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?”