Unknown - Dragon Age

There was another sound, however, that drew Maric’s attention. From somewhere nearby, he could hear the muffled sounds of a woman shouting for help. “Do you hear that?” he asked Rowan, but she looked at him quizzically. Without waiting for her, he spun his horse about and charged toward the shouting.

Maric heard Rowan’s shout of alarm behind him, but he didn’t care. Urging his steed forward, he raced down a street cluttered with empty crates. When he turned the corner at what appeared to be an alehouse, he saw the source of the shouts. A beautiful elven woman with long honey-colored curls and dressed in simple white traveling clothes was struggling wildly as three men held her down. Her shirt was half ripped from her body, and only her wild twisting kept the men from completing their task.

“For the love of the Maker, help me! I beg you!” she screamed, spotting Maric.

One of the burly men slapped a meaty hand over her mouth as the other two turned to face Maric. These weren’t his men, and he couldn’t imagine them being ordinary townsfolk. Convicts, perhaps? They were certainly filthy enough and had a dangerous look that left no question as to what they intended.

One of them drew a knife. Maric didn’t hesitate—he kicked his warhorse so it charged the men. The knife-wielding man

lunged toward Maric. His mistake. Maric turned the warhorse and it kicked the man right in the head and sent him flying, dead before he hit the ground.

“You will leave her be!” Maric roared. He dismounted, drawing his blade to confront the remaining pair as his steed ran off. “In the name of the crown, I command it!”

The burly man tightened his grip on the elf as she struggled, screaming into his hand. The other man bared his teeth and ran at Maric, shouting in rage. Maric did not step out of the way, instead stepping forward and letting the man run into the pommel of his sword. He gasped and fell back, and Maric swung the blade around to bash the man in the head with the pommel again. He collapsed like a sack.

Rowan rode in, leaping off her mount and drawing her sword. The burly man looked at Maric, and then at her, and deciding that discretion was the better option, he abandoned the elf and ran for it. Rowan gave chase, her silent glare toward Maric saying everything of what she thought of the situation.

Maric went immediately to the elven woman’s aid. She lay in the street, trying to hold the tatters of her shirt together and crying pitifully. Her clothing was filthy and bloodstained, but Maric didn’t think the blood was hers. Other than some ugly-looking bruises on her arms and legs, she seemed unhurt.

“Are you all right, err . . . my lady?” Maric realized belatedly that he wasn’t sure what one called an elven woman. They had elves in the rebel army, of course, but one spoke to them as soldiers. He’d never had servants, though he’d seen them in some of the castles Mother had brought him to. Still, even then he’d never spoken to them.

The elf looked up at him, tears streaming down from eyes so incredibly green, he couldn’t look away. “My name is Katriel,” she said quietly. “You are too kind, Your Highness. Thank you.”

With his help, she retrieved a cloth package from where it had fallen nearby. As she stood up, she attempted to keep her tattered shirt together. It was hardly possible. Maric removed his purple cloak and put it around her shoulders.

She stared at him with horror and tried to get away from his cloak. “Oh, no! No, my lord, I couldn’t!”

“Of course you can. It’s just a cloak.”

Reluctantly she allowed him to close it around her, blushing and looking away. Maric found himself staring at her neck, at how it gracefully flowed down into ample cleavage only barely concealed by the cloak. She seemed like such a delicate creature. He had heard that elven women held a certain fascination for men, the kind that made them popular in the brothels of Denerim. He had never been to the capital city, however, and had never understood what the appeal could be—until now.

He started as Rowan walked back into view, an annoyed look on her face. He stepped away from the elf almost too quickly, and Rowan’s expression darkened into a scowl.

“This is Katriel,” Maric offered lamely. Then he belatedly looked back at the elf. “And this is Lady Rowan. My, ah . . . She is my betrothed.”

Katriel turned to Rowan and curtsied. “I am grateful to you as well, my lady. I had asked them for help. It seems I should have been more careful.”

“I’ll say,” Rowan muttered. “Just what were you doing out here at all?”

“I had no other choice.” The elf turned to Maric, self-consciously clutching the cloak tighter around her. “I have been looking for you, my lord. The horse I was given died not far from here. I ran the rest of the way, but there was so much chaos. . . .”

Maric was confused. “You were looking for me?”

From underneath the purple cloak, Katriel produced the

package she carried. It appeared to be several scrolls bound in leather casings. “I came as quickly as I could. I am a messenger sent by the Arl of Amaranthine.”

Rowan eyes went wide with alarm. “A messenger!”

Katriel’s green eyes lowered nervously. “His Grace has been defeated. I did not see it with my own eyes, but he said he would hold the attackers as long as he could. He said it was vital that I reach you, my lord.” She held out the scrolls again, and Maric reluctantly took them. She seemed relieved, her charge fulfilled.

“Defeated!” Rowan strode toward the elf in outrage. “What are you talking about? When did this happen?”

“Four days ago,” Katriel replied. “I sped here on the horse I was given, and it died from exhaustion. But I had no choice. The same men that attacked His Grace were not far behind me in the forest.” She looked at Maric pleadingly. “I had to reach you before they arrived, my lord. His Grace said that was more important than anything!”

Maric took a step back, stunned. He opened one of the scrolls and read it, his eyes scanning the content even as it confirmed what his sinking gut was telling him.

“What?” Rowan demanded. “What does it say, for the love of the Maker?”

Faced paled, he looked up at her. “We sent Byron to draw their attention, and he got it. A full legion of chevaliers, with mages. The King had to have planned it.”

“And they’re coming here?”

“They’re perhaps a day behind me, my lord,” said Katriel. “I wish I knew for certain.”

Maric and Rowan stared at each other, unmoving. Overhead, the faint sound of thunder could be heard in the gray skies. Rain would prevent the spread of the fires in Gwaren, though much damage had already been done. Fighting still raged inside the manor, and the town was in complete chaos.

It would take more than a day to get the situation under control, and even if they did, the only routes out of Gwaren were out on the sea or back through the forest, toward the approaching army.

They were trapped.

8

Loghain frowned. The shop he was crowded into smelledfaintly of fish, and it contrasted sharply with the nervous fear of the elven archers who crouched next to him. The group of them were hiding in the shadows, waiting quietly for the enemy to appear.

From his vantage point by the window, Loghain could see most of Gwaren’s town square. It was the kind of place where merchants would have gathered regularly to sell their wares. Normally it would have been full of bright colors and barrels and crates and people, but in the early morning light filtering down from the clouds, all he could currently see was smoke and debris left over from the previous day’s battle. The rain had prevented the fires from gutting the town completely, but still many of the buildings around the square were ruins, smoke smoldering up from their blackened bones. Pieces of wood and belongings no doubt dropped by people fleeing into the forest littered the cobblestones right next

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