It’s what I do,” he agreed with a belabored sigh. He hadn’t actually fallen off his horse for several years, now—except for that one time the previous winter when he’d ended up buried in a snowbank. It had saved his life, hiding him from the enemy until Loghain reached him and pulled him out. Loghain had called him absurdly lucky, and Maric had agreed through chattering teeth. Loghain and Rowan both continued to tease him about it mercilessly.

  Maric turned and walked back to where his horse had retreated, taking its reins and calming it before finally leaping back into the saddle. Rowan watched him appreciatively before she glanced back at the horsemen waiting behind her. With a gesture, they rode off to continue their sweep.

  “We’ve still got part of the town to search,” she said. “It will probably take the rest of the night to find them. I was hoping they would start coming out and surrendering—” She nodded to the various fires around them. “—but it looks like they would rather burn half of Gwaren down around our ears first.”

  “So it seems.” Maric wiped the sweat off his brow. He wiped his bloody sword clean using a hay bundle that stood nearby. “Last I saw, the fighting was going well up at the manor. Loghain broke through the wall, I think.”

  Rowan looked annoyed, as she tended to whenever he mentioned Loghain. She had denied doing so when challenged, so now he just ignored it. “So Gwaren is ours, then?” she asked crisply.

  “Soon enough it will be.”

  Rowan waved to her men to continue on without her, and they rode off, leaving Maric and Rowan to survey the town together. The area they were in had quieted considerably. Several blazes were going, but most of those who had decided to flee were long gone, and most of the enemy in this area had already been found. Maric felt helpless, watching the buildings burn, knowing that the fire would spread unchecked for some time yet. He could see the faces cowering behind the windows, watching Rowan and him as they rode past, but he could hardly expect them to come out now. Later, perhaps, but for now, he was the invader, the one responsible for the bloodshed and fires. Perhaps some even believed him to be the villain that King Meghren claimed. Most were no doubt justifiably terrified.

  The streets were strewn with litter, as well as the occasional corpse. Many doors were hanging open or outright demolished, and surprisingly there seemed to be chickens everywhere. Where had they come from? Had someone let them loose? The birds were furious, strutting about the streets as if they were the true owners of Gwaren now.

  Thunder rumbled in the sky and Rowan studied the swatch of gray clouds. “We can hope for rain,” she said. “That should help with the fires.”

  There was another sound, however, that drew Maric’s attention. From somewhere nearby, he could hear the muffled sounds of a woman shouting for help. “Do you hear that?” he asked Rowan, but she looked at him quizzically. Without waiting for her, he spun his horse about and charged toward the shouting.

  Maric heard Rowan’s shout of alarm behind him, but he didn’t care. Urging his steed forward, he raced down a street cluttered with empty crates. When he turned the corner at what appeared to be an alehouse, he saw the source of the shouts. A beautiful elven woman with long honey-colored curls and dressed in simple white traveling clothes was struggling wildly as three men held her down. Her shirt was half ripped from her body, and only her wild twisting kept the men from completing their task.

  “For the love of the Maker, help me! I beg you!” she screamed, spotting Maric.

  One of the burly men slapped a meaty hand over her mouth as the other two turned to face Maric. These weren’t his men, and he couldn’t imagine them being ordinary townsfolk. Convicts, perhaps? They were certainly filthy enough and had a dangerous look that left no question as to what they intended.

  One of them drew a knife. Maric didn’t hesitate—he kicked his warhorse so it charged the men. The knife-wielding man lunged toward Maric. His mistake. Maric turned the warhorse and it kicked the man right in the head and sent him flying, dead before he hit the ground.

  “You will leave her be!” Maric roared. He dismounted, drawing his blade to confront the remaining pair as his steed ran off. “In the name of the crown, I command it!”

  The burly man tightened his grip on the elf as she struggled, screaming into his hand. The other man bared his teeth and ran at Maric, shouting in rage. Maric did not step out of the way, instead stepping forward and letting the man run into the pommel of his sword. He gasped and fell back, and Maric swung the blade around to bash the man in the head with the pommel again. He collapsed like a sack.

  Rowan rode in, leaping off her mount and drawing her sword. The burly man looked at Maric, and then at her, and deciding that discretion was the better option, he abandoned the elf and ran for it. Rowan gave chase, her silent glare toward Maric saying everything of what she thought of the situation.

  Maric went immediately to the elven woman’s aid. She lay in the street, trying to hold the tatters of her shirt together and crying pitifully. Her clothing was filthy and bloodstained, but Maric didn’t think the blood was hers. Other than some ugly-looking bruises on her arms and legs, she seemed unhurt.

  “Are you all right, err . . . my lady?” Maric realized belatedly that he wasn’t sure what one called an elven woman. They had elves in the rebel army, of course, but one spoke to them as soldiers. He’d never had servants, though he’d seen them in some of the castles Mother had brought him to. Still, even then he’d never spoken to them.

  The elf looked up at him, tears streaming down from eyes so incredibly green, he couldn’t look away. “My name is Katriel,” she said quietly. “You are too kind, Your Highness. Thank you.” With his help, she retrieved a cloth package from where it had fallen nearby. As she stood up, she attempted to keep her tattered shirt together. It was hardly possible. Maric removed his purple cloak and put it around her shoulders.

  She stared at him with horror and tried to get away from his cloak. “Oh, no! No, my lord, I couldn’t!”

  “Of course you can. It’s just a cloak.”

  Reluctantly she allowed him to close it around her, blushing and looking away. Maric found himself staring at her neck, at how it gracefully flowed down into ample cleavage only barely concealed by the cloak. She seemed like such a delica
te creature. He had heard that elven women held a certain fascination for men, the kind that made them popular in the brothels of Denerim. He had never been to the capital city, however, and had never understood what the appeal could be—until now.

  He started as Rowan walked back into view, an annoyed look on her face. He stepped away from the elf almost too quickly, and Rowan’s expression darkened into a scowl.

  “This is Katriel,” Maric offered lamely. Then he belatedly looked back at the elf. “And this is Lady Rowan. My, ah . . . She is my betrothed.”

  Katriel turned to Rowan and curtsied. “I am grateful to you as well, my lady. I had asked them for help. It seems I should have been more careful.”

  “I’ll say,” Rowan muttered. “Just what were you doing out here at all?”

  “I had no other choice.” The elf turned to Maric, self-consciously clutching the cloak tighter around her. “I have been looking for you, my lord. The horse I was given died not far from here. I ran the rest of the way, but there was so much chaos. . . .”

  Maric was confused. “You were looking for me?”

  From underneath the purple cloak, Katriel produced the package she carried. It appeared to be several scrolls bound in leather casings. “I came as quickly as I could. I am a messenger sent by the Arl of Amaranthine.”

  Rowan eyes went wide with alarm. “A messenger!”

  Katriel’s green eyes lowered nervously. “His Grace has been defeated. I did not see it with my own eyes, but he said he would hold the attackers as long as he could. He said it was vital that I reach you, my lord.” She held out the scrolls again, and Maric reluctantly took them. She seemed relieved, her charge fulfilled.

  “Defeated!” Rowan strode toward the elf in outrage. “What are you talking about? When did this happen?”

  “Four days ago,” Katriel replied. “I sped here on the horse I was given, and it died from exhaustion. But I had no choice. The same men that attacked His Grace were not far behind me in the forest.” She looked at Maric pleadingly. “I had to reach you before they arrived, my lord. His Grace said that was more important than anything!”

  Maric took a step back, stunned. He opened one of the scrolls and read it, his eyes scanning the content even as it confirmed what his sinking gut was telling him.

  “What?” Rowan demanded. “What does it say, for the love of the Maker?”

  Faced paled, he looked up at her. “We sent Byron to draw their attention, and he got it. A full legion of chevaliers, with mages. The King had to have planned it.”

  “And they’re coming here?”

  “They’re perhaps a day behind me, my lord,” said Katriel. “I wish I knew for certain.”

  Maric and Rowan stared at each other, unmoving. Overhead, the faint sound of thunder could be heard in the gray skies. Rain would prevent the spread of the fires in Gwaren, though much damage had already been done. Fighting still raged inside the manor, and the town was in complete chaos. It would take more than a day to get the situation under control, and even if they did, the only routes out of Gwaren were out on the sea or back through the forest, toward the approaching army.

  They were trapped.

  8

  Loghain frowned. The shop he was crowded into smelled faintly of fish, and it contrasted sharply with the nervous fear of the elven archers who crouched next to him. The group of them were hiding in the shadows, waiting quietly for the enemy to appear.

  From his vantage point by the window, Loghain could see most of Gwaren’s town square. It was the kind of place where merchants would have gathered regularly to sell their wares. Normally it would have been full of bright colors and barrels and crates and people, but in the early morning light filtering down from the clouds, all he could currently see was smoke and debris left over from the previous day’s battle. The rain had prevented the fires from gutting the town completely, but still many of the buildings around the square were ruins, smoke smoldering up from their blackened bones. Pieces of wood and belongings no doubt dropped by people fleeing into the forest littered the cobblestones right next to the bodies of the fallen, which they had not had time to collect.

  The attack on the manor had barely been finished when Maric and Rowan madly rode up the hill to inform them of the approaching army. Arl Rendorn, who had been wounded by a stray arrow, promptly broke into an uncharacteristic string of expletives, but Loghain tried to think it through. The messenger sent by Arl Byron brought useful information: the composition of the usurper’s forces, no doubt gathered by Byron’s scouts prior to the enemy’s attack.

  Loghain wondered why the Arl hadn’t come himself. If an elven girl had ridden hard enough to escape from the usurper’s attack, then so could he. Surely one of his commanders could have led his men if he truly wanted to delay the enemy. But it seemed there was no shortage of men who were willing to sacrifice themselves for others in the world. He had to wonder if he would do similarly, given the chance. He still wasn’t quite sure how he had ended up staying with the rebels when he said he would leave once he did what his father had asked him to do, yet here he was. There were times when Loghain looked in a mirror and didn’t recognize the man who was staring back out at him. A lieutenant in the rebel army, confidant to the prince whom fate had deposited in his lap so long ago—was it only three years?

  It felt like an eternity.

  Loghain’s notion had been a simple one: Gather the army together as quickly as possible and hide them in Gwaren. Let it look like the rebel army had sacked the town and fled by sea. He had suggested executing all the prisoners they had taken to prevent them from complicating the plan, but Maric had summarily refused. Arl Rendorn hadn’t been keen on the idea, either. Not that Loghain had expected them to do any differently. Most of the prisoners were locked away up at the manor without even anyone to watch them, and that was just how it had to be.

  So the entire night had been spent scrambling to restore order and ready the men for yet another fight with barely a rest in between. Injuries were hastily bandaged, with the worst off being treated up at the manor by a handful of locals and camp followers. The locals had been fairly compliant once they realized the dreaded Prince Maric had no intention of having them all executed and raped.

  Rowan had organized men to go around and find as many of the huddled townsfolk as they could and assure them that they would not be harmed, nor would their belongings be stolen. Many were herded up to the manor, but most elected to remain hidden. Those in dire need were provided supplies and told to remain where they were until the coming battle was over. They were suspicious—Rowan had told Loghain she could see it in their eyes. Many refused even to show themselves when her men passed. Even more chances for his plan to go wrong, Loghain thought to himself.

  Not everyone had been unhappy to see them, of course. As the night wore on and they scrambled to get ready, a trickle of people appeared and approached the command post Maric had set up outside the manor. Arl Rendorn had been concerned at first, assuming that any of them could turn out to be assassins, but the expressions of relief and adoration on their faces were genuine. Loghain would never forget the mixed look of horror and helplessness on Maric’s face as those people surrounded him, pawing him, and some of them even crying tears of joy.

  Loghain knew who they were. These were the people who had been treated like dogs by the Orlesians. Stripped of all but their dignity, they had been left to pray in the darkness that one day the true ruler of Ferelden would return to save them. And he had come, hadn’t he? Loghain had grimly watched them, knowing very well that Gwaren’s liberation might be shortlived. The rebel army could be smashed here and forced to retreat in tatters through the thickest parts of the Brecilian Forest, something they would never survive.

  Arl Rendorn had naturally procured a single ship for Maric to flee on if it came to that, a small sloop that might hold a handful of them. Loghain knew the Arl needn’t have bothered, of course. Maric would have to be knocked out and dragged onto the boat. Rowa
n would go only if she were the one to drag him.

  All the other buildings around the square held rebels within, as well, even if Loghain couldn’t see them. Maric was holed up in an abandoned bakery across the way, and he imagined he could see Maric’s blond hair through one of the windows. They had all finally assumed their hiding places not two hours before, and yet none of the elves with Loghain had slept. Despite their exhaustion, nervous energy kept them watchful. If the enemy didn’t show up soon, he thought it might become unbearably tense.

  Fortunately the enemy was in no mood to disappoint.

  A misty rain began as the first chevaliers advanced into Gwaren. They were easy to distinguish from the rank-and-file soldiers with them, mounted knights in heavy armor with their distinctive purple tunics. Loghain could even make out the Imperial crest from this distance, the golden blazing half-sun. His fist clenched tightly on the shaft of his bow as he saw them appear.

  Not yet, he told himself. But soon.

  They were cautious, wary of attack from the shadows, but Loghain felt reassured. So far they had not begun to search the buildings. They expected to be attacked openly, or at the very least to encounter resistance in the streets. The fact that no one was in sight was keeping them alert and on their horses for now, but he knew that would not last very long. That was all right. It didn’t have to. They just needed to get as much of the usurper’s army into the town as possible.

  More of the mounted knights moved slowly into the square, and now Loghain saw a new figure: a dark-skinned old man in yellow robes. He had a long white beard and a bearing that said he was used to power. A mage, then. The chevaliers beside him were adorned with golden cloaks and fancy plumes and surrounded by the thickest array of the riders. They were concerned. Where were the rebels? He could see them asking each other. It was time for the next part of the plan to begin.