The Stolen Throne

“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?”

“First, let’s see if you are who you claim.” Wilhelm made subtle gestures with his hands, his intense gaze seeming to burrow into Maric’s skull. Glowing embers swirled around him, brightening until the magic was evident to the entire crowd. The cheering skidded to a halt, and most of the men immediately near the spell backed up so quickly, many of them actually fell.

“Wilhelm!” From her horse, Rowan grabbed his wrist. “This is not necessary!”

“It is!” he snapped, wrenching his hand free. He finished casting, the words uttered just barely audibly under his breath, and Maric felt the magic wash over him. It was a tickle of pinpricks dancing upon his skin and behind his eyes. Loghain watched nervously from nearby but only worked to keep his horse calm.

Wilhelm then stood back, apparently satisfied by whatever his magic had discovered. “My apologies, Your Highness. I had to be sure.”

“I think I would know Maric if I saw him, don’t you?” Rowan said crisply.

“No, I’m not sure that you would.” Wilhelm turned to face the quiet masses of soldiers that were now staring at him. “Men!” he called out. “You must prepare for battle! Your prince has returned to you! Now ready to defend him!” As if to punctuate his shouts, the stone golem fell into place directly behind him, scanning the crowd with its fearsome, baleful eyes.

The soldiers immediately burst into life, several commanders among them bellowing orders. Maric stared at the mage with growing alarm. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Come, I’ll let the Arl explain.” The mage turned and briskly walked deeper into the camp, the golem lumbering after him.

Maric and Rowan exchanged a look and dismounted. A man ran up and took their horses. Loghain remained mounted, however, and looked down at Maric awkwardly. “Perhaps this is a good time for me to leave,” he said.

“And go where, exactly?” Maric frowned up at Loghain, but Rowan took him by the arm and led him after the mage before he could receive an answer. He allowed himself to be taken away, but looked back as they walked. Loghain seemed vastly out of place sitting there as the man waited expectantly to take his horse. Maric almost felt sorry for him. Eventually Loghain sighed and dismounted, surrendering his horse before running to catch up.

The activity among the soldiers grew more intense as they went farther into the valley. Something was definitely amiss. Soldiers were falling into formation, tents were being torn down rapidly, everyone seemed to be running and shouting all at once. . . . It seemed to Maric to be controlled chaos, something he was not unused to. There was an edge of panic to it all that he didn’t like, however. He had seen his mother’s army scramble many times to flee before an attack by the usurper’s forces—this had that feeling to it.

At the center of all the activity he saw Arl Rendorn, Rowan’s father. He was hard to miss in his silverite plate mail, a gift from Maric’s mother to her most trusted friend and general many years before. Silver-haired and distinguished, the Arl was the very picture of nobility, and Maric found himself feeling more than a little relieved to see him. The man was giving orders to the soldiers around him with quick, efficient precision. The orders never needed repeating, and were obeyed without question.

Wilhelm waved to the Arl, though it was hardly necessary, as the stone giant behind him drew notice from almost everyone. The Arl turned, and upon seeing Maric he strode forward through several ranks of men to greet him with a wide and happy grin.

“Maric!” he shouted, clapping Maric on the shoulder. “It is you!”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.” Maric grinned.

“Maker be praised!” His eyes grew sad for a moment. “Your mother would be proud to see that you survived. Well done, lad.”

“I told you I would find him, Father,” Rowan said.

The Arl regarded his daughter with a look that was both impressed and eternally frustrated. “So you did, so you did. I should never have doubted you, pup.” He turned then and barked several sharp orders to his immediate lieutenants, who were staring at Maric dumbly. Now, they snapped to attention and took over whatever preparations had been under way.