The Stolen Throne

Loghain steered clear of Sister Ailis’s hut once he was finished with his bow, not wanting to tempt himself. The sister had her own way of questioning new arrivals to the camp, and he respected the fact that she was often able to elicit information when neither he nor his father could. Many saw the sister as being the camp’s leader almost as much as his father was, and certainly his father had relied on her advice for many years now. There had been a time when Loghain hoped the affection between the two of them might grow into something more, for both their sakes. Sister Ailis, however, had her calling, and his father had never been the same since they fled the farmhold. It had taken Loghain a long time to realize it, but a part of Gareth had been broken that night. Sister Ailis knew what his father needed better than Loghain ever would, and he had to be content with that.

Padric was on watch at the edge of the camp, perched on a rock that allowed him to keep an eye on the valley below without being easily spotted himself. The lad was a couple of years younger than Loghain, but a skilled shot with a bow and could usually be counted on to show some sense. On the other hand, Dannon was standing next to Padric now, which didn’t bode well. The pair abruptly stopped whispering as he drew close.

“Any sign of the men my father sent out?” Loghain asked Padric, making no comment about what he had interrupted.

“Not yet,” Padric offered shyly. He turned and scanned the hillside below. “There’s been no sign of anything.”

“There’s some talking about leaving,” Dannon announced. He crossed his arms and glowered at Loghain. “Tonight, maybe, if nothing’s said.”

“It’s stupid.” Padric kept his eyes on the valley. “Even if someone knows that blond fellow’s here, so what? They going to come all the way out here for one man?”

“I agree.” Loghain turned and stared at Dannon. “But if you want to join the cowards, Dannon, why don’t you go ahead and do that? Assuming you aren’t the only one.”

“You said yourself that boy’s dangerous.”

“I said we don’t know who he is. We will soon enough. And if my father thinks it’s worth us leaving, then he’ll say so.”

Dannon squirmed. “This was your doing,” he groused. “You’re the one that wanted to bring him, not me.” With that, he hurried off.

Padric looked relieved to see Dannon go. He smiled his thanks to Loghain and turned back to his watch duties. “He’s right, though. It’s odd.”

“What is?”

“Well—” He nodded out to the valley. “—the men who got sent out, some of them should have come back by now.”

“How overdue?”

“An hour. Maybe two. It hasn’t rained yet, so I don’t know. . . . I was thinking Henric would have come back, at least. He’s been worried about his girl, with the baby and all.”

Loghain’s stomach felt like it sank. “You let anyone know?”

“Just Gareth.”

He nodded and headed down the trail on his own. He wanted to take a look for himself, and it would do no good hanging around the camp while his father tried to keep a lid on the hysteria—justified or not. Loghain thought it was understood that the outlaws traveled together under a purely provisional basis. His father kept them organized and fed, and Sister Ailis kept them united—and it also didn’t hurt that few of them had anywhere else they could go—but they were on the run, each of them for their own particular reasons, and people that desperate didn’t hold any loyalties. His father believed differently, and maintained that it was in the worst of times that people needed to cleave together the strongest. Whenever Gareth would say that, Sister Ailis would smile at him and get all teary-eyed. For that single moment that faith of his father’s would seem like it could almost be true. But Loghain knew better. If things ever got bad enough, Dannon wouldn’t be the only rat to abandon the sinking ship.

Loghain was gone most of the afternoon, hoping to put his worst fears to rest. First he backtracked along the path the three of them had taken the previous night, confirming they indeed had not been followed. He returned to the Southron Hills and followed three of the trails he knew, hoping to run into one of the men his father had sent out, or anyone, really. But travelers this far south were few, and he saw only a flurry of horse tracks heading toward Lothering. By the time dusk fell and a storm began releasing torrents of ice-cold rain, Loghain was truly worried.

It wasn’t until he ventured down a hazardous path not far from the town that he finally spotted someone. The route was most often used by smugglers, allowing them to avoid the more patrolled roads in the north on their way toward the western mountains and the dwarves there who cared little for human laws. There were many such paths in the hinterlands, and few who used them had any legitimate reason to be there.