The Stolen Throne

It was quiet except for the gentle burbling of the stream as it flowed past and the occasional nervous nickering of one of the horses. A breeze rustled the nearby trees gently, and Loghain breathed deeply, taking in the smell of pine and fresh water. He felt oddly at peace. The imminent battle seemed very far away indeed.

Some of the knights kept glancing his way, their uncertainty about him noticeable despite their efforts to keep it hidden. They had to wonder who he was, Loghain thought. There had been little time for introductions, barely any chance to explain what was in store. The Arl had called for volunteers from among his most experienced men, and here they were. Volunteers, they were told, because the chances that none of them might make it back were quite high.

Why did he think this was a good plan, exactly?

One of the knights leaned toward him, an older fellow with a bushy gray mustache showing inside his helmet. “This place we’re to ride to,” he asked quietly, “do you know of it, Ser Loghain?”

“No need for the title. It’s just Loghain.”

The knight seemed surprised. “But . . . His Grace said that your father—”

“I suppose he was. I, however, am not.” Loghain looked at the man curiously. “Does that bother you? Being led by a commoner?”

The knight glanced at several of his fellows who had been listening to their exchange. He looked back at Loghain, shaking his head firmly. “If this plan will truly see Prince Maric safe,” he stated, “then I would gladly follow my own enemy into battle. I will give my life, if need be.”

“As would I,” said another, much younger knight. Others nodded their assent.

Loghain looked around at them, marveling at their determination. Perhaps their chances were not so bad, after all. “I have been through this area once before,” he told them. “Down this stream to the south, across the ridge and a plain, there is a bluff—a cliff with a broad and sharp face. It has a single narrow path leading up its side.”

“I know of it,” one of the men called out.

“When we get there, we ride up that path as fast as possible. There is a flat area up there that is defensible. If we can defend the path, we can hold it.”

“But,” the same man said uncertainly, “the rocks behind it are too steep. There’s no way out of there.”

Loghain nodded. “No, there isn’t.”

He let that sink in. Loghain was guessing the enemy would want what they thought was the Prince badly enough that they wouldn’t just give up and ride back to attack the rest of the rebel force. So he and the Arl’s volunteers had to make this look good. Gradually, the murmuring among the men quieted and they returned to waiting for the enemy to show their faces. There was nothing else they could do, after all.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long.

When the first soldier poked his face out of the trees, Loghain unleashed an arrow. He hit the man in the shoulder when he could just as easily have taken him in the throat, since he wanted the man to run and panic—and he did.

More soldiers followed within moments. Many of the knights around Loghain were armed as he was, and the twang of bowstrings was followed by men shouting in pain and falling. The horses stomped nervously in the water, backing away from the bank.

Now the counterattack began as the enemy realized what was awaiting them. Rather than charging blindly out of the trees onto the bank, they began assembling just inside cover. The din of many feet and shouts resounded through the forest like an approaching storm. As arrows drilled through the air toward them, the knights raised their shields against the angry torrent.

“Your Highness,” one of the knights bellowed loudly toward Loghain, “we need to get you to safety!”

“Protect the Prince!” another shouted.

“South!” Loghain raised his sword up high. “Follow me!” With that he turned and sped his horse to the south, splashing water loudly as the other knights followed suit. Even above it all, however, Loghain heard cries from the enemy of “It’s the Prince!” and louder cries of “After them!”

More arrows streaked by, a hornet’s swarm of angry projectiles that began to come faster and faster as Loghain and the knights raced down the stream. The purple cloak billowed in his wake. One of the men directly behind him shouted out in pain and fell from his horse, splashing awkwardly into the stream. Racing for their lives, the other knights could do nothing but leap over him or go around.

The water was just high enough to slow them. They didn’t want to go too fast—they wanted the enemy to see them and pursue, after all—but the arrows were coming in too great a volume. The sound of the mass of men behind them was growing too quickly. What if the scouts’ estimates had been wrong? “Faster!” Loghain cried.