Unknown - Dragon Age

It didn’t escape their notice that most of the men in the field belonged to the rebels. Rowan stared out at the scene, her face stone. Loghain thought it was probably best that Maric was unconscious for this.

Attempts to locate the fighting were thwarted. A change in

the wind blew smoke across their path, confusing their sense of direction and making it difficult to breathe. They saw vague shapes that looked like groups of men running through the smoke, but Loghain avoided them for now. He needed to find the Arl—where was the main body of the rebel force? Had they holed up inside the fortress? Had they fled?

The sounds of battle and shouting became louder as they headed farther into the thick of the smoke, and it wasn’t long before they encountered a large group of chevaliers. The soldiers challenged them, and when they turned around and fled, the chevaliers gave chase.

It was a desperate, terrifying ride. Several times Loghain was afraid that Maric would slide off—it would be just like him to fall off a horse now , Loghain grumbled to himself—but thankfully he remained where he was. The smoke worked in their favor, and eventually the chevaliers gave up. Either that or they were distracted. Certainly there seemed to be men everywhere; it was mass confusion.

When they finally came out of the smoke, Loghain realized they were out of the hills and heading south. Numbly, they sat there on their horses, staring at a brilliant sunset in the distance. The peace of that moment was unsettling. It seemed a crime somehow that the rest of Ferelden did not recognize what had happened. It seemed as if the earth itself should be buckling and heaving.

Loghain traded a look with Rowan, both of them covered in smoke and splattered with blood, and he knew she understood.

The rebel army had been routed. Their plan had been an utter failure.

Katriel watched with them in silence, and then quietly suggested that they should find shelter before dark. Maric would need to be properly tended to. Rowan nodded absently, and

they began to ride down the rocky hillside. Loghain thought to cover their tracks—if the rebel force had been routed, it was possible that the usurper could be trying to chase the men down to finish them off. They could be coming this way.

They traveled until the sun set and the shadows arrived to swallow them up.

12

The dwarf eyed Rowan suspiciously from his seat on top ofthe wagon. His long, proud beard was full of intricate braids, and he had a rectangular tattoo just under his right eye. The tattoo meant that back in Orzammar he had been one of the casteless, the lowest of the low. Even the casteless were considered better than those dwarves who chose to come to the surface, however. Despite the vital role to dwarven society the surface dwarves had as farmers and traders, they carried a stigma with them and could never return to Orzammar again.

As Rowan understood it, some dwarves who came to the surface were political refugees, but far more were desperate criminals. Only those few born on the surface, without the tattoo, were marginally more trustworthy. Some of the formerly casteless even went to the mages to try to have their tattoos removed, or so the rumor went. The fact that this dwarf didn’t bother made her wary. He could be a smuggler. . . . In fact, his covered wagon full of goods hidden away from sight and the

three human brutes lazily hanging off the sides as “guards” made that idea likely.

“How is it that a human woman like you hasn’t heard these things, already?” the dwarf asked in his deep, gravelly voice. “There been talk of nothing else. It’s difficult enough to get you cloudheads to shut up long enough to actually do business.”

“My friends and I have been traveling,” Rowan explained, pulling her shawl more tightly around her front. She didn’t like the way his beady eyes lingered on her breasts. She hated the tattered dress Loghain had bartered out of a group of traveling pilgrims a week earlier, but she had no choice but to wear it. A woman parading around the countryside in a full suit of armor was the sort of thing that drew notice. “We haven’t had a chance to stop in at any villages recently.”

“That so?” He smiled, showing teeth stained a brackish brown. “Which friends are these?”

“They are at a camp not far from here.”

“Why don’t we go and see them, then? Maybe I’ll even spare a few extra supplies if you and your friends are nice and accommodating.” His emphasis on the word and the slight darting of his tongue over his lips made it clear exactly what kind of accommodations he preferred.

She stared back at him, letting the revulsion show on her face. “I don’t think my friends are all that eager to share their fire tonight.”

“And what about you, hmm? Lots of room in the wagon.” One of the thugs hanging off the wagon perked up, apparently liking the turn the conversation was taking.

“Perhaps you missed the part where I am wearing a sword, one that I know how to use.” She placed her hand on the hilt of the blade hanging off her belt, not that the dwarf could have missed it earlier.

Her comment hung there in the air as the dwarf chewed on his lip thoughtfully, his beady eyes leaving her weapon only to

flick unconsciously toward her breasts. No doubt he was wondering just how well she could actually handle herself, and whether it was worth the trouble. His eventual, exasperated sigh said probably not. “Have it your way, then,” he grumbled. “Only being hospitable.”

“I’m sure.” She smiled. “Before I go, have you seen anyone else on the road in these parts? Or maybe heard of them from others?”

“On the road? Such as?”

“I don’t know. Soldiers, perhaps? We saw a pack of soldiers marching through the other day, and I’ve no wish to run into them again.”

He grunted in agreement. “Only soldiers coming through these parts are them Orlesians, and they’re all heading southward to chase after your rebel folk.” The notion seemed to amuse him greatly. “You cloudheads are a forgiving people, I’ll give you that. If any of the castes tried to rise up back home, the Assembly would crush them inside of a day.”

“It sounds like a very orderly place.”

He nodded, becoming melancholy as his eyes stared off into the distance. “Sometimes it is, yes.”

The merchant seemed less interested in talking after that and far more eager to return to his travels, so she was able to get little else out of him. In return, she told him which roads she thought were clear back in the direction they had come from, and warned him about the trail washed out by the previous night’s rains. With a curt nod he was off, one of the hired guards hanging off the cart looking longingly at her as he was carried away. She kept her hand on her sword hilt where he could see it, and he sheepishly averted his gaze.

Money well spent there, obviously.

She took a circuitous route back to the camp, just in case he

changed his mind, and found it where she had left it, just off the main road. Katriel was alone by the fire, warming her hands, while Maric slept nearby in a lean-to tent they had set up by a tree. The canvas had been given by the pilgrims, and it offered some protection. But mostly they were filthy and the worse for wear. They’d spent most of the last nine days avoiding patrols and putting as much distance between them and West Hill as they possibly could.

Rowan had lost count of the number of times they had needed to elude patrols that became too curious for their own good. It helped a little when Maric had woken on the third day and was able to ride, but even then his wounds left him tired and dizzy. Katriel voiced her opinion that Maric had suffered a concussion when he had been thrown from his horse back in the woods, and Rowan didn’t disagree. The best they could do was use the herbs the elf had brought with her and wait for Maric to heal. Healing supplies, at least, they had plenty of.

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