The Stolen Throne

“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.

“Maric?” the knight spoke, the voice strange coming from within the helmet.

Maric gasped in astonishment. Loghain, sword still raised, glanced back at him. “You know each other?”