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.
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.
