The Stolen Throne

4

They spent the night outside the witch’s hut, next to a fire that had roared into life with a single tap of her foot. It stayed lit all night, even though Loghain couldn’t tell what was being burned inside it. Magic, he assumed, and decided it was best not to think about it too closely. There were a great many things about the hut and the objects around it that he didn’t want to think about too closely—the feeling that the marionette corpses hanging in the trees were watching them, for one. The way the trees seemed to change configuration around them, for another. Indeed, in the morning, the path they’d arrived on led away in a completely different direction.

Loghain also didn’t want to think about what sort of promise the witch had elicited from Maric. He had gone into her hut and had remained there for hours, long enough that Loghain grew concerned. He had been trying to peer in through its one filthy, grit-covered window when Maric walked out the door, alone. The man seemed shaken and quiet and was resistant to even the most casual efforts Loghain made to inquire about what had gone on. So it was to remain a secret, after all.

The witch did not reappear, so the two of them slept on the leaves by the fire. Or, rather, Maric slept. Loghain lay awake, watching the shadows and staring at the darkness where he knew Dannon’s body swung. He wondered when Dannon had fled the outlaw camp: before the attack or during? Eventually he approached the tree and looked up at Dannon’s sagging, swollen face. With effort, he pulled the body down, freeing it from the branches that clutched it. He struggled at first, but suddenly the body came all at once, as if released. The moist thud as it hit the ground was followed by a sickening belch of foulness. Working with his hands, Loghain collected masses of leaves and moss and small stones and buried Dannon’s body with them. It wasn’t a proper grave. He had no idea why he did it, but he felt it was right.

Sleep took him later by the fire, a fitful slumber filled with frightening wisps of images but no dreams. When he thought he heard footsteps, he woke and saw it was morning. Thin streams of sunlight came through the trees above, and the fire pit was black once again. Both of them were healed of all wounds, and piled neatly next to them were provisions: a pair of cloaks, their weapons, a bag filled with what looked like small loaves of bread and berries and strips of dry jerky, and one shiny red apple.

The hut was empty of everything but dust and rot, as if nobody had lived there for years. They searched about, but there was no sign of the witch. There was also, he noticed, no sign of Dannon’s body or his makeshift grave. It seemed they were free to go.

It took them four days’ travel to leave the Wilds. Supposedly, the witch had told Maric they would see the way out once they left her hut, and sure enough, not an hour away a bluebird appeared in the trees before them. It was so out of place, and sang so sweetly, that both Loghain and Maric took instant notice. As they approached, it flitted to the next tree and to the next until Loghain realized it was leading them. So they followed. When it reappeared the next morning, there could be no doubt.

The weather cooperated for the most part, raining only the first night, then remaining chilly and dry the nights after. Having the thick cloaks made all the difference in the world, and it wasn’t long before Maric was restored to his usual chatty self. Loghain threatened to take away Maric’s cloak so the man would freeze again and perhaps be quiet for a while, but the annoying truth was that Loghain found himself not minding it quite so much anymore. Pretending not to care, he listened quietly while Maric talked about almost everything.

The only thing Maric didn’t talk about was the witch.

Loghain was fairly certain they were passing through areas controlled by the Dalish. Several times he could have sworn that he felt eyes on him, but saw nothing in the trees. Elves were good at keeping themselves hidden when they wanted to, or these elves were. All the elves Loghain had ever known were like Potter, and had lived among humans so long that the ways of the Dalish were just as foreign to them as to everyone else.

There were no more unexpected encounters, though on the third night they found the remains of an overgrown ruin. It was a sight to behold, tall stone pillars jutting into the sky like rib bones, presumably having once held up a great ceiling. Part of the foundation remained, along with a set of long stairs, all of it cracked and almost reduced to rubble by the encroaching greenery. Maric seemed awed by the structure and poked around it at length. He found the remains of an altar that held a great carving of what might once have been a dragon’s head. It was faded now, though Maric seemed to see where the eyes and teeth might have been and traced them out. Excitedly, he told Loghain that this was probably a temple of the ancient Imperium, from back in the times when they had encroached this far south and warred with the barbarian tribes. To him, the fact that the temple had lasted as long as it had was impressive. All Loghain knew of the Imperium was that it had once been ruled by mages, and he refused to have anything more to do with magic. The idea of taking refuge in the bones of a pagan temple made him agitated, and while Maric teased him for being superstitious, he didn’t object when Loghain insisted they leave.

It wasn’t long after leaving the ruins that they encountered wolves again. For the first time, Loghain was truly beginning to believe that the old witch had called on greater magic to aid them than just summoning a bluebird guide. Loghain stood with his bow at the ready, eyeing the wolves warily, while Maric remained breathless beside him. The entire pack, however, maintained its distance and watched, but did not threaten. Loghain and Maric moved cautiously through the trees, with perhaps twenty large wolves sitting and staring at them silently with their feral yellow eyes. Still, nothing happened. As soon as they were out of sight, Loghain let out a long breath. He swore that he never wanted to encounter magic again as long as he lived, and Maric murmured agreement.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, the forest had thinned enough that Loghain declared them out of the Wilds. He couldn’t be sure, but he believed the bluebird had led them west, just as he had originally planned, before veering north. This placed them a long way from Lothering, in the hills of the western Hinterlands. Sure enough, the terrain became rockier as they traveled, and off in the distance the magnificent vista of the Frostback Mountains could be seen. Loghain was pleased to see the return of the horizon. Too long spent in that wilderness with its cold and mist could drive a man mad.

When the sun went down that day, the bluebird vanished.

“Do you think it’s going to come back?” Maric asked.

“How should I know?”

“Because you’re the expert on all things magical and arcane?”

Loghain snorted. “It brought us out of the Wilds. Its job is done.” He looked at Maric impatiently. “Just how hard will it be to find this army of yours? It can’t be that well-hidden, can it?”

“We’ve managed to keep ahead of the usurper all these years, so I don’t know.” Maric hopped onto a nearby boulder and looked out over the hills. Dusk was providing a spectacular show of orange and crimson in the sky, but darkness was coming fast. “I think they actually may be nearby. If you had asked me earlier where we had been camping, I would have said west of Lothering. So . . . here?”

“Wonderful.”

Loghain selected a small clearing to make their camp and sent Maric to collect wood. Now that they were away from the eternal mist, it was far easier to build a decent blaze, but he knew being out of the dense woods also meant that the fire could be seen, especially in the hills. Maric’s hunters could still be searching for him, even out here. For all Loghain knew, what he’d said to Maric about mages looking for him could be true. They might be watching for people coming out of the forest, and what then?

Loghain already had the beginnings of a fire going. They would take the risk until it was proved otherwise, he thought. If he tried to account for magic, he would end up chasing his tail.

“I saw some more wolves,” Maric announced when he returned with wood.

“And? Were they hostile?”

“Well, they didn’t attack, if that’s what you mean. But they were planning to.”

“They told you that?”

“Yes, in fact. They sent a rabbit with a note to inform me of their intentions.” He dumped the wood unceremoniously next to the fire. “Rather gentlemanly of them, I thought.” Loghain ignored him, and he sat down on the grass, watching the darkening sky overhead. “I wonder if they were werewolves? Is there a way to tell?”

Here we go again, Loghain thought to himself. He didn’t look up from his task of slowly adding wood to the fire. “Do I even want to know?”

“I remembered the story one of my tutors taught me, about how the mist ended up in the Korcari Wilds. It has to do with the werewolves.”

“That’s nice.”

As usual, Maric seemed to miss Loghain’s uninterested tone. “It was back before King Calenhad united the Clayne tribes. There was a curse that spread among the wolves, and they became possessed by powerful demons. They turned into monsters that preyed on the farmholds and villages in these parts, and when they were chased into the Wilds, they would turn into wolves again and hide.”

“Superstition,” Loghain muttered.

“No, it really happened! That’s why everyone still keeps hounds. Back then, a hound could smell a werewolf approaching and warn you, maybe even attack and give you a chance to run away. It was an epidemic.”

Loghain paused and regarded Maric with a weary expression. “And what does that have to do with the mist?”

“The story says that a great arl finally created an army of hounds and hunters and went into the Wilds. For years they slaughtered every wolf they could find, possessed or no. The last werewolf swore vengeance, stabbing himself in the heart with the very blade that had slain his mate. As his blood touched the forest floor, a mist rose from that spot.

“The mist spread and spread, until finally the Arl’s army became lost in the forest. They never returned home, and eventually the arling was abandoned. My tutor claimed that the old ruins there are haunted by the ghosts of their wives, forever waiting for their husbands.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Loghain sighed. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. And there’s not nearly enough mist in the Wilds to make someone lose their way. It’s just a nuisance.”

“Maybe it was different a long time ago?” Maric shrugged. “Anyhow, they say that some of the werewolves survived. That they hide in these parts, taking vengeance when they can find a man alone.”

“They say a lot of things.”

“My tutor was a very learned man.”

“Especially them.” Loghain stood up, brushing himself off, and turned toward the reclining Maric just as an arrow flew by his ear.

Maric sat up, confused. “Was that—?”

“Get down!” Loghain sank to a crouch and drew his sword. Maric dropped to his knees, but also turned curiously to see where the arrow had come from. Unwilling to discuss the matter, Loghain grabbed him by the hood of his cloak and pushed him down to his belly. Already the sound of several riders could be heard approaching the clearing, and Loghain cursed himself for a fool. He had underestimated just how badly they wanted Maric if they were on top of them already.

“We have to get out of here!” Maric shouted. He had drawn his own knife, but Loghain was already watching two horsemen entering the camp at full trot. The men were soldiers, wearing mail hauberks and full helmets, and already had their flails out and swinging.

As the first horseman raced past, Loghain ducked under the swing of his flail. The spiked ball passed over his head with an alarming whoosh. The second horseman was shortly behind the first, and Loghain sprinted forward, jabbing up with his sword before that soldier could begin his swing. Loghain felt the point of the blade jab into the rider’s armpit, and the man shouted in pain and tried to weakly bring the flail down on him. He pulled out his sword just in time to catch the flail’s chain, causing the heavy ball to spin around the blade. Girding himself, he pulled hard, and the rider was flung off his mount, crying out in surprise.

The soldier hit the ground awkwardly, rolling away with the flail. This time it was Loghain’s blade that was wrenched from him. The first rider had doubled back and was bearing down on him, leaving him with no time to do anything but watch the flail head swinging toward him. It slammed into his chest hard, several ribs cracking as the spikes dug painfully into his chest. He was lifted off his feet and thrown back several paces.

“Loghain!” Maric shouted, rushing into the melee with his dagger. He plunged the wicked blade into the leg of the mounted soldier. The man’s horse reared back and whinnied as the rider screamed in pain, unintentionally pulling on the reins. The other fallen soldier was groaning and trying to crawl away, and Maric jumped over him and ran to where Loghain had fallen.

Loghain gritted his teeth against the massive pain in his chest and tried to sit up. He was about to tell Maric to run, but it was too late. Four other horsemen had already arrived, one of them a knight in intricate plate armor. Clearly the leader, this one rode a great black horse and wore a full helmet with a green plume.

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 that, 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.

“And go where, exactly?” Maric frowned up at Loghain, but Rowan took him by the arm and led him after the mage before he could receive an answer. He allowed himself to be taken away, but looked back as they walked. Loghain seemed vastly out of place sitting there as the man waited expectantly to take his horse. Maric almost felt sorry for him. Eventually Loghain sighed and dismounted, surrendering his horse before running to catch up.

The activity among the soldiers grew more intense as they went farther into the valley. Something was definitely amiss. Soldiers were falling into formation, tents were being torn down rapidly, everyone seemed to be running and shouting all at once. . . . It seemed to Maric to be controlled chaos, something he was not unused to. There was an edge of panic to it all that he didn’t like, however. He had seen his mother’s army scramble many times to flee before an attack by the usurper’s forces—this had that feeling to it.

At the center of all the activity he saw Arl Rendorn, Rowan’s father. He was hard to miss in his silverite plate mail, a gift from Maric’s mother to her most trusted friend and general many years before. Silver-haired and distinguished, the Arl was the very picture of nobility, and Maric found himself feeling more than a little relieved to see him. The man was giving orders to the soldiers around him with quick, efficient precision. The orders never needed repeating, and were obeyed without question.

Wilhelm waved to the Arl, though it was hardly necessary, as the stone giant behind him drew notice from almost everyone. The Arl turned, and upon seeing Maric he strode forward through several ranks of men to greet him with a wide and happy grin.

“Maric!” he shouted, clapping Maric on the shoulder. “It is you!”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.” Maric grinned.

“Maker be praised!” His eyes grew sad for a moment. “Your mother would be proud to see that you survived. Well done, lad.”

“I told you I would find him, Father,” Rowan said.

The Arl regarded his daughter with a look that was both impressed and eternally frustrated. “So you did, so you did. I should never have doubted you, pup.” He turned then and barked several sharp orders to his immediate lieutenants, who were staring at Maric dumbly. Now, they snapped to attention and took over whatever preparations had been under way.

“Come,” the Arl said, “let us move inside. Whatever tale you have will need to wait. You’ve come at an awkward moment, truth be told, and not a minute too soon.” He stepped to the large red tent immediately behind him and held open the flap. Wilhelm brushed inside imperiously, as if the honor should have been his to begin with. Truly, Maric had never understood why Rendorn put up with such behavior from a man who was technically a retainer, hired from the Circle of Magi. The Arl, however, appeared to be more amused than offended by Wilhelm’s antics.

That amusement disappeared instantly, however, when he saw Loghain approach. He put up a hand to stop Loghain from entering the tent. “Hold now, who’s this?”

Loghain paused, regarding the Arl’s hand with a raised brow. “It’s Loghain,” he said. “Loghain Mac Tir.”

“He came with me,” Maric offered helpfully.

The Arl narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I’ve never heard of you. Or your family.”

“There’s no reason you should.” The two men locked eyes, bristling. Maric stepped forward between the two, putting up his hands to halt any imminent escalation.

“Loghain helped me,” Maric told Rendorn, keeping his tone restrained. “He’s the reason I’m here, Your Grace. If it hadn’t been for him and his father, I . . . well, I probably wouldn’t have made it at all.”

Arl Rendorn paused, digesting this before nodding to Loghain. “If that’s true, then it’s greatly appreciated. You’ve done a great service, and I’ll see to it you’re rewarded.”

“I’m not interested in any reward.”

“As you wish.” With a frown, the Arl turned to Maric. “I need to speak with you, lad, and it’s not a discussion to be held in front of any commoners—especially men we don’t know.” He bowed politely to Loghain. “No offense, ser.”

“None taken,” Loghain growled.

Rendorn turned to enter the tent, considering the matter closed, but Maric interposed himself in front of him. “He’s not a commoner!”

The Arl looked startled by Maric’s vehemence. So did Rowan, who quietly raised her eyebrows from a step away. Even Loghain looked at Maric as if he might have been slightly mad. “He’s the son of a knight,” Maric insisted. “A man who died in my service. He’s also saved my life more than once, and I will see him treated accordingly.”

Rowan’s father glowered at Maric, the moment thick with tension. He turned an appraising eye toward Loghain, who looked like he felt compelled to speak but wasn’t sure quite what to say. Instead, he met the Arl’s stare with a simple shrug and the slightest hint of an insolent grin.

“Fine,” Rendorn snapped. “I’ve no time to argue.” He held the flap open and let Loghain and the others through, then followed them inside. The golem stood silent guard beside the entrance.

The tent’s interior was dominated by the worn table around which Maric’s mother had gathered the Arl and her other commanders. Significantly, the large chair she had occupied for as long as Maric could remember stood vacant. He tried not to stare at it.

“The usurper’s men are marching on us as we speak,” Arl Rendorn announced as soon as the tent flap was closed. They did not sit down. “Our situation is desperate. They know where we are and managed to almost surround us before we became aware of their approach.”

“Magic,” Wilhelm’s hawklike face twisted into a disapproving scowl. “The usurper has gone to great lengths to plan this attack.”

“Plan?” Rowan frowned. “But how could he have known we would still be here? You would already have left if I hadn’t insisted we look for Maric.”

The Arl shrugged. “Perhaps they expected us to do just that. Or perhaps someone told them we intended to remain where we were.”

“There’s no shortage of Fereldans willing to sell us out,” Maric sighed. “That’s what got my mother killed, after all.”

“There is a plan,” the Arl stated. “Now that you’re here, lad, we have hope. All is not lost. They haven’t surrounded us completely. If we leave now, take only a small number of men with us, and use Wilhelm’s magic to our advantage, we can slip out of this noose before it tightens.”

“And what of the army?” Maric asked.

Rowan nodded gravely, already in agreement with her father. “It’s lost.” She put her hand on Maric’s shoulder. “It’s already lost. It’s you we need to get out, Maric. The royal line rests with you.”

“No! We can’t abandon the army! That’s madness!”

“We can rebuild the army again, just as your mother did,” the Arl sighed heavily. “The fact that Rowan found you just in time is a sign from the Maker. We need to take you away from here before it is too late.”

“No!” Maric paced angrily, staring at Rowan and her father in outrage. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing! I didn’t come here just to lose my mother’s entire army! We have to do something!”

“There’s nothing to be done, lad,” the Arl said gently. “We’ve got two groups bearing down on us, one from the north and a larger force coming through the forest in the east. They’ve got us cornered. If we try to withdraw, they’ll be on our flank. There’s no way.”

“No,” Maric repeated. “We fight!”

“That is the fool’s path,” Wilhelm sneered.

Rowan walked gingerly toward Maric, shaking her head sadly. “Maric, there’s no point in fighting. You would just die!”

“Then I die.” His voice was firm.

The Arl waved his hand dismissively. “No. I understand that you’re trying to be brave, lad. But this is the time for discretion.”

Maric set his jaw. “And I understand what you’re getting at, Your Grace, but that’s not your decision.”

Arl Rendorn turned now, regarding with Maric with growing rage. “Not my decision? I lead this army!”

“My army,” Maric insisted. “Or don’t you follow your king?”

“I don’t see a king here.” The Arl seethed. “I see a boy who’s trying to be brave! Queen Moira would have understood. She would have left these men, if she had to, for the rebellion to live on!”

“She’s dead!” Maric slammed his fist down on the table, hard. “And I would rather die beside these men than abandon them to save my own skin! I won’t do it!”

“Don’t be stubborn! There’s no point in fighting just to lose!”

“Then win,” Loghain suddenly blurted out.

His interruption was unexpected enough that even Arl Rendorn stared in surprise. Rowan arched a brow curiously as Loghain came forward, his expression annoyed. “Don’t stay and lose,” he repeated. “Stay and win.”

Rowan held out her hands helplessly. “We can’t. It isn’t that simple!”

“Why?” Loghain frowned at her. “Because he told you so?”

The Arl stiffened. “I know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Loghain crossed his arms, watching the Arl. “But my father stayed one step ahead of people like you for years by doing the unexpected.”

“And I understand your father is dead.”

“Our camp was surrounded, just like your army. If we’d had half the warning you have, had half the equipment, had any of the magic, my father would have seen us through it!” His tone was iron-hard. “I know it.”

The Arl shook his head. “No, you’re wrong.”

“You have advantages you don’t even know about. Trust me, you can win.”

Maric took a step toward Loghain, hope creeping across his face. “Do you have an idea?”

Loghain paused, his eyes darting uncertainly among Arl Rendorn, Rowan, and Maric, as if he’d just realized they all were, in fact, paying attention to him. For a moment it seemed he might back down, but then Maric saw it in those icy blue eyes: resolve.

“Yes.” Loghain nodded. “I do.”