She stared at him with horror and tried to get away from his cloak. “Oh, no! No, my lord, I couldn’t!”
“Of course you can. It’s just a cloak.”
Reluctantly she allowed him to close it around her, blushing and looking away. Maric found himself staring at her neck, at how it gracefully flowed down into ample cleavage only barely concealed by the cloak. She seemed like such a delicate creature. He had heard that elven women held a certain fascination for men, the kind that made them popular in the brothels of Denerim. He had never been to the capital city, however, and had never understood what the appeal could be—until now.
He started as Rowan walked back into view, an annoyed look on her face. He stepped away from the elf almost too quickly, and Rowan’s expression darkened into a scowl.
“This is Katriel,” Maric offered lamely. Then he belatedly looked back at the elf. “And this is Lady Rowan. My, ah . . . She is my betrothed.”
Katriel turned to Rowan and curtsied. “I am grateful to you as well, my lady. I had asked them for help. It seems I should have been more careful.”
“I’ll say,” Rowan muttered. “Just what were you doing out here at all?”
“I had no other choice.” The elf turned to Maric, self-consciously clutching the cloak tighter around her. “I have been looking for you, my lord. The horse I was given died not far from here. I ran the rest of the way, but there was so much chaos. . . .”
Maric was confused. “You were looking for me?”
From underneath the purple cloak, Katriel produced the package she carried. It appeared to be several scrolls bound in leather casings. “I came as quickly as I could. I am a messenger sent by the Arl of Amaranthine.”
Rowan eyes went wide with alarm. “A messenger!”
Katriel’s green eyes lowered nervously. “His Grace has been defeated. I did not see it with my own eyes, but he said he would hold the attackers as long as he could. He said it was vital that I reach you, my lord.” She held out the scrolls again, and Maric reluctantly took them. She seemed relieved, her charge fulfilled.
“Defeated!” Rowan strode toward the elf in outrage. “What are you talking about? When did this happen?”
“Four days ago,” Katriel replied. “I sped here on the horse I was given, and it died from exhaustion. But I had no choice. The same men that attacked His Grace were not far behind me in the forest.” She looked at Maric pleadingly. “I had to reach you before they arrived, my lord. His Grace said that was more important than anything!”
Maric took a step back, stunned. He opened one of the scrolls and read it, his eyes scanning the content even as it confirmed what his sinking gut was telling him.
“What?” Rowan demanded. “What does it say, for the love of the Maker?”
Faced paled, he looked up at her. “We sent Byron to draw their attention, and he got it. A full legion of chevaliers, with mages. The King had to have planned it.”
“And they’re coming here?”
“They’re perhaps a day behind me, my lord,” said Katriel. “I wish I knew for certain.”
Maric and Rowan stared at each other, unmoving. Overhead, the faint sound of thunder could be heard in the gray skies. Rain would prevent the spread of the fires in Gwaren, though much damage had already been done. Fighting still raged inside the manor, and the town was in complete chaos. It would take more than a day to get the situation under control, and even if they did, the only routes out of Gwaren were out on the sea or back through the forest, toward the approaching army.
They were trapped.
8
Loghain frowned. The shop he was crowded into smelled faintly of fish, and it contrasted sharply with the nervous fear of the elven archers who crouched next to him. The group of them were hiding in the shadows, waiting quietly for the enemy to appear.
From his vantage point by the window, Loghain could see most of Gwaren’s town square. It was the kind of place where merchants would have gathered regularly to sell their wares. Normally it would have been full of bright colors and barrels and crates and people, but in the early morning light filtering down from the clouds, all he could currently see was smoke and debris left over from the previous day’s battle. The rain had prevented the fires from gutting the town completely, but still many of the buildings around the square were ruins, smoke smoldering up from their blackened bones. Pieces of wood and belongings no doubt dropped by people fleeing into the forest littered the cobblestones right next to the bodies of the fallen, which they had not had time to collect.
The attack on the manor had barely been finished when Maric and Rowan madly rode up the hill to inform them of the approaching army. Arl Rendorn, who had been wounded by a stray arrow, promptly broke into an uncharacteristic string of expletives, but Loghain tried to think it through. The messenger sent by Arl Byron brought useful information: the composition of the usurper’s forces, no doubt gathered by Byron’s scouts prior to the enemy’s attack.
Loghain wondered why the Arl hadn’t come himself. If an elven girl had ridden hard enough to escape from the usurper’s attack, then so could he. Surely one of his commanders could have led his men if he truly wanted to delay the enemy. But it seemed there was no shortage of men who were willing to sacrifice themselves for others in the world. He had to wonder if he would do similarly, given the chance. He still wasn’t quite sure how he had ended up staying with the rebels when he said he would leave once he did what his father had asked him to do, yet here he was. There were times when Loghain looked in a mirror and didn’t recognize the man who was staring back out at him. A lieutenant in the rebel army, confidant to the prince whom fate had deposited in his lap so long ago—was it only three years?
It felt like an eternity.
Loghain’s notion had been a simple one: Gather the army together as quickly as possible and hide them in Gwaren. Let it look like the rebel army had sacked the town and fled by sea. He had suggested executing all the prisoners they had taken to prevent them from complicating the plan, but Maric had summarily refused. Arl Rendorn hadn’t been keen on the idea, either. Not that Loghain had expected them to do any differently. Most of the prisoners were locked away up at the manor without even anyone to watch them, and that was just how it had to be.
So the entire night had been spent scrambling to restore order and ready the men for yet another fight with barely a rest in between. Injuries were hastily bandaged, with the worst off being treated up at the manor by a handful of locals and camp followers. The locals had been fairly compliant once they realized the dreaded Prince Maric had no intention of having them all executed and raped.
Rowan had organized men to go around and find as many of the huddled townsfolk as they could and assure them that they would not be harmed, nor would their belongings be stolen. Many were herded up to the manor, but most elected to remain hidden. Those in dire need were provided supplies and told to remain where they were until the coming battle was over. They were suspicious—Rowan had told Loghain she could see it in their eyes. Many refused even to show themselves when her men passed. Even more chances for his plan to go wrong, Loghain thought to himself.
Not everyone had been unhappy to see them, of course. As the night wore on and they scrambled to get ready, a trickle of people appeared and approached the command post Maric had set up outside the manor. Arl Rendorn had been concerned at first, assuming that any of them could turn out to be assassins, but the expressions of relief and adoration on their faces were genuine. Loghain would never forget the mixed look of horror and helplessness on Maric’s face as those people surrounded him, pawing him, and some of them even crying tears of joy.
Loghain knew who they were. These were the people who had been treated like dogs by the Orlesians. Stripped of all but their dignity, they had been left to pray in the darkness that one day the true ruler of Ferelden would return to save them. And he had come, hadn’t he? Loghain had grimly watched them, knowing very well that Gwaren’s liberation might be shortlived. The rebel army could be smashed here and forced to retreat in tatters through the thickest parts of the Brecilian Forest, something they would never survive.
Arl Rendorn had naturally procured a single ship for Maric to flee on if it came to that, a small sloop that might hold a handful of them. Loghain knew the Arl needn’t have bothered, of course. Maric would have to be knocked out and dragged onto the boat. Rowan would go only if she were the one to drag him.
All the other buildings around the square held rebels within, as well, even if Loghain couldn’t see them. Maric was holed up in an abandoned bakery across the way, and he imagined he could see Maric’s blond hair through one of the windows. They had all finally assumed their hiding places not two hours before, and yet none of the elves with Loghain had slept. Despite their exhaustion, nervous energy kept them watchful. If the enemy didn’t show up soon, he thought it might become unbearably tense.
Fortunately the enemy was in no mood to disappoint.
A misty rain began as the first chevaliers advanced into Gwaren. They were easy to distinguish from the rank-and-file soldiers with them, mounted knights in heavy armor with their distinctive purple tunics. Loghain could even make out the Imperial crest from this distance, the golden blazing half-sun. His fist clenched tightly on the shaft of his bow as he saw them appear.
Not yet, he told himself. But soon.
They were cautious, wary of attack from the shadows, but Loghain felt reassured. So far they had not begun to search the buildings. They expected to be attacked openly, or at the very least to encounter resistance in the streets. The fact that no one was in sight was keeping them alert and on their horses for now, but he knew that would not last very long. That was all right. It didn’t have to. They just needed to get as much of the usurper’s army into the town as possible.
More of the mounted knights moved slowly into the square, and now Loghain saw a new figure: a dark-skinned old man in yellow robes. He had a long white beard and a bearing that said he was used to power. A mage, then. The chevaliers beside him were adorned with golden cloaks and fancy plumes and surrounded by the thickest array of the riders. They were concerned. Where were the rebels? He could see them asking each other. It was time for the next part of the plan to begin.
Several figures moved out of some of the buildings and began to run furtively toward the chevaliers. The horsemen wheeled on them immediately, drawing their swords and preparing for an immediate counterattack. The new figures shrieked in fear, however, and cowered before the blades. They were commoners in dirty rags, some of them splattered in blood. The chevaliers realized this quickly and relaxed their weapons, though not completely. Shouts went up along the enemy line, and the commoners were grabbed and brought before the mage and his commanders in the middle of the square.
Three women and one old man, and Loghain recognized only one of them. The young woman with the curly chestnut locks, her face covered with smudges of soot, was Rowan. She had volunteered to play what Loghain considered a risky role. Her father had nearly forbidden it, but Rowan had insisted—Loghain wasn’t the only one who should have to risk his life in these plans, she had said, glancing toward him when she said it. He had kept his eyes strictly on the ground. In the end, the Arl had relented. Maric had commented that he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Rowan in a dress, filthy and tattered though it was.
And now she was on her knees before the dark-skinned mage as he studied her and the others who had run out with her. They were locals, fishwives and an old carpenter, who had begged Maric to let them help. Loghain had argued that only Rowan should go. What if one of these fools were to betray them? All they needed to do was blurt out that the rebels were hiding in the buildings, or collapse under the pressure. But Maric’s belief was unshakable. Let them help, he had said. It will make Rowan more believable. The Arl had agreed, and Loghain watched nervously now, wondering if they would be proved fools after all.
So far, so good. The fishwives and the old man were suitably terrified and prostrating themselves before the mage. Loghain could clearly hear them babbling about the rebels attacking and then fleeing, but they gave away nothing of the plan. Indeed, they sounded like they were trying desperately to tell the mage anything and everything they possibly could. Rowan was bowing her head, but saying nothing.
“Silence!” the mage shouted angrily, the commoners immediately quieting and prostrating themselves again. The dark-skinned mage glared back at the commanders, who were now removing their helmets and looking far more peevish than concerned. If the cowardly rebels had actually fled, they were not going to have a battle after all. “Now, one of you—only one! Tell me how it is that the rebels fled!”
Rowan looked up now, seemingly nervous but calm. “They left on the ships, ser.”
“What ships? What are you talking about, woman?”
“There were ships, many of them. They came and took them away.”
“Lies!” he roared, slapping her across the face. Loghain almost leaped out of his hiding spot right then, but controlled himself. Rowan was no wilting flower—she put on a good show, cringing from the mage in fear and holding her cheek, but Loghain knew her far better than that. “The ships all left here days ago!”