silvery armor and lances glittering against the snow. They would have flanked the bulk of the rebel force and pinned it there until more forces arrived had Loghain and the Night Elves not acted quickly.
Loghain and the elves ran into the hills in order to intercept the chevalier charge. Peppering the knights with arrows forced them to stop and deal with the archers instead of finishing their flanking maneuver. Lightly armored elves were no match for chevaliers, however, and more than half of them were slaughtered as the Orlesians overran their position. Loghain himself was gored by a lance.
The sacrifice gave Maric time to call off the attack on the caravan, and the rebels pulled back to safety. Insisting on going to Loghain’s rescue, Maric brought the rebel forces around to clash directly with the chevaliers in the hills. The casualties were high, but both the wounded Loghain and the surviving Night Elves were saved before Arl Rendorn finally called for the retreat. The chevaliers gave chase, but eventually desisted before the rebels turned the tables. The trap had not succeeded.
Other battles were chosen more carefully. Arl Rendorn was the one who did the choosing most times, and when he and Maric would differ in opinion it ended up as an argument. In the end, the Arl’s long experience would always win out.
These lost arguments were not things that Maric took in stride. For days afterwards he would stay out of sight, spending his time brooding and bristling at the idea that he was not being taken seriously. He complained of being treated like a figurehead, though the Arl repeatedly told him this wasn’t so. Once, Maric walked in on a meeting of the Arl and both Rowan and Loghain, and belatedly realized that he had not been invited. He spent almost a week drunk and miserable, avoiding everyone until finally Loghain tracked him down and told him he was being an idiot and physically dragged him back to the camp. For whatever reason this seemed to mollify Maric considerably.
After that, Maric made an effort to ensure his presence was felt in other ways. Adamant that he would share the danger with his men, he insisted on fighting on the front lines in every battle. The soldiers watched him ride along the front, purple cloak billowing and dwarven armor shining brilliantly, and they worshipped him; he gave no indication if he knew just how much.
Rowan got truly upset on those occasions when Maric was carried in from the field, bleeding profusely from a horrible sword gash. Wilhelm would immediately come running and use his healing magic, even as Rowan shouted furiously. Maric would grin through the pain and tell her she was making far too much of it.
Then Loghain invariably arrived from the battle, still armored and covered in blood and sweat. He would take one look at Maric, frown thoughtfully, and declare that since Maric came out of the fight alive, all was well. Rowan would storm off, ranting about their idiocy, while Maric and Loghain shared a private grin at her expense.
The three of them slowly became closer over the two years. They fought together in battle, and Arl Rendorn included Loghain in planning discussions more and more. Indeed, the Arl increasingly praised Loghain’s abilities and once suggested that if Loghain’s father had been the one to train Loghain, it was a tragedy he had ever left the service of the throne. Things might have been different, the Arl said, and he would have liked to have met the man.
Loghain accepted the compliment with his usual stoic silence, his thoughts unknown to anyone but himself.
With the long weeks spent camped, Loghain devoted a great deal of time training Maric on the finer points of swordsmanship and archery. He claimed Maric was a poor student, but the truth was their training sessions became an excuse to spend time in each other’s company. Maric found Loghain endlessly fascinating, repeatedly trying to pry a story out of the tight-lipped man regarding his days as an outlaw, asking and insisting until he relented out of pure exasperation. Maric’s endless supply of charm was apparently capable of wearing down almost anyone, and it wasn’t long before Maric and Loghain were a constant sight together on the practice field.
Rowan often watched the training sessions, amused by the constant bickering and banter between Maric and Loghain. Outside of the Night Elves, Loghain was regarded as a taciturn and even unfriendly man. Maric had a way of drawing him out, she noted, which she had been unable to do during their months traveling the Bannorn. Often she laughingly criticized Loghain’s sword techniques, primarily because it nettled Loghain and thus vastly amused Maric. Loghain became so incensed by Rowan’s comments that, seething with anger, he challenged her to a duel to prove which of them knew more of swordsmanship. Grinning, she accepted.
Maric was incredibly excited by the entire idea, and immediately ran about the rebel camp announcing that the duel was about to occur. Within an hour, Loghain and Rowan had an audience of hundreds of cheering men.
Leery of the size of their audience, Loghain turned to Rowan. “Do you truly wish to pursue this?” he asked her, his expression solemn.
“I believe it was you who challenged me.”
“Then I withdraw the challenge,” he said instantly. “And I apologize for losing my temper. It will not happen again.”
Amid the boos and sounds of disappointment made by the soldiers nearby who had heard him, Rowan appeared nettled instead. “I do
Loghain stared at her appraisingly, wondering if she was, in fact, serious. She said nothing, instead drawing her blade and returning his stare defiantly. After a long minute he finally nodded his assent, cheers going up from the crowd.
Loghain was the stronger of the two, but Rowan was the quicker—and perhaps the more determined. Their initial feints drew loud cheers from the audience, and then they settled into a series of back-and-forth blows to test the other’s defenses. Rowan soon realized that Loghain was holding back, however, and angrily dived in with a blindingly fast slash, cutting him across the leg. He waved off aid, staring sternly at Rowan for a moment before nodding. If this was how she wanted it, this was how it would be.
The following battle lasted almost an hour and was the talk of the camp for months afterwards. Loghain and Rowan fought savagely, each giving as good as they got, and both of them were bloodied before long. A slash across Rowan’s forehead sent blood dripping into her eyes and gave Loghain the opportunity to go for the final blow—which he took. Only at the last second did she roll out of the way, then tipped her sword toward him respectfully. With both exhausted and sweating, a worried Maric tried to end the duel by calling a draw. Not looking away from Loghain, Rowan waved him off.
Minutes later it was over when Loghain came in low and unexpectedly thrust upward with his blade, disarming Rowan. The audience murmured excitedly as her blade skittered far out of her reach. Instead of giving up or going
