Thoughts ran frantically through his head. Was he headed toward the battle or away from it? How had the enemy known where their camp was? How had they known he was going to be left behind?
The afternoon sunlight filtered down through the trees in patches, leaving shadows deep enough that he had no idea where to turn. Sometimes it seemed like a path was forming only to have it disappear just as quickly. As a wave of light-headedness washed over Maric, he realized he was letting the horse find its own way more often than not. For all he knew, it could have turned around and headed back toward his attackers.
Maric felt a sudden jolt and was thrown from the horse as its leg caught between some roots. The horse whinnied in pain as its leg snapped with a sickening crack. For a single moment he flew, twisting in the air, and then slammed hard against an oak tree, the wind knocked out of him all at once.
He slid upside down, cracking his head hard on the uneven ground. Everything went white and numb. He barely heard the horse as it collapsed and thrashed on the ground, screaming madly. That sound seemed very far away and not quite connected to him. He hardly felt the searing pain in his leg as well, though he finally did spot the broken haft of the arrow in his thigh now. That pain also seemed very far away.
As he lay there on the ground, he looked up into the bright sky and the tops of the trees around him lightly swaying in the wind. It was chilly. The breeze touched his face, and there was a tickling on top of his head where blood flowed. He was reminded of the night his mother was killed, of his flight through the forest. The memory wasn’t laced with fear, however, but seemed quiet and almost pleasant, as if he might easily float away at any moment.
The sound of shouting nearby brought Maric jarringly back to earth. The horse was squealing in agony, thrashing about in the leaves and bush. The sound made his head throb. He was covered in mud, and his back felt twisted and battered, yet somehow he still forced himself up to his knees.
For a moment, all Maric could see were trees and bright light as the world danced around him. As it swayed dangerously, he stuck out his hands to maintain his balance—only to fall over anyway. His forehead banged against the tree roots, covered in cold mud, and he hissed as pain blinded him once again.
“I see him!” The muted shout was not a friendly one.
Steeling himself, Maric shakily got to his feet. His wounded leg spasmed and threatened to give out from underneath him. He gritted his teeth against the pain and wiped his eyes, backing up warily as he saw the silhouettes of many men approaching. Eight men in total, perhaps, soldiers in brigandine who wore the colors of the usurper. They leaped off their horses and started moving toward him as a group.
He backed into the oak tree, leaning against it for support as he fished his sword out of its scabbard. It almost dropped from his numb fingers.
The advancing soldiers looked confident. Their quarry was dangerous; a wolf who could snap back if treated without caution, but caught without a doubt. Maric’s horse whinnied piteously nearby and tried to stand itself back up, only to collapse again in a pathetic heap.
“What do you think you’re going to do with that?” one of the soldiers shouted mockingly. He was handsome, with a dark mustache and beard and a thick Orlesian accent. Their commander, Maric suspected. “Come now, put down your sword, you foolish boy. It looks like you can barely hold it!”
The others with him chuckled and came closer. Maric tightened his grip on the blade and forced himself to stand straight, ignoring the pain in his leg. His lips curled into a snarl as he pointed the sword at each of the men in turn. “You think so?” he said in a low and deadly tone. “Which of you wants to be the first one to see how wrong you are?”
It wasn’t a very good bluff. The dark-haired commander chuckled. “It would be better for you if we made this quick. Even now King Meghren crushes your pathetic army. We have been waiting for you all this time.”
Maric almost stumbled. “You . . . you’re lying.” It couldn’t be true. But it explained a great deal. It explained how they had known about him, for one. Could the whole thing have been a trap? But how?
The commander smiled even more broadly. “Enough.” He waved his hand impatiently, turning to the other soldiers around him. “Finish this,” he ordered.
The soldiers hovered, none of them wanting to be the first one to meet Maric’s blade.
“I said do it!” the commander shouted.
Maric braced himself as two soldiers rushed him together. They slashed down hard with their swords, but their strikes were clumsy. Maric ducked aside the first and raised his own sword to deflect the second. His body cried out with pain, but he ignored it and heaved against the second soldier’s blade. He stumbled back, and as the first soldier recovered his footing, Maric slashed at him quickly. The attack was lucky and cut across the man’s face, causing him to reel away, covering his face with his gauntlets.
The others backed off a step, their eyes flickering nervously to their wounded comrade, who fell to the ground nearby, screaming in agony. Their expressions held doubt; perhaps their prey wasn’t so helpless as he had seemed?
“I said finish it!” The commander behind them snapped. “Together!”
They raised their blades, setting their jaws and ignoring the screaming. They were preparing to do as their commander bade, and Maric saw that this time they would act together.
Rage welled up inside him. The thought of his head decorating some pole outside of the royal palace in Denerim, right next to his mother’s, passed through his mind. The thought of Meghren smugly laughing to see him up there. This was how it ended? After everything he had accomplished? His friends dead, the rebellion defeated? It was all for nothing?
Maric raised his blade high over his head and let out a cry of fury. It rang through the trees and startled a flock of birds into sudden flight. Let them come. Let them try. He would take as many of them with him as he could; they would respect the Theirin name.
The soldiers appeared unnerved. They readied their blades . . . and paused.
A new sound grew behind them, the sound of hoofbeats approaching. Maric glanced up, sweat dripping into his eyes, and saw two horses racing through the shadowy trees. More of their fellows, perhaps? Did they really need more? It seemed like they had plenty.
