Unknown - Dragon Age

Rowan seemed to be thinking the same thing, glancing curiously at him. “You have experience riding? That’s unusual for a—” She paused, searching for a tactful word.

“A commoner?” he finished for her. He snorted derisively. “That’s an interesting worldview coming from someone who lives in the wilderness and probably has to beg her meals from cowards.”

Rowan’s jaw set and her eyes flashed with anger. Maric decided against warning Loghain about her temper; he was a

grown man, after all. The sort who could ride and everything. “I meant,” she said curtly, “that it’s not everyone who has access to horses.”

“My father raised them on our farmhold. He taught me.”

“Did he teach you your manners, too?”

“No, that was my mother,” he replied coldly. “Or at least she tried to before she was raped and killed by the Orlesians.”

Rowan’s eyes were wide as Loghain turned and rode away.

Maric steered his horse over toward hers with difficulty. “So,” he announced, “that was a bit awkward.”

She stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two extra heads.

“Just to change the subject—” He cleared his throat. “—are we planning on following those other men you sent off? Because if we are, they’re getting out of sight really quickly. Really quickly. In fact . . . Well, there they go.”

“No,” Rowan said firmly. “We’re taking a slightly different route.”

“Shouldn’t we get under way, then?”

“Yes.” She put her helmet back on and rode ahead without another word, the green plume trailing behind her.

Watching her, Maric wondered how it might have been for Rowan in a normal world. Fereldans were a rugged and practical people, and women who could hold their own in combat were respected as much as the men, but it was different among the nobility. Had it not been for the rebellion, the Arl would have had his daughter wearing fine dresses and learning the latest dances from the Orlesian court rather than helping to lead his army.

Rowan’s family had made many sacrifices for the rebellion. Arl Rendorn had given up his beloved Redcliffe to the usurper. His wife, the Arlessa, had died from fever on the road, and he had sent his two younger sons, Eamon and Teagan, away to live

with cousins in the far north. Who knew if the Arl’s sons would even recognize him if they returned now?

They had given up a great deal to help Maric’s mother. And now she was gone. This wasn’t a normal world at all.

They rode into the hills, taking a route that Rowan was noticeably familiar with. Maric wondered just how often she had passed over this territory looking for him, and why she had bothered. He was his mother’s heir, without question, but it must have seemed quite hopeless that anyone would chance across him out in the open after the first few days. They should have moved on without him.

The rocky terrain was difficult to ride through, and Maric was pleased that he managed to stay on his horse. They stopped only once when he realized that Loghain was still bleeding from the wounds in his chest left by the flail. Maric flagged down Rowan, and then practically had to wrestle Loghain off his horse so they could bandage him properly. Loghain, naturally, seemed more irritated than anything by the delay, causing Maric to wonder if he could take a flail to the chest delivered from horseback and still walk away to be stubborn about it. Probably not.

Eventually they started to see evidence of the rebel army’s presence. They rode past several sentries who saluted Rowan before they recognized Maric and stared, mouths agape. Evidently the word had not quite gotten out.

It wasn’t long before they got among the tents and into the heart of the camp, situated mostly in a small valley that almost completely hid it from sight. Maric’s mother had loved the Hinterlands because it had so many valleys just like this one, so many spots for the army to take refuge in. They could access most of the northern lowlands quickly while still being able to retreat quickly. His mother had slowly built the army

here from nothing to a force that had been the vexation of the Orlesians for more than a decade now.

Loghain looked around at the many tents they passed with some degree of surprise. It looked much like the outlaw camp had, to tell the truth, but on a larger scale. The tents were worn and dirty, as were most of the soldiers, and generally it was all that anyone could do to keep so many hundreds of men fed from day to day. The rebels were the product of years of recruitment from among the ranks of angry noblemen, men who had decided it was worth abandoning their own lands and taking what loyal followers and supplies they could to join an uncertain cause without much hope of compensation. Those who couldn’t join sometimes offered food and shelter when they had it to spare, which wasn’t often. Maric’s mother had been reduced to begging more than once—Loghain had been right on that point, too.

As soon as the first cry of “It’s the Prince!” went up, men and women started spilling out of the tents and surrounding their horses. Only a few at first, but after a short time they were mobbed. The soldiers surrounded them, joy showing on their filthy faces as many hands reached out toward Maric.

“The Prince!”

“He’s alive! It’s the Prince!”

A general cheer welled up from the crowd, a sound of relief and excitement. Some of the older men were actually crying— crying— and some of them were hugging and pounding their fists in the air. Rowan removed her helmet, and he saw there were tears in her eyes, as well. She reached over from her horse and raised Maric’s hand, and the cheer escalated to a roar of approval.

They had loved his mother this much. It must have been devastating to lose the very reason most of them were here. Deeply moved, Maric realized that having him back among

them was a victory, of sorts, like having a piece of Queen Moira back. He choked up at the thought of her.

Rowan squeezed his hand. She understood.

Loghain remained slightly behind them, looking pained and out of place. Maric turned and urged him forward. If anything, he was the main reason Maric had made it back to the army at all. Loghain shook his head, however, and remained where he was.

Thunderous footsteps resounded as a ten-foot-tall creature made of stone slowly lumbered toward the crowd from deeper in the camp. The cheering dimmed as some of the men respectfully got out of the creature’s way, but most just accepted the creature for the common sight it was here.

Loghain’s stared at it in shock. “What is that ?”

Maric chuckled, wiping his eyes. “Oh, that? That’s just the golem, nothing to get excited about.” He would have laughed at Loghain’s incredulous look had the golem’s owner not appeared and pushed through the crowd of soldiers. He was tall, but thin enough to appear gaunt and spindly as opposed to intimidating. If men scrambled to get out of his way, it was because of the bright robes marking him as a ranking Enchanter of the Circle of Magi.

“Prince Maric!” he called out, frowning with familiar impatience. The mage had served the Arl as a retainer and advisor for years now and had been on good terms with Maric’s mother. He had always treated Maric himself as a recalcitrant student sorely in need of discipline, however, though this was not unusual. The mage was perpetually displeased, always frowning and looking down past his hawkish nose at others. Still, he was loyal and trustworthy. So Maric swallowed his distaste and nodded to the man as he approached.

“I found him, Wilhelm!” Rowan laughed.

“I can see that, my lady,” the mage grumped. The cheering

continued, but Wilhelm ignored it and turned to regard Maric with open suspicion. “Rather convenient timing, Prince Maric.”

“Why do you say that?”

Читать дальше