Unknown - Dragon Age

When the sun went down that day, the bluebird vanished.

“Do you think it’s going to come back?” Maric asked.

“How should I know?”

“Because you’re the expert on all things magical and arcane?”

Loghain snorted. “It brought us out of the Wilds. Its job is done.” He looked at Maric impatiently. “Just how hard will it be to find this army of yours? It can’t be that well-hidden, can it?”

“We’ve managed to keep ahead of the usurper all these years, so I don’t know.” Maric hopped onto a nearby boulder and looked out over the hills. Dusk was providing a spectacular show of orange and crimson in the sky, but darkness was coming fast. “I think they actually may be nearby. If you had asked me earlier where we had been camping, I would have said west of Lothering. So . . . here?”

“Wonderful.”

Loghain selected a small clearing to make their camp and sent Maric to collect wood. Now that they were away from the eternal mist, it was far easier to build a decent blaze, but he knew being out of the dense woods also meant that the fire could be seen, especially in the hills. Maric’s hunters could still be searching for him, even out here. For all Loghain knew, what he’d said to Maric about mages looking for him could be true. They might be watching for people coming out of the forest, and what then?

Loghain already had the beginnings of a fire going. They would take the risk until it was proved otherwise, he thought. If he tried to account for magic, he would end up chasing his tail.

“I saw some more wolves,” Maric announced when he returned with wood.

“And? Were they hostile?”

“Well, they didn’t attack, if that’s what you mean. But they were planning to.”

“They told you that?”

“Yes, in fact. They sent a rabbit with a note to inform me of their intentions.” He dumped the wood unceremoniously next

to the fire. “Rather gentlemanly of them, I thought.” Loghain ignored him, and he sat down on the grass, watching the darkening sky overhead. “I wonder if they were werewolves? Is there a way to tell?”

Here we go again , Loghain thought to himself. He didn’t look up from his task of slowly adding wood to the fire. “Do I even want to know?”

“I remembered the story one of my tutors taught me, about how the mist ended up in the Korcari Wilds. It has to do with the werewolves.”

“That’s nice.”

As usual, Maric seemed to miss Loghain’s uninterested tone. “It was back before King Calenhad united the Clayne tribes. There was a curse that spread among the wolves, and they became possessed by powerful demons. They turned into monsters that preyed on the farmholds and villages in these parts, and when they were chased into the Wilds, they would turn into wolves again and hide.”

“Superstition,” Loghain muttered.

“No, it really happened! That’s why everyone still keeps hounds. Back then, a hound could smell a werewolf approaching and warn you, maybe even attack and give you a chance to run away. It was an epidemic.”

Loghain paused and regarded Maric with a weary expression. “And what does that have to do with the mist?”

“The story says that a great arl finally created an army of hounds and hunters and went into the Wilds. For years they slaughtered every wolf they could find, possessed or no. The last werewolf swore vengeance, stabbing himself in the heart with the very blade that had slain his mate. As his blood touched the forest floor, a mist rose from that spot.

“The mist spread and spread, until finally the Arl’s army became lost in the forest. They never returned home, and eventually the arling was abandoned. My tutor claimed that

the old ruins there are haunted by the ghosts of their wives, forever waiting for their husbands.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Loghain sighed. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. And there’s not nearly enough mist in the Wilds to make someone lose their way. It’s just a nuisance.”

“Maybe it was different a long time ago?” Maric shrugged. “Anyhow, they say that some of the werewolves survived. That they hide in these parts, taking vengeance when they can find a man alone.”

“ They say a lot of things.”

“My tutor was a very learned man.”

“Especially them.” Loghain stood up, brushing himself off, and turned toward the reclining Maric just as an arrow flew by his ear.

Maric sat up, confused. “Was that—?”

“Get down!” Loghain sank to a crouch and drew his sword. Maric dropped to his knees, but also turned curiously to see where the arrow had come from. Unwilling to discuss the matter, Loghain grabbed him by the hood of his cloak and pushed him down to his belly. Already the sound of several riders could be heard approaching the clearing, and Loghain cursed himself for a fool. He had underestimated just how badly they wanted Maric if they were on top of them already.

“We have to get out of here!” Maric shouted. He had drawn his own knife, but Loghain was already watching two horsemen entering the camp at full trot. The men were soldiers, wearing mail hauberks and full helmets, and already had their flails out and swinging.

As the first horseman raced past, Loghain ducked under the swing of his flail. The spiked ball passed over his head with an alarming whoosh. The second horseman was shortly behind the first, and Loghain sprinted forward, jabbing up with his sword before that soldier could begin his swing.

Loghain felt the point of the blade jab into the rider’s armpit, and the man shouted in pain and tried to weakly bring the flail down on him. He pulled out his sword just in time to catch the flail’s chain, causing the heavy ball to spin around the blade. Girding himself, he pulled hard, and the rider was flung off his mount, crying out in surprise.

The soldier hit the ground awkwardly, rolling away with the flail. This time it was Loghain’s blade that was wrenched from him. The first rider had doubled back and was bearing down on him, leaving him with no time to do anything but watch the flail head swinging toward him. It slammed into his chest hard, several ribs cracking as the spikes dug painfully into his chest. He was lifted off his feet and thrown back several paces.

“Loghain!” Maric shouted, rushing into the melee with his dagger. He plunged the wicked blade into the leg of the mounted soldier. The man’s horse reared back and whinnied as the rider screamed in pain, unintentionally pulling on the reins. The other fallen soldier was groaning and trying to crawl away, and Maric jumped over him and ran to where Loghain had fallen.

Loghain gritted his teeth against the massive pain in his chest and tried to sit up. He was about to tell Maric to run, but it was too late. Four other horsemen had already arrived, one of them a knight in intricate plate armor. Clearly the leader, this one rode a great black horse and wore a full helmet with a green plume.

Suddenly, the knight motioned for the riders behind him to stop—and they did, several of the horses rearing up and prancing on the spot. The wounded soldier with the dagger in his leg awkwardly pulled his mount back as he hissed and swore under his breath.

Loghain coughed painfully, but slowly got to his feet as he and Maric stared at the riders. Why they didn’t attack he had

no idea. Perhaps they intended to force them to surrender? In that case, he would send at least one or two of them to the Maker. He stepped in front of Maric and raised his sword, wincing at the spasm this sent through his cracked ribs.

“The first one that comes for us,” he vowed, “is losing an arm. That I guarantee.”

A couple of the riders backed up a step, glancing questioningly toward the green-plumed knight. He stayed where he was, silently watching Maric and Loghain.

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