The mage seethed in rage and raised his hand to strike her again. One of the commander knights distracted him, however, stepping forward to whisper in his ear. After the two conferred for a moment, the mage seemed displeased but no longer furious. When the commander left the mage’s side, he shouted orders to the chevaliers that were still slowly riding into the town. They were in Orlesian, but Loghain understood the intent well enough and smiled. It was too easy for them to believe, after all, that the lowly rebel prince would rather run than fight.
The old mage turned back to regard Rowan once again. “Stand up,” he commanded her. Reluctantly she did so, covering her tattered dress and keeping her eyes averted.
“Describe these ships,” he snapped.
“They were large,” she stammered. “They had a picture on their sails, like some sort of golden beast. I . . . didn’t get a very close look.”
“A golden beast? Was it a drake?”
“I think so, Ser Mage.” Rowan dropped her head low. “They were not here long.”
The mage stroked his chin thoughtfully. Loghain could almost see the calculations running through the man’s head. Golden drakes were the symbol of Calabria, a nation far to the north. The idea of an alliance between Calabria and the rebels was unlikely, but enough to give even him pause.
The Orlesian commanders were conferring among themselves, and after a long minute, they turned and spoke quietly to the mage. He nodded reluctantly, and more orders were shouted. These, too, Loghain could understand in spirit. Stand down your guard. Search the town for supplies. Send someone up to the manor. They were the orders he would have given in their stead, had he been as eager as they to walk blindly into the town to begin with. The chevaliers were already visibly relaxing, chatting in their foreign tongue as they started to spread out. Many began moving farther into the square, calling for the supply wagons to set up tents.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Satisfied, the mage turned back to Rowan. He smiled lasciviously and held out his hand before him. Raw power coalesced around him, the air crackling with energy, causing the other commoners to scramble away from him in terror. Rowan looked up, standing her ground, and the energy surged toward her. It curled around her like tendrils, lifting her up off the ground while holding her still. She did not struggle, but instead kept her face stony and calm.
The mage stepped close, brushing some dirt off her dress just above her breasts. Rowan recoiled from his touch, eliciting a delighted leer from him. “My,” he said admiringly, “rather pretty for a common little mutt, no? It is sad that the rebels did not take you with them when they left.”
His hand stroked across one of Rowan’s breasts, and she violently spat in his face. The mage paused, nonplussed, and wiped the spittle from his cheek. The tendrils of energy tightened around Rowan. She hissed in fury but still did not struggle against the mage’s spell.
“Brave,” he said, his tone a mixture of amusement and contempt. “And fiery, too. I cannot say that I mind this at all.” Almost casually he struck her with a backhand slap, hard across her face. “But you must learn your manners.” He chuckled.
The mage turned away from Rowan, rubbing his hand, when suddenly he stared with shock at his chest. An arrow had sprouted there, the dark stain of blood already spreading on his yellow robes. He turned to look helplessly at an Orlesian chevalier who stood nearby, and as the two stared at each other in quiet horror, another two arrows flew toward the mage. One narrowly missed him, and another lodged in his throat. He went down gurgling, clutching at the arrow uselessly.
“Now! Attack now!” It was Maric shouting, leaping out of the bakery window with his sword held high. The archers beside him were already firing into the chevalier lines, and more men were running after him. The rest of the rebels suddenly sprang into action, spilling out of their hiding places throughout the square.
This wasn’t the plan. It was too soon! Damn you, Maric! Loghain swore. With a sharp wave of his hand, he called the Night Elves beside him to action. They began firing into the gathered crowd, trying to protect Maric as he charged madly toward Rowan. One armored knight turned to skewer Maric as he passed, only to fall as Loghain placed an arrow neatly into the flesh near the base of his helmet.
In the erupting chaos, a great roar of noise could be heard outside the square. Loghain was sure Arl Rendorn was charging the rear flank, closing off those within the square from reinforcement. There was no way the enemy would have committed their entire force to walking into Gwaren, so they’d planned to lure as many enemy soldiers inside as possible before bisecting their line and blocking the narrow main street that led to the square.
Had they waited long enough? Loghain watched Maric carefully as the man finally reached Rowan in the great melee. She had been released from the spell and was crouched low, and when Maric drew near, he tossed her a blade. The first thing she did was use it to stab the gasping mage on the ground, sinking the point deep in his chest. She even put her weight into it, causing blood to gush from the mage’s mouth as he groaned in agony. Maric stared at Rowan in momentary shock, but was forced to deal with two knights who suddenly rushed at him from behind.
“Cover the Prince and Lady Rowan!” Loghain called to his men. More arrows flew. Rowan leaped to strike at one of the knights who had attacked Maric, but he was having trouble with the other. The chevalier was skilled, parrying Maric’s blade easily. One or two arrows struck home, but not enough to slow the chevalier down. With a sudden rush, he closed in on Maric and thrust his sword deep into the Prince’s flank. Maric struggled to push his attacker off, and then weakly collapsed.
“Maric!” Rowan screamed in terror.
With a kick, she pushed away the knight she was battling and launched herself at the one who had wounded Maric. Her sword banged uselessly against the knight’s armor, and when he turned to face her, she spun around and slashed her blade across the man’s neck. Blood sprayed from him as he stumbled back.
The other chevalier rushed at Rowan’s back, and she turned too late to face him . . . only to watch him hit by several arrows at once. One of them hit him in the side of the head, and he was knocked aside before he ever reached her.
She didn’t pause, turning instantly and racing to Maric’s side as he lay bleeding heavily on the ground. Rowan tried to rouse Maric, but he didn’t move, and when she tried to adjust his armor to see the extent of his injury, her hands came away coated with thick blood. Her eyes went wide with horror, and she looked about helplessly. All she saw, however, was the intense battle around her as more of the rebels poured into the square.
Loghain grimaced and tossed aside his bow, drawing his sword. “Cover me,” he ordered the Night Elves as he leaped over the window’s ledge and sprinted into the street.
The battle continued for several hours afterwards, though of course Maric had been aware of none of it. By the time he finally awakened in his tent, it was already dark out. Wilhelm’s magic had healed the worst of his wounds, but the mage still commented sharply that Maric had very nearly bled to death. If Loghain and Rowan had not dragged him from the middle of the battle and staunched the gaping wound in his side, he almost surely would have perished.
“So Rowan is all right, then?” Maric asked.
Wilhelm regarded him with a puzzled expression. “Alive, last I checked. I shall do so again, with your leave?” At a nod of assent from the Arl, the mage bowed and withdrew.
They had not trapped as many of the chevaliers inside the town square as they had hoped, due in no small part to Maric’s early attack—or so Arl Rendorn sternly reminded him. Still, the Arl could hardly fault Maric for protecting his daughter. And in the end, the chaos had proved sufficient. Two other mages had been slain, and the chevaliers in the square had been routed. Arl Rendorn had chosen to open the main road and let them flee rather than wait for the larger force outside Gwaren to press the attack. The few commanders who got away were more interested in regrouping as far away as possible. The Arl let them go, sending as many archers to harry them as the rebels could afford.
“They will be back,” the Arl informed Maric solemnly, “but we have time to prepare. We have options, for once.”
“What kind of options?”
The Arl considered carefully. “The forest path forms a narrow approach,” he said. “We can guard it quite easily. By the time the usurper assembles a force large enough to chance a crossing, we might be able to acquire enough ships that we could move the army up the coast.”
Maric blinked, surprised. “Ships? Where would we get ships?”
“We could hire them . . . or build them, if necessary. If there is anything that Gwaren is not short of, it is lumber and fishing boats.”
Maric mulled the information over. “So . . . the town is ours, then?”
The Arl nodded. “It is. For now.”
Despite the caution in the Arl’s voice, Maric lay back on his pillows and smiled. They had freed a town, clawed back a chunk of Ferelden away from the Orlesians for the first time in many years. He wondered what King Meghren would say now, how he would explain this embarrassment to the Emperor. For all Maric knew, he might send the King another dozen legions of chevaliers to crush Gwaren into dust, another show of how mighty the Empire was.
It was a disheartening thought.
“Despite our hope that one of the mages killed might be the King’s right hand, Severan,” the Arl frowned, “it seems we have no such luck. None of the three dead mages match the description our informants gave us. These were all men freshly sent from the Circle of Magi in Orlais.”
“At least that means the Fereldan Circle has kept to their word,” Maric offered.
Arl Rendorn nodded. “There is that.”
Maric suddenly brightened. “And Loghain? Is he well?”
“Injured, but not seriously.” The Arl sighed. “He was so furious at you, he swore that he would wring your neck. He did not leave your side until Wilhelm arrived, however. And even then, we could not pry Rowan away until she was certain you would live.”
“I have good friends, what can I say?”
The Arl studied Maric for a moment, frowning. He seemed as if he was about to say something but then thought better of it. He smiled faintly. “Who knows what that mage might have done to Rowan had you not acted? You might have saved her life, Maric. I think she knows this.”
“She would have done the same for me.” Maric shrugged.
“Of course.” The Arl abandoned the effort. He reminded Maric of numerous sundries, some reports of looting in Gwaren, and the need to restore order to the populace as soon as possible. He also mentioned the idea of sending out messengers to other Fereldan nobles to announce Gwaren’s liberation, but by then, the details were swimming in a haze of fatigue. Maric’s injured side was throbbing, and before he knew it, he was drifting in and out of consciousness.
Finally Arl Rendorn chuckled and told Maric he would handle the remainder of the details himself. He told Maric to rest, and then left the tent.
Maric listened for a time to the sound of the men putting up other tents in the manor’s courtyard next to his own. It amused him to eavesdrop on their banter, their earthy jokes and easy laughter. Eventually they realized they were outside the Prince’s tent and started shushing each other in increasingly loud measures before finally finishing their task and leaving to raid the cellar of an abandoned tavern they had spotted down by the docks. Part of Maric wanted to go with them, but chances were he wouldn’t even have successfully crawled out of his bed. It was for the best, he supposed. Chances were he would just have made the men nervous, anyhow.
With silence came sleep. He had no idea how much time passed before he stirred again. The shadows were deep in the large tent, and his wounded side throbbed far less than it once had. A figure was quietly entering through the flap, a flickering lantern in its hand casting the shadows that had stirred him.