With the utmost care, Maric crawled up the side of the depression. He squinted into the shadows, trying to pick out anything that might resemble a human form. He imagined his pursuer doing the same thing, playing a cat-and-mouse game in the dark. The first one of them to spot the other would win the prize. Belatedly, Maric realized that even if he did see this man, there might not be much he could do about it. He wasn’t armed. An empty sheath dangled at his waist, his belt knife lent to Hyram not two hours earlier to cut some rope. Hyram, one of his mother’s most trusted generals and a fine man he had known since childhood, most likely lying dead at his Queen’s side, their blood cooling in the midnight air. Maric cursed himself for a fool and tried to put the image out of his mind.
Just then, Maric noticed a glint in the shadows. Narrowing his eyes helped him just barely discern a sword, its polished blade reflecting the faint moonlight. In the mass of dark shadows and bushes, he still couldn’t see the form of the man holding the weapon, but it calmed him to finally know where his opponent was.
Gaze locked in that direction, Maric raised his hands to grasp the edge of the depression and quietly heaved himself up. The pain that shot through his arms was considerable, but he ignored it and never for one second took his eyes off that sword. As he got over the edge, the sword moved. A dark shape began lumbering toward him, raising the sword up high and growling with menace.
Without thinking, Maric launched himself forward and charged. The sword slashed down by his ear, narrowly missing his arm. He rammed headfirst into the man’s midsection, knocking the wind out of him. Unfortunately, the pursuer was wearing a heavy chain hauberk, and Maric’s head exploded with pain. He may as well have head-butted a tree trunk. The world spun around him wildly. He would have careened out of control had his momentum not carried the two of them backwards, knocking the man off his feet. They fell on hard uneven ground, with the swordsman taking the brunt of the impact. His weapon arm swung out to one side, causing the sword to fly out into the shadows.
Almost delirious and barely able to see, Maric pulled himself back up and grabbed the man’s head in both hands. He felt a strong whiskered jaw, and the man flailed wildly with his free hand, trying to push Maric off. He tried to shout, possibly call on his fellows for help, but all that came out was a muted bellow. Maric used the benefit of leverage to pull up the man’s head and then slam it down hard. The man grunted when his head hit an exposed root.
“You bastard!” Maric snarled. The man’s desperation intensified, the hand reaching for Maric’s face, slapping and clawing. Finding purchase, it pushed hard against Maric’s nose, one finger digging into his eye. Maric pulled his face away as he shoved down hard on the man’s head, grinding it back into a root. The man grunted and tried to buck Maric off, but the heavy hauberk worked against him. He writhed and pushed with that one hand against Maric’s face, but none of his efforts were enough to get him free.
Maric’s throbbing head was torture, and his neck was stretched to its limit, trying to pull away. When Maric let go of the man’s head to battle the pushing hand, the bearded man made an attempt to kick Maric off. Maric lost his balance for a moment and the enemy’s hand turned into a fist, thumping him solidly across the face. Light- headedness came over Maric, and he saw stars. He fought against swooning, reached down, and grabbed as much of the man’s long hair as he could, pulling him upward. This time the man bellowed loudly, his head yanked up at an awkward and painful angle. Letting out his own cry of effort, Maric crashed the man’s head down on the tree root a third time. Even harder.
“You killed her!” Maric shouted. He picked up the man’s head by the hair yet again to slam it down. “You bastard, you killed her!” He smashed the head down again.
And again.
Tears welled up in his eyes, and he choked on his words: “She was your Queen, and you killed her!” He slammed the head again, still harder. This time the man stopped fighting back. A cloying, meaty smell assaulted Maric’s nostrils. His hands were covered with thick, fresh blood that wasn’t his own. Almost involuntarily, he fell off the body and scrambled back, his bloody hands slipping on the cold leaves, and pain shooting anew through his legs. He half expected the man to rise up and charge at him again. But he didn’t. The body lay there in the shadows, a vague shape resting awkward and still upon a clump of tree roots. Maric could barely make out the great oak behind him, thrusting up into the overhead canopy like a gravestone.
He felt physically ill, his stomach twisting in knots and his body shaking. Almost involuntarily, he brought a hand up to his mouth to keep his bile down, smearing fresh blood onto his face. There was gore on his hand, clumps of skin and hair. He convulsed, vomiting onto the muddy ground what little lunch he had eaten earlier in the day. Despair threatened to overwhelm him.
Maric’s mother, Queen Moira, was a tower of strength who could lead armies of battle-hardened men to victory. She was every inch her grandfather’s daughter; that’s what everyone said. She had inspired some of the most powerful noblemen in Ferelden to rise up in her name and fight to put her on the throne simply because they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she belonged there.
In the distance, the sounds of the pursuit were getting louder again. The traitors might have heard Maric’s struggle with the bearded man. He needed to leave. He needed to run, to keep going. Yet he could not will his legs to move. He sat in the dark forest, his bloody hands held out in front of him as if he had no idea where else to put them.
All Maric could think of was his mother’s voice the last time she had returned from battle. She was in full armor, covered in blood and sweat, and grinning madly. Maric had been dragged in front of her by his trainer for brawling with a commoner boy. Even worse, Arl Rendorn had been with his mother, and he asked if Maric had at least won the fight. Burning with shame, Maric admitted to being soundly beaten, causing the Arl to snort and ask what sort of king Maric could possibly make.
And then his mother had laughed merrily, a laugh that could dispel anything serious. She had taken Maric’s chin in her hand and looked in his eyes, and with a gentle smile told him not to listen to the Arl.
Grief brought Maric close to laughing and crying at the same time. His mother had believed in him, and yet he had gotten lost in the woods in less than half an hour. Should he somehow elude his pursuers, make it out of the forest, and obtain another horse, he still needed to find a way to locate the army. He was so used to being led around, being told where to go and where to ride, that he hadn’t paid attention to any route they’d taken. He had followed as he was bidden. Now he couldn’t even guess his location.
