The Stolen Throne

5

Loghain glanced uncomfortably at the knights who had been assigned to his command, once again wondering just how he had allowed himself to end up here. Thirty mounted men in heavy plate armor, each with more combat experience in the last year than he had in his life, and he was supposed to lead them?

It served him right for suggesting a plan in the first place. If he had been smart, he would have kept his fool mouth shut after that and been on his way. But the more Loghain had listened to Arl Rendorn and Maric argue about who would play the most important role in the plan, the more irritated he had become. Finally he’d thrown his hands up in disgust and volunteered to play the role himself, if only to get the two of them to stop arguing.

Maric thought the idea a brilliant one. That really should have told Loghain right then that the whole enterprise was doomed to failure.

Even so, there he was, ready to play his part. Loghain wore a fine linen shirt, shining boots, and a helmet to hide his black hair. His heavy purple cloak had once belonged to the Rebel Queen, a signature garment he felt awkward wearing. The leathers he wore were lined with black velvet and almost too tight to wear, but they were the only trousers Maric owned that would fit. He had never worn such expensive, impractical clothing in his life, but it was necessary.

Loghain and the knights kept their horses calm, staying in the middle of a shallow stream as they waited for the enemy to arrive. The scouts Arl Rendorn had sent out reported the bulk of the force approaching from the east would come this way, and that they would see the enemy coming out of the trees along the stream’s bank. Loghain planned to make them believe they saw Prince Maric fleeing his army escorted by a small unit of his fastest and most heavily armed knights. To pass as Maric, Loghain figured he just needed to look important from a distance. With any luck, the enemy would see the purple cloak and his finery and assume that Arl Rendorn was doing exactly what he had intended to do: send Maric to safety.

So, Loghain’s job was to draw the eastern part of the attacking army away. Then the bulk of the rebel army would be able to deal with the northern attackers without also getting attacked from behind.

And after that? Well, Loghain hoped they would be in a position to come to his rescue. Because he would need one, without question. And that was assuming everything went according to plan, which, as his father had always said, was unheard of in any battle. How did I end up here? he asked himself. The truth was that he had no good answer.

It was quiet except for the gentle burbling of the stream as it flowed past and the occasional nervous nickering of one of the horses. A breeze rustled the nearby trees gently, and Loghain breathed deeply, taking in the smell of pine and fresh water. He felt oddly at peace. The imminent battle seemed very far away indeed.

Some of the knights kept glancing his way, their uncertainty about him noticeable despite their efforts to keep it hidden. They had to wonder who he was, Loghain thought. There had been little time for introductions, barely any chance to explain what was in store. The Arl had called for volunteers from among his most experienced men, and here they were. Volunteers, they were told, because the chances that none of them might make it back were quite high.

Why did he think this was a good plan, exactly?

One of the knights leaned toward him, an older fellow with a bushy gray mustache showing inside his helmet. “This place we’re to ride to,” he asked quietly, “do you know of it, Ser Loghain?”

“No need for the title. It’s just Loghain.”

The knight seemed surprised. “But . . . His Grace said that your father—”

“I suppose he was. I, however, am not.” Loghain looked at the man curiously. “Does that bother you? Being led by a commoner?”

The knight glanced at several of his fellows who had been listening to their exchange. He looked back at Loghain, shaking his head firmly. “If this plan will truly see Prince Maric safe,” he stated, “then I would gladly follow my own enemy into battle. I will give my life, if need be.”

“As would I,” said another, much younger knight. Others nodded their assent.

Loghain looked around at them, marveling at their determination. Perhaps their chances were not so bad, after all. “I have been through this area once before,” he told them. “Down this stream to the south, across the ridge and a plain, there is a bluff—a cliff with a broad and sharp face. It has a single narrow path leading up its side.”

“I know of it,” one of the men called out.

“When we get there, we ride up that path as fast as possible. There is a flat area up there that is defensible. If we can defend the path, we can hold it.”

“But,” the same man said uncertainly, “the rocks behind it are too steep. There’s no way out of there.”

Loghain nodded. “No, there isn’t.”

He let that sink in. Loghain was guessing the enemy would want what they thought was the Prince badly enough that they wouldn’t just give up and ride back to attack the rest of the rebel force. So he and the Arl’s volunteers had to make this look good. Gradually, the murmuring among the men quieted and they returned to waiting for the enemy to show their faces. There was nothing else they could do, after all.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long.

When the first soldier poked his face out of the trees, Loghain unleashed an arrow. He hit the man in the shoulder when he could just as easily have taken him in the throat, since he wanted the man to run and panic—and he did.

More soldiers followed within moments. Many of the knights around Loghain were armed as he was, and the twang of bowstrings was followed by men shouting in pain and falling. The horses stomped nervously in the water, backing away from the bank.

Now the counterattack began as the enemy realized what was awaiting them. Rather than charging blindly out of the trees onto the bank, they began assembling just inside cover. The din of many feet and shouts resounded through the forest like an approaching storm. As arrows drilled through the air toward them, the knights raised their shields against the angry torrent.

“Your Highness,” one of the knights bellowed loudly toward Loghain, “we need to get you to safety!”

“Protect the Prince!” another shouted.

“South!” Loghain raised his sword up high. “Follow me!” With that he turned and sped his horse to the south, splashing water loudly as the other knights followed suit. Even above it all, however, Loghain heard cries from the enemy of “It’s the Prince!” and louder cries of “After them!”

More arrows streaked by, a hornet’s swarm of angry projectiles that began to come faster and faster as Loghain and the knights raced down the stream. The purple cloak billowed in his wake. One of the men directly behind him shouted out in pain and fell from his horse, splashing awkwardly into the stream. Racing for their lives, the other knights could do nothing but leap over him or go around.

The water was just high enough to slow them. They didn’t want to go too fast—they wanted the enemy to see them and pursue, after all—but the arrows were coming in too great a volume. The sound of the mass of men behind them was growing too quickly. What if the scouts’ estimates had been wrong? “Faster!” Loghain cried.

Another man fell, screaming, as they reached the ridge. Here the stream turned and a steep embankment had formed. Loghain raced up the side, urging his horse to greater exertions as an arrow sang by his ear. For a moment his mount struggled and slowed jarringly on the way up the ridge, and then almost painfully reached the top and leaped forward.

“Follow me!” Loghain shouted to the men behind him.

Like a wave crashing against a wall, they surged up the side of the ridge. The water churned under their hooves as the horses struggled, and not far behind them the enemy spilled out of the forest and into the stream in hot pursuit. They had no riders of their own, thankfully, but they were hardly slow. Now that they were in the open, they could move more rapidly.

Whipping his horse almost until it bled, Loghain led the charge across the open plain. The bluff was in sight, a long cliff along the edge of the rockier hills that marked the southern tip of the valley. He saw the path they needed, as well, and at the same time spotted a group of enemy soldiers coming out of the trees ahead. They were scouts, he assumed, or were part of the enemy’s broader lines. They were in heavy leathers and moderately armed, and spun about to face the approaching line.

Well, Loghain thought, if they truly intend to stand in the way of charging horses, best give them what they deserve. He let out a cry of attack, raising his blade once again, and sped directly toward the enemy. The knights responded to his cry and followed.

There was a thunder of hooves and war cries as they landed with full force upon the soldiers. For a moment it seemed to Loghain as if time moved at a crawl. He watched the horror dawning on their faces, saw how some of them in the back scrambled too late to get back into the trees. He saw his own horse crush one of them underfoot, an unfortunate man who went down without a single word. A sword slash opened the throat of a soldier to his right, before the man could swing his own blade, and blood fountained out.

And then everything was moving fast again. Men screamed in pain, bones crunched, and steel rang on steel. Loghain struck at several men with his blade, but all too quickly, he was past and riding onward to the path. The rest of his men were busy overriding the enemy behind him; he didn’t even need to look to know it was so.

It felt good, though it didn’t negate the fact that the army hot on their tails was a great deal larger than anyone could have expected.

Within moments they were on the path, racing up the side of the cliff. At several points the path was wide enough for only two horses galloping side by side. Any more, and they risked someone sliding off and falling to the rocks below.

“Come on!” he urged.

More arrows shot by him as they reached the top of the bluff. He spun his horse around, and for the first time saw exactly what was behind them. The remainder of his thirty men was hot on his heels, and not far behind them were well over two hundred soldiers, charging madly across the field. They filled his field of vision, making his heart race with fear. Off their horses, cornered here on the bluff, they were massively outnumbered and could be pegged off by the archers at a distance.

“Get under cover!” he shouted, quickly sliding off his horse. There were large rocks up on the ridge, which they fell behind.

The flights of arrows halted as the commanders below ordered the archers to stop. There was no point while the knights were out of sight. Loghain couldn’t hear what their next commands were, but he could guess. They were preparing to rush the path up to the bluff, using their arrows to keep the knights under cover as long as they could. They would suffer losses, certainly, but eventually they would break through. They had the numbers.

The knight nearest to Loghain looked over at him, breathing heavily with exertion. There was fear in the man’s eyes. “Are they going to come up here?” he shouted.

Loghain nodded. “We have what they want. Or they think we do.”

“Then what do we do now?”

He tightened the grip on his sword. “We fight.”

Inwardly he hoped that whatever the rest of Maric’s army did, they came quickly. That was the plan, after all, and so far it had worked. Which made Loghain all the more nervous as he heard the first cries ring out from below and readied himself for their charge.

______

When the smaller enemy force entered the valley from the north, its commanders—Fereldan noblemen who were serving their king, Orlesian though he might be—they had expected to find a rebel force in disarray, possibly in the midst of a full rout.

Instead, they found themselves under assault by the bulk of the rebel force. Magical balls of fire landed in their midst, the explosions sending them scattering. Immediately afterwards, a giant stone golem was the first to reach their line, great fists swinging and sending men flying into the air. Rebel infantry followed immediately thereafter, shouting their war cry and charging into the line.

Maric was with that infantry, but well enough behind the front line that he wasn’t face-to-face with the enemy. Rowan watched him from farther up the hill, her own mounted troops pawing impatiently to enter the fight. Her father had told her to wait, hidden in the trees, until Maric’s force was well and truly engaged before she rode in to attack from the flank. Their only chance was to hit the enemy fast and hard, and hopefully to scatter them in time to reach Loghain. If they could catch the enemy at the bluff, they could smash them against the cliffs—they would be caught, unable to rout.

It was a long shot. The worry that had lined her father’s face as he agreed to the plan told her that much. But if the plan had been impossible, he would sooner have clubbed Maric over the head and dragged him off personally than agreed to it.

She could see Maric shouting orders to the men, urging them forward. He was trying to push through to the front, attempting to join the fight. The men immediately around him pressed close, however, forming a circle. Father would have told them to do that, she assumed. Even though Maric was wearing a helmet, she could tell he was becoming frustrated as he realized what the soldiers were doing.

More magic crackled in the air as a blizzard formed around a large part of the enemy forces. They were beginning to retreat back out of the valley and regroup, their commanders becoming frantic, but the ice that was magically forming on the ground beneath their feet was making that difficult.

One of the enemy commanders started shouting loudly and pointing at Wilhelm, who was standing on a rock not far beyond Maric’s men. The mage’s yellow robes unfortunately made him stand out, as did his exposed position. He needed to see his targets, however, and his range was limited. As arrows began to fly in his direction, he was forced to jump off his rock, his angry swearing so loud, even Rowan could hear it from where she stood. A wave of Wilhelm’s hand sent the stone golem ponderously charging toward the archers, its fists swinging. That would definitely keep them distracted.

It would be close. Rowan couldn’t see just how many men there were here, but she figured it likely they had at least as many as the rebels did. As soon as they dug in and began to fight back, their offense would be ground to a standstill.

Her warhorse whinnied nervously and she patted its head, shushing it gently.

One of the riders nearby looked to her, apprehensive. “When do we charge, my lady? If they back out of the valley, we’ll never flank them.”

“They won’t back out completely,” she assured him. “But we have to wait.”

Still, she shared the anxiety. Already she could see signs of the enemy reorganizing and struggling to outflank Maric’s men by racing into the valley proper. Many of them were urged on, in fact, by their desperation to get away from the rage of the golem’s fists. It was going much as her father had forecast, but there were more men than the scouts had reported. That meant this would take longer. Even if they were able to defeat this part of the usurper’s forces, what would become of Loghain?

Picking up the reins, she rode over to where her own lieutenant was waiting. A stout woman by the name of Branwen, the lieutenant was one of the few other women who served with the rebels as a soldier. Rowan knew that many of the men who didn’t know either of them well believed she had promoted Branwen for that reason only, but it wasn’t so. The lieutenant was strong and determined, perhaps because she had more to prove. Rowan knew exactly what that was like.

“Lieutenant,” she called, “I need to speak to the Arl.”

Branwen nodded solemnly. “Any orders, my lady?”

“If I’m not back within twenty minutes, charge the flank as planned.” Rowan smiled grimly. “I’ll trust your judgment on everything else.”

Branwen blinked with surprise and her lips thinned, but she otherwise took the unusual order without comment. “Understood, my lady.”

Rowan spun her horse about and raced out of the trees and down into the valley. She tried to pay little attention to the battle that was still going on, though she did notice that Maric had at last gotten his wish: the circle of men around him had been spread out by the melee, meaning Maric could engage. Rowan worried about that, but not as much as her father would have. He had wanted to keep Maric out of the fight completely. Rowan knew that Maric was well-armored and a much better swordsman than he would ever admit to. One of the reasons she had worked so hard, after all, was to gain his respect.

Her father’s men were waiting on the opposite side of the valley, and it took several minutes of hard riding to reach him. She splashed across the wide but shallow part of the stream, and when she came up the other bank, her father’s men were already running out to intercept her. Her father was brought out a moment later, riding on his own dark stallion, and looking more than a little concerned by the interruption.

“What is it?” he asked. “You should be with the horsemen.”

“There’s more men here than we thought, Father. That means that there might have been more coming from the east, as well. We need to help Loghain.”

Her father grimaced. Sunlight glinted brightly off his silverite armor as he turned back to the soldiers standing just a few feet away. “Go”—he waved to them—“I wish to be alone for a moment.”

His men hesitated momentarily, confused, but did not question the order. They left.

He slowly turned back to her, white brows furrowed with concern. Rowan couldn’t tell exactly what he was going to say, but she already understood what he was thinking. She felt her fury rising. “I can see the same things you do,” he began. “And I agree. It will be difficult enough to defeat the usurper’s men here in the north.”

“But . . . ?”

He held up a hand. “Maric’s friend has done his job. We’ve yet to see any of the eastern force coming through the valley. He’s drawn them all off, and that gives us time to do what we must.”

“Which is?” she snapped.

“Which is,” he stated with force, “saving Maric as well as this army.” The Arl stepped closer to Rowan and put his hand on her shoulder. His expression was grim. “Rowan . . . the moment we drive these men into any kind of retreat, we need to flee the valley with whatever we have left. It is our only chance.”

“Loghain is expecting us to reinforce him.”

“He is expendable.” The Arl said the word with unease, but said it even so.

Rowan stepped away from her father, frowning deeply. What he said wasn’t entirely a surprise, and yet still she felt disappointed. “We gave our word,” she protested. “He gave us the plan that is giving you your chance, and you’re going to abandon him?”

“The part he is playing in his own plan,” her father sighed, “is that of the sacrificial lamb. Perhaps he didn’t realize it, but there it is.” He took hold of her gauntleted hand firmly, looking her straight in the eyes. “It’s a good plan. We must not waste it, for Ferelden’s sake.”

She pulled her hand away and turned from her father, but didn’t leave. He patted her on the shoulder again. “There are things we must do, things that must be done. To survive. Queen Moira did them, and so shall her son. This Loghain is doing a service, as are the men with him.”

She nodded slowly, grimacing. The Arl’s hand lingered on her shoulder a moment longer, but whatever else was on his mind he kept it to himself. “Go, then,” he finally said. “There isn’t much time.”

She didn’t look back.

When Rowan rejoined her own forces on the other side of the valley, she saw they were already preparing to ride. Her lieutenant rode toward her, flagging her down. “We were just about to charge,” Branwen informed her. “Did you want us to hold off, my lady?”

“What’s the situation?”

“The Prince seems to be doing well enough so far. He stopped the enemy from encircling him. The wizard is almost an army unto himself.” Her attention was then drawn as the sound of horns signaled from down in the valley. Two of the watchmen nearby waved to her, and she nodded an acknowledgment to them. “The Arl is engaging now, my lady.”

Rowan did not answer right away. The green plume on her helm fluttered in the breeze as she stared hard at the ground from atop her horse. The sounds of many men shouting and screaming could be faintly heard in the distance. Any of them could be Maric, she thought.

“My lady?” her lieutenant asked hesitantly.

“No,” Rowan stated. She looked up and spun her horse about. “We are reinforcing the bluff now, before it’s too late.”

“But my lady! What about the Prince?”

Rowan began to ride forward, her expression firm. “The Maker will watch over him,” she muttered solemnly. Then, louder to address the startled riders assembled behind her: “All of you! Follow me! We ride south!” Without waiting for a response, she kicked her warhorse into a gallop and began to head into the valley.

The enemy was on their third charge up the path.

Loghain was soaked in sweat and blood both, a burning, fiery pain in his chest from where a blade had successfully stabbed earlier. He ignored it and fought on. Seven were left of the thirty knights that had ridden up the path with him, and they stood their ground at the top of the bluff as wave after wave of the enemy soldiers tried to break through. These were Fereldan soldiers they were fighting, urged on by Orlesian commanders who remained safely below. Sending their dogs to do their dirty work, he thought angrily.

The enemy had brought halberds this time, wicked axe blades attached to long poles that gave them the advantage of reach. He had lost almost ten men immediately to the first rush of the halberdiers as they reached the top of the path and had nearly overtaken them. One man lost his arm as it was hacked off, blood spurting as the man stared at it, aghast.

“Push them back!” Loghain shouted.

An enemy soldier leaped on him, half to attack and half because he had been shoved forward from behind. Startled, Loghain was pushed back for a moment. The soldier, a short man with a weasel-like face, looked excited at the thought he might have struck a blow at the mighty prince and moved to strike again.

Loghain grabbed the man by the throat and threw him back. The short soldier stumbled, and his flailing hands caught onto the royal purple cloak—which by now had been stained a sticky black by blood and filth. He fell to the side, tugging hard on the cloak, and Loghain slashed with his sword to cut the fabric. Released, the soldier stumbled back even farther and went careening over the cliff edge, screaming shrilly.

Another man was on top of Loghain before he could recover, a large man with a robust red beard. And then a second charged him, axe held high overhead. Loghain ducked down low and spun around, swinging a wide arc with his sword. It took the axe-wielder across the abdomen, slicing him open. As the man stumbled, Loghain struck out with his elbow and took the red-bearded soldier in the throat. It didn’t stop him from stabbing Loghain in the shoulder, but Loghain merely hissed in pain and jumped back, forcing the blade to be pulled out of him

He struck out with his sword again, and the red-bearded man barely parried as he gasped and coughed. They traded several blows, Loghain gaining greater strength and position with each one until finally he ran the man through.

The few knights with him were barely holding on, and yet still the enemy pressed forward. Loghain almost couldn’t see with the sweat stinging his eyes, and the gore covering the ground at the lip of the path made getting one’s footing on the rocks difficult.

Where is the damned reinforcement? he thought, striking out at new enemies as they pressed forward. Even as he asked the question he knew the answer. They weren’t coming. It didn’t make sense for them to come. In fact, if he was in the Arl’s shoes right now, he wouldn’t come, either.

He grunted angrily and slashed even harder, trying to keep the enemy from getting past their line. Another man rushed him and he got his boot up onto the man’s midsection and then kicked out, sending the man flying back and over the cliff edge with a horrified cry.

And then a horn sounded.

Loghain wiped his eyes and looked down the cliff, then began laughing out loud in sheer surprise. The thundering of hooves heralded the charge of the rest of the rebel’s force of horsemen as they struck the larger enemy force from behind. The armored figure leading the charge could only be Rowan, the green plume atop her helmet trailing.

The effect on the enemy was dramatic. The Orlesians were pushed back toward the cliff, their shouts turning to confusion and surprise. Almost immediately their organization broke. Panic overtook the foot soldiers, and they began to scramble and run, even as the commanders screamed ineffectually for them to hold.

Loghain had no more time to watch as the enemies still on the path became desperate. Caught between the crush of men trying to run up behind them to escape the cavalry charge and Loghain’s remaining men, their fearful cries became deafening.

“Now! Do it! Push them back!” he shouted. Six knights stood next to him, their armor smeared with gore and all of them heavily wounded, but they gritted their teeth and did as he commanded. They pressed their advantage and began swinging hard to drive the enemy back.

There was a long moment of frenzied resistance as steel met steel, and then the enemy line broke. With a victorious shout, Loghain moved forward and stabbed his blade into two men who scrabbled backwards while screaming for mercy. The knights beside him did the same, and as the enemy fell back, they ran out of ground and forced a whole group of their own soldiers off the cliff.

There was mass panic below. The enemy was racing to get out of the way of the horsemen, dashing into the forest at the edges of the valley. Some even dropped their weapons in their rush. One of the Orlesian commanders screamed at his men with indignation, attempting to lead a rally, but Rowan put a quick end to that. A pair of hooves cut the pompous fellow off in midshout, sending his body flying against the rocks and galvanizing the nearest enemy soldiers into even quicker retreat.

Calling to several of her men to follow her, Rowan turned and raced up the path toward Loghain.

Encouraged by the sight, Loghain urged his knights to continue pushing—and they did. They were shoving forward now, sweeping the line of enemy soldiers before them off the edge of the path like so much debris off the front steps. The bloodcurdling screams as those men were sent falling to their deaths were difficult to bear.

And then they stood at the edge, Loghain and his six men. They stared down at the carnage below, the many men lying broken at the bottom of a hundred-foot drop. Like dolls scattered by an angry child, Loghain thought grimly.

The few soldiers left on the path were now leaping off the side to get out of the way of Rowan and the several horsemen charging with her up the path. Those that stood their ground were cut down mercilessly. One of them was a lone, quaking halberdier who leveled his weapon toward the horse racing at him. Rowan pulled her horse to one side at the last moment and efficiently sliced her blade deep into the man’s neck as she rode past. He went down without so much as a blink.

When Rowan reached the top of the path, she slid off her horse in one smooth motion and ran toward Loghain, lifting up her helmet. Brown hair spilled around her face as she took in the sight of the small number of wounded, haggard men standing there with him. They all stared back at her dumbly, numb with exhaustion and the fading remnants of adrenaline.

“Are you . . . all right?” she asked uncertainly, her expression concerned.

Loghain walked toward her and held out his hand. Rowan hesitated, staring at him as if she wasn’t sure what it meant before she relaxed and shook it.

“That was quite the charge,” he congratulated her. Their eyes met, lingering a moment longer than was necessary. Rowan quickly disengaged her hand and glanced away.

“I can’t believe you lasted this long. I wish I’d come sooner.” She nodded officiously to the other men behind Loghain, several of whom had dropped to their knees. “Well done, all of you.”

“It’s not over yet,” he sighed. Already he could see the enemy recovering below. The charge had spooked them and taken a toll on their forces, but it wouldn’t be long before the Orlesians would recover from the shock. They still had the superior numbers, after all, and if they realized it quickly enough, they could race back into the clearing and surround Rowan’s men. They needed to get out—now.

Rowan was nodding, understanding the situation exactly as he did, he realized. Loghain found himself hardly surprised. “Maric will need us. Let’s go while we still can.”

Maric panted at the edge of the battle during a few rare seconds he could even breathe in the chaos, ears ringing with the sound of steel on steel. His sword arm ached so badly, he thought it might just fall off. He also suddenly noticed an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, the shaft having penetrated between the grooves of his fine armor. Well, that would explain the jabbing pain I felt earlier, he thought to himself .

The ebb and flow of the melee seemed to go on forever. He had lost the ability to judge what was actually going on with the overall battle once Arl Rendorn had charged the line. It had become his only concern just to survive, facing an endless array of opponents that charged at him from every direction.

So far, he remained alive despite it all. The heavy dwarven armor he wore had repelled dozens of strikes without so much as a dent. Far too many rebels had been killed before Maric’s eyes, trying to buy their prince a few more moments of life. Even with all this protection, his sword dripped with the blood of men who would surely have killed him, if Maric hadn’t been a second faster than they. And then, of course, there was the blind luck.

At one point he had been barrelled over by a giant of a man in chain armor, and when Maric had rolled over, he’d seen a great axe ready to come down right on top of his head. None of his protectors had been near enough to help. All that had saved him was an errant gauntlet flung from some unknown soldier nearby, probably by accident, which struck the giant in the back of the head and knocked him off balance. The axe came down just shy of Maric’s ear. His breath had steamed on the metal of the axe-head buried in the ground not an inch away from the tip of his nose.

The giant soldier yanked the axe back up, but this time Wilhelm had intervened. An arc of lightning streaked across the battlefield and left a gaping, smoking hole in the fellow’s chest. Maric had at least enough sense to roll out of the way before the man toppled over like a falling building.

Evidently, Maric’s time on Thedas was not quite up yet.

He gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and cast an eye over the battlefield. The first thing he wondered was what had happened to Rowan. He couldn’t see the green of her helmet, either racing across the field or lying on it. Nor were there any horsemen in the battle. How long had they been fighting? Was the bulk of the enemy force about to fall on them from the south?

He found himself worrying about Loghain most of all and the possibility that he might have asked the man to commit himself to a useless sacrifice. If Gareth’s son died trying to keep him alive, as well . . .

And then the horn sounded. Belatedly, to be sure, but it still had the desired effect. In the distance he could see Rowan’s horsemen charging into the enemy line, scattering them in every direction.

It proved to be enough. Over the next ten minutes, desperation surged among the soldiers on both sides. Maric could hear the Arl shouting to the men, urging them to press toward the hill, and Maric began to do the same. Blood was spilling rapidly as casualties mounted, but as the horsemen took their toll, the enemy began to pull back. The enemy commanders ordered a retreat, shouting for their men to regroup outside the valley.

Maric was almost tempted to give chase as he watched the enemy soldiers scrambling to get away, but Arl Rendorn’s arrival prevented him. “Let them go! We must make a run for it!” he shouted. The man was clutching his chest and bleeding heavily as he was supported by two others. Seeing this, Maric merely nodded and began calling for the men to fall back.

It was not a victory.

In the end, after hours of confusion and running as the rebel army retreated out of the valley, they managed to regroup at the edge of a small river several miles to the north. The men arrived in dribs and drabs, exhausted and wounded and sometimes carrying each other. Men on horses were sent out to look for others who had fled in different directions, but in the end it looked as if they had lost at least half their numbers. On top of this, much of their supplies and equipment had been left in the valley out of necessity.

But it felt like a victory to Maric. Instead of losing everything that his mother had built, they had survived. They had evaded the usurper’s trap and even dealt him a bloody nose on the way out. As sore as their condition was, the usurper’s forces would not be so quick to be on their trail. Not tonight, and that was all the rebels needed.

When Rowan finally brought a bruised and bloodied Loghain to the fire at their new tent, still wearing fancy leathers and the soiled, tattered remains of the Queen’s purple cloak, Maric cried out with glee and ran forward to sweep up the startled Loghain in a great bear hug. Loghain winced in pain but tolerated the display, staring down at Maric as if he had gone mad.

“It worked!” Maric cried. “Your plan bloody well worked!”

“Enough,” Loghain griped, shoving Maric away so that he was quickly dropped.

“Have a care, Maric,” Rowan chided him with amusement. “Loghain’s taken several wounds to his chest.”

“Bah! He’s invulnerable!” Maric laughed, and then danced away exuberantly. He circled the fire like some kind of barbarian shaman performing a strange victory ritual, all the while laughing maniacally.

Loghain watched him, mystified, and then looked incredulously toward Rowan. “He does this often?”

“I’m thinking he may have taken a blow to the head.”

Arl Rendorn walked up then, now out of his armor and sporting thick bandages around his midsection, the cloth already darkening with bloodstains. One of his eyes was likewise bandaged, and he limped heavily. His expression was angry enough to draw notice, and when Rowan went to offer him support, he waved her off with a glower. “Apparently,” he stated with muted rage, “you have decided that my orders do not need to be followed.”

Maric detected the tension and stopped his wild careening, turning to address the Arl. “Your Grace? Is something amiss?”

“Plenty. As she well knows.”

Rowan nodded soberly, accepting the recrimination. “I know you are angry, Father—” She held up a hand to stave off any further outburst from him. “—but I did what needed to be done. Had I not routed them, at least for a time, they might have marched north once Loghain was slain.”

“She also killed one of the Orlesian commanders,” Loghain pointed out. “Quite spectacularly.”

“We might have been away by then,” the Arl snapped. Then he looked at Loghain and softened somewhat. “But . . . it is good that you live, lad. And your plan did succeed.” From Loghain, he turned toward Maric, frowning. “I would be happier, however, if our condition were not so poor. We have lost a great number of men and much equipment. Moving forward will be difficult.”

Maric walked over to Rendorn and put a comforting hand on the Arl’s shoulder, grin remaining even if his enthusiasm was diminished. “I agree, but still I think there is much to celebrate. The rebellion drew blood, and lives on.”

Arl Rendorn attempted a wan smile. “Your mother,” he began, voice thick with emotion, “would have been very proud to see you today, my boy.”

Maric was startled at both the display of emotion and the tears he fought in his own eyes as he and Arl Rendorn hugged roughly. Backs were clapped fondly, and when Maric stepped away, he could only nod awkwardly to the Arl in the silence.

Maric turned then to Loghain, who had taken a seat by the fire. He held out a hand, and Loghain slowly shook it. “Thank you for everything you did today, Loghain. I do hope you’ll consider staying with us.”

“You should have seen him up on that bluff,” Rowan said. “He was magnificent. The knights that fought with him are already talking about it.”

Loghain smiled, a bit shyly. Maric wondered if it was, in fact, the first time he had actually seen the man smile. “It was a difficult situation, and we did what we had to.” He then looked up at Maric almost apologetically, holding up what remained of the purple cloak. “I, ah, also ruined your mother’s cloak.”

Maric laughed, and Rowan joined in. “You’re being modest,” she teased.

“Indeed.” The Arl limped up to Loghain and shook his hand as well. “I misjudged you. You clearly have excellent instincts, and we could use your assistance.”

Loghain’s blue eyes shifted among the Arl and Maric and Rowan, and for a moment Maric thought he looked almost trapped. He glanced down at the fire and stared at it for a time before reluctantly nodding. “I . . . very well. I’ll stay. For now.”

Pleased, Maric turned at last to Rowan. Even bruised and battered, she looked radiant: it was just her way. She brightened as he took her hands in his. “When you hadn’t charged, I thought perhaps we’d lost you,” he said seriously. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

Her eyes teared, though she grinned and laughed. “You don’t get out of it that easily, Maric.”

“Funny,” he answered wryly.

Loghain looked up from the fire, nonplussed. “Get out of what?” he asked the Arl.

“Maric and Rowan are betrothed.” Arl Rendorn smiled. “She was promised to him when she was born.”

“Ah,” Loghain said simply, and returned his gaze to the fire.

Not much later, Maric slipped away from the fire and walked alone under the night sky. The moon shone down, and glowing moths fluttered in a great swarm nearby. It was strangely peaceful, he thought. The campfires that dotted the riverbank were far too few, and the faint groans of wounded men were the only sounds that punctuated the silence.

He walked nearer to one of those fires, wincing as he saw the huddle of bandaged and exhausted soldiers around it. Some tents had been hastily erected, but there were a great number of soldiers who were sleeping on the ground, some without even blankets. The men around the fire stared into it blankly, trying very hard not to hear the anguished cries of those who would not survive the night coming from farther upriver.

Maric watched, hovering just out of sight and yet feeling strangely drawn. He tried to tell himself they might all be dead now had he not insisted on the battle.

“Your Highness?” he heard from nearby.

Maric started and turned toward the sound. A soldier was there in the shadows, lying against a tree. As Maric approached, he noticed that the man was older, probably too old to still be fighting. Then he saw that the man’s right leg stopped at the knee, a mass of bloody bandages showing a recent amputation. The fellow was pale and shaking, drinking liberally from a wineskin.

“I’m . . . so sorry about your leg,” Maric offered, feeling inadequate.

The man grinned, glancing at his new stump and patting it almost affectionately. “It doesn’t hurt so much now,” he chuckled. “The mage even said he might come by and do what he could.”

Maric didn’t know what to say. He stood there a moment until the man offered up his wineskin as a toast. “I saw you on the field today, Your Highness. Fought not twenty feet from you at one point.”

“You did?”

“I’m going to tell my grandchildren one day: I fought beside the Prince,” he said proudly. “You were quite the sight, my lord. I watched you take down three men in a row, like it was nothing.”

“I’m sure you were distracted.” Maric grinned. “I was scared.”

“I knew we were going to win,” the soldier insisted. He looked at Maric with shining eyes. “When you came back to us this morning, we all knew it. The Maker sent you to us. To protect you.”

“Maybe He did.”

The man grinned at him and drank deeply from the wineskin. “To the Queen!” he toasted drunkenly to the moon. “You rest in peace now, Your Majesty. You did your part.”

Maric felt tears well up in his eyes but ignored them. Quietly he took the skin and drank deeply from it. “To the Queen,” he toasted to the moon.

And suddenly it all didn’t seem quite as daunting as before.