for her weapon, Rowan dropped down and kicked out with her leg, tripping Loghain, and leaped to grab his sword. The two of them fought for control of the blade, rolling around on the ground, their sweat and blood intermingling. Finally Loghain kicked Rowan off, the audience cheering as he rolled after her and sprang to his feet, sword pointed at Rowan’s throat.
She glanced at the sword, her breathing ragged and blood still running down into her eyes. Loghain was similarly panting, pale and favoring his wounded leg. He held out a hand to Rowan and reluctantly she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. The audience went wild, cheering with approval.
They got even louder when Rowan shook Loghain’s hand, congratulating him. She then wavered weakly and stumbled, and Maric scrambled to catch her. She chuckled as he called for Wilhelm, telling him that perhaps Loghain was a good enough tutor for him after all.
Later, as Maric stood outside the tent where Wilhelm was busy healing Rowan, Loghain limped up, freshly bandaged, and stiffly apologized. He had let his pride get the better of him, he said, and very nearly hurt the future queen. Maric listened, wide-eyed, and then laughed heartily. From where he stood, he said, it seemed like the opposite had very nearly been true. Loghain merely nodded gravely, and that was where the matter was left.
As spring melted the snowdrifts left by a hard winter, Maric remarked to himself that it had been almost three years since his mother was murdered and he returned to the rebel army for that fateful battle. As slow as their progress had been since then, the rebel army managed to survive and continued to frustrate the usurper’s efforts to corner and eliminate them. If anything, their numbers had increased. Meghren was a merciless ruler, and the more he taxed and the more he punished, the more the ranks of the rebel army swelled. They had reached a size where they couldn’t even afford to be in the same region all at the same time. Even with the support of many farmholders, it was becoming difficult for the army to feed itself. So, too, had the risk of taking in informants become too high. The speed with which the usurper’s forces found out where the rebels were camped increased with each passing month.
The time had come to act.
The town of Gwaren was a remote place on the southeast corner of Ferelden past the great tracts of the Brecilian Forest. A rough town full of loggers and fishermen, it was accessible to the rest of the country only by boat or along the narrow trail leading through the miles of forestland to the west. It was a defensible place, but Arl Rendorn had ascertained that the majority of its forces were off in the north—levies supplied by the ruling Teyrn of Gwaren to the usurper to help hunt the rebels. This meant the town was ripe for the taking.
Weeks earlier, the Arl of Amaranthine and his men had split off from the main force. He had gone westward to engage in raiding and draw the attention of the King’s forces in the region toward him. Maric assumed he had been successful, as they encountered no pursuit when moving through the forest toward Gwaren. By the time they reached the town, it was apparent the defenders had become aware of their approach, but had little time to do more than rouse their militia. A number of the locals had fled on fishing boats, but most were trapped.
The assault began immediately. The town was spread along the rocky shore, a veritable maze of cobbled streets and plaster-covered brick. It had no wall, but it did have a stone manor atop the hill that overlooked the town, and that was where the majority of the Teyrn’s men had withdrawn.
Maric and Rowan charged down from the forest and into the town itself, meeting the line of poorly trained militia that tried to keep them out. Very quickly things had fallen to chaos. The militia fell back almost immediately, withdrawing into the alleyways and the buildings and forcing the rebels to search for them, building to building.
Despite Maric’s insistence on not causing more destruction and hardship for the townsfolk, several fires began to spread. He could see the smoke rising, and the panic of the populace made the search difficult. People were running in the streets, fleeing from the rebels and militia both. They carried the few valuables they could manage and ran for the forest, hoping that the rebel army would ignore them. The streets were a mass of people, all smoke and screams everywhere, and after turning a corner, Maric realized he was separated from his own men.
His warhorse stamped in agitation, and he fought to bring it under control as a group of people came through the smoke toward him. They halted, terrified. Dressed in simple clothes, many were carrying belongings wrapped in cloth, and several had children hiding behind them. Not more militiamen. He moved his horse aside and waved them by. Tentatively, they went. One of the children burst into frightened tears.
More smoke billowed through the streets, and he heard the sound of fighting ahead. The port was not far away, and he was certain that some of his soldiers would be there, but as he turned his horse about, he found he had no idea which direction that might be.
Three more men came out of the smoke toward him, this time running and shouting. Maric spun his mount around to face them, and saw that they belonged to the militia. They were armored in dark leather and carried small wooden shields and cheap swords. That they charged at a mounted man in full armor probably meant they recognized the cloak and thought they might drag him from his horse and overwhelm him.
He dismounted smoothly and drew his sword, getting the weapon up just in time to knock aside the first man’s thrust but not in time to prevent the man from slamming into him. Thrown back into a brick wall, Maric had the air knocked from him even though his dwarven armor took most of the impact. Maric’s horse backed off but did not run, neighing anxiously.
“Get on him! Get on him!” the man shouted excitedly, spittle flying from his mouth. A fat and balding fellow whose leathers barely covered his belly slammed his sword down on Maric’s shoulder, though it merely bounced off.
Maric gritted his teeth and kicked out at the first man, sending him stumbling away, and then turned and punched the fat man in the face before he could bring his sword down again. Maric’s gauntlet took him right in the nose, and he screamed as blood sprayed out. The third man rushed him, blade ready, but Maric parried and spun around, then ran him through.
The fat man reeled and ran away, covering his face while he squealed in agony. The first man scrambled to his feet and lifted his blade as Maric turned to face him. For a moment the two of them stared at each other, their swords at the ready. Maric was calm, but the man licked his lips nervously and clearly wanted to run. More smoke poured into the street as a nearby roof collapsed and flames licked the sky.
“Still willing to try?” Maric asked.
Behind the man, four new militia soldiers ran into view. Some were bloodied, and all of them halted as they
