Dragon Age by David Gaider
He looked at her helplessly, and she shrugged. “Perhaps Severan did not tell you. I am far more than just a spy. Or just an elf.” Her tone was icy, and when the Rivaini lunged at her with his short sword, she adeptly stepped aside and let him stumble to his knees.
The gurgled gasping continued as Katriel watched him dispassionately. Then she stepped near and reached down, pulling her blood-coated dagger from his hand. He let go with little struggle and collapsed. The blood pooling around him on the floor was bright and angry, a sharp contrast to the dull color of the old stones. Whatever ghosts roamed this place had no doubt gathered to greet the newest addition to their number.
And there will be many more yet to come, she thought grimly.
She stared down at the body of Severan’s agent thoughtfully and considered her options. Technically this was self-defense. Part of her was enraged that Severan would change the terms of their arrangement, and if he actually instructed his agent to slay her then he was more the fool than she would have guessed.
Even so, it was done. The Orlesians were obviously dealing with Maric on their own. She could leave now and say whatever she wished about the Rivaini, one more body amid the pile would make no difference. If Severan truly was trying to betray her, she could deal with that then. The smart thing to do would be to get out now before the fighting began.
So why wasn’t she moving?
It’s not done yet, she reminded herself. Not yet.
It was an impossible thought that ran through her, and yet she could not dismiss it. Even if she were to somehow help Maric now, he would not thank her for it. She had already delivered him up like a calf for the slaughter; what would be the point? As the Rivaini had said, if Maric did not die now he would certainly die later.
The thought of his face crossed her mind. Those innocent eyes, so trusting. And when he had touched her that night in the tent, he had been gentle. Far more gentle than she had expected, certainly.
Looking down at her own hands, Katriel found herself troubled by the amount of blood she found there. Removing a kerchief, she began to wipe her hands and her blade, and tried to remind herself what it meant to be what she was. A bard must know history so she does not repeat it. She tells the tales but is never part of them. She watches but remains above what she sees. She inspires passions in others and rules her own.
But it was pointless. She stopped wiping, as the kerchief was already soaked through with blood and she was no cleaner.
In the distance, a great muted clanging sound began to ring. It was the sound of the fortress gates opening.
Katriel dropped the kerchief and began to run.
“Commander Loghain, the gates are opening!”
Loghian nodded and continued to watch the fortress off in the distance. So far, everything was going according to plan, and that was beginning to disturb him. They had met no other ships during the stormy passage into the Waking Sea, pirates or Orlesian frigates or otherwise. There had been no troops waiting for them at the sandy cove where they disembarked in leaky longboats, and no surprise ambushes as they spread out into the rocky hills. Not a single lieutenant had reported meeting resistance, and other than a few late-season merchant wagons trying to avoid the main roads, they really hadn’t met much of anyone at all.
He had been camped directly east of the fortress, an old and ominous-looking stone sentinel that stood high in the hills and looked down on the vast sea sprawled beneath it. Its high towers made him nervous, despite the assurances from Katriel and the other agents inside that said those towers were rarely manned—indeed, if anyone actually tried to ascend the stairs to the old watch stations, they were more like to end up falling through the boards to their death. Chances were good that no one could see Loghain’s forces, or Arl Rendorn’s forces on the other side of the fortress to the west.
Still, it bothered him that everything was going so smoothly. He had hoped for a surprise attack on Gwaren before they left, an ambush, an alarm raised at the fortress, something to put his mind at ease. He had over four hundred men in his command, and the Arl was in charge of an even larger force, easily the greatest army they had assembled to date, with many strangers provided by the nobles who had joined them at Gwaren. Any one of them could be a traitor. They had been careful, but for it all to go exactly as planned made his skin itch.
Maric was pleased, naturally, and taunted Loghain for deliberately looking for trouble. Loghain was tempted to punch him in the mouth to wipe that smile off his face, but that probably wouldn’t look good in front of the men.
“We stand for now,” he informed the lieutenant. “The Arl attacks first.”
The soldier saluted and marched off to deliver his orders. Nearby, several of the Night Elves fingered their bows anxiously as they perched on higher rocks to watch the battle. He waved to one of them. “Any sign of movement, yet?”
The elf looked off into the distance, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I think . . . Arl Rendorn is here, now.”
It was true. Loghain watched as a large force of men marched into view at the base of the hill and began ascending the rocky path up to the open gateway. There were signs of frantic activity in the fortress, but no resistance had appeared yet. He half expected the gates to swing shut, but they remained open. Katriel had said in her last response that it would not be difficult to sabotage the crank, which meant the gates could be closed only with difficulty. So far, she seemed as good as her word.
Surely it couldn’t be this easy, could it? If the Arl’s forces got inside the fortress, they could overwhelm the defenders within the hour. Loghain’s men might never even have to march. Had they caught the usurper completely unawares? Was that possible?
Almost as if on cue, he heard the distant sounds of a horse riding hard toward them, and several men nearby shouted. He turned in his saddle and was startled to see Rowan approaching, fully armored but missing her helmet. She was sweating profusely as she rode full-bore toward him.
Worse was the look on her face: terror.
I knew it, he swore to himself. Without hesitating, he kicked his warhorse into a gallop and raced down the hillside to intercept Rowan. Many of his men were stirring now, uneasy as they sensed something was amiss.
“Loghain!” Rowan pulled her horse to a halt as Loghain reached her. “They’ve attacked the camp! Maric is in danger!”
“What! Who? Who has attacked the camp?”
Rowan gasped for air and tried to collect her breath. Her horse pranced nervously beneath her, and she had trouble keeping him under control. “Some of my scouts didn’t come back . . . we thought maybe they were delayed or . . . or deserted, but—” She shook her head in disbelief. “—I rode out with some men to look. There’s a whole army approaching.” She looked at Loghain with wide, horrified eyes. “The usurper . . . he’s here, they’re all here!”
His blood went cold. They knew, then. They had been waiting.
“I sent my men to try to warn Father,” she continued numbly, “and then I rode back to the camp to tell Maric. But . . . the camp is gone. It was attacked. I didn’t even see Maric. I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .” She stopped herself, unable to continue, and looked at Loghain as if he might be able to right everything.
Loghain considered. His horse nickered irritably, and he patted its head absently. Then he looked at Rowan and nodded curtly. “Let’s go. We need to find him.”
“Find him? Find him how?”
“There’s going to be tracks. Let’s find them, and quickly.”
She nodded, relieved, and spun her horse about. The men in the area were talking, a ripple of fear moving through the ranks, the sounds of concern getting louder and louder. “Commander Loghain!” One of his lieutenants ran up anxiously, with several others behind him. “What is happening? You aren’t leaving?”
Loghain looked at the man sharply. “I am. You’re in charge.”
The lieutenant’s face turned ashen. “Wh-what?”
“Do it,” he ordered.
The ripple of fear became even stronger. The lieutenant looked at him in stark terror. “Take the men? . . . But . . .”
“Maric . . .” Rowan sounded uneasy.
Loghain frowned at her. “Maric needs us. Do you want to stay?”
Rowan stared off in the direction of her father’s forces and a look of guilt crossed her eyes. Then she reluctantly shook her head. Loghain kicked his warhorse, and the two of them rode off, leaving the panicked lieutenant and the rest of the rebel force behind. Loghain felt an unaccustomed coldness inside him. It was about to fall apart, all of it. He could feel it slipping through his fingers.
But it didn’t matter. If they won this battle and Maric died, it was all for nothing. Even if it meant abandoning their charge they were either going to find Maric and save him, or they would avenge his death. He owed his friend that much. He exchanged glances with Rowan as they rode swiftly into the hills, and he saw that she felt the same way. She knew he would help; that was why she’d come looking for him.
The Arl was on his own.
Pain lanced through Maric’s leg as he rode hard through the forest. His horse was struggling and whinnying in pain, but fear kept it running. He was certain that it had been struck with an arrow or two at the same time his leg had, but it was impossible to stop and look. He clutched the horse’s neck, shutting his eyes as low-hanging branches slapped at him. He wasn’t even sure where he was or where he was headed, or how far his pursuers were behind him.
At some point, the horse had raced off the path into the lightly forested hills, and he thought he could try to lose them among the trees. The forest was proving to be more of an annoyance, however. With each leap of the horse over a log or an exposed root, the arrow in his leg was jarred. He was bleeding heavily, he knew, and fighting against a weakness that threatened to drag him off the horse’s back. He had no saddle, or his armor, though luckily he did have his sword.
It had happened so quickly. One second he was watching the army march off and complaining about how he had to remain behind, and the next, his handful of guards were being slaughtered outside the tent. Maric barely had enough time to cut through the fabric and leap onto a nearby horse. His bodyguards had bought him a few seconds, but that was all.
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. Wonderful, he thought. Is this how I die, then? Cut down while floundering about like a dazed calf?
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 laughin
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.
The handsome commander turned irritably toward the noise, raising a hand as if to wave the new arrivals away—and then an arrow sped out of the shadows and struck him dead in the chest. He stared down at the protruding shaft in confusion, as if its presence were unthinkable.
The horses slid to a halt in the mud and leaves while their riders leaped from their saddles. Maric strained to see through the shadows. One was in heavy armor, a female figure that began dashing toward the soldiers. The second was in leathers, carrying a longbow, and let another arrow fly as soon as he hit the ground. It streaked through the air and struck the Orlesian commander in the eye. The commander was knocked backwards by the force of the strike, dead even as he hit the ground.
Relief washed through Maric. There was no question who they were.
“Maric! Are you all right?” Loghain shouted, loosing another arrow that just barely missed one of the other soldiers. Rowan burst toward them, swinging her sword in a wide arc that one soldier just barely parried, the force of her blow knocking him off balance. The enemy broke apart in confusion.