The Stolen Throne

Three more men came out of the smoke toward him, this time running and shouting. Maric spun his mount around to face them, and saw that they belonged to the militia. They were armored in dark leather and carried small wooden shields and cheap swords. That they charged at a mounted man in full armor probably meant they recognized the cloak and thought they might drag him from his horse and overwhelm him.

Come to think of it, they just might, he thought.

He dismounted smoothly and drew his sword, getting the weapon up just in time to knock aside the first man’s thrust but not in time to prevent the man from slamming into him. Thrown back into a brick wall, Maric had the air knocked from him even though his dwarven armor took most of the impact. Maric’s horse backed off but did not run, neighing anxiously.

“Get on him! Get on him!” the man shouted excitedly, spittle flying from his mouth. A fat and balding fellow whose leathers barely covered his belly slammed his sword down on Maric’s shoulder, though it merely bounced off.

Maric gritted his teeth and kicked out at the first man, sending him stumbling away, and then turned and punched the fat man in the face before he could bring his sword down again. Maric’s gauntlet took him right in the nose, and he screamed as blood sprayed out. The third man rushed him, blade ready, but Maric parried and spun around, then ran him through.

The fat man reeled and ran away, covering his face while he squealed in agony. The first man scrambled to his feet and lifted his blade as Maric turned to face him. For a moment the two of them stared at each other, their swords at the ready. Maric was calm, but the man licked his lips nervously and clearly wanted to run. More smoke poured into the street as a nearby roof collapsed and flames licked the sky.

“Still willing to try?” Maric asked.

Behind the man, four new militia soldiers ran into view. Some were bloodied, and all of them halted as they spotted the confrontation occurring before them. Seeing his comrades, the man in front of Maric suddenly grinned at him.

“I think I just might,” he snickered.

Then Maric heard a new sound: hooves pounding on the cobblestone. The four soldiers realized they were being chased and began shouting in fear and running forward again, only not quickly enough. Several horses with armored riders overran them, blades slashing down and dispatching them instantly. One of the riders was Rowan, her green plume fluttering behind her.

She rushed ahead of the others, her sword held high. The soldier in front of Maric stared at her dumbly, mouth hanging open, and only belatedly did he think to try to run. It was too late. Rowan ran him down, slicing him deftly across the throat.

Maric grimly watched the man stumble and then slow, his dark blood gushing over the cobblestones. It was unnecessary, he thought to himself. These soldiers were his people, too, were they not? But there was nothing he could do about it. Not yet.

The horses clattered to a stop as Rowan pulled up beside Maric. She removed her helmet, her face covered in soot and sweat. “Fall off your horse again?” she asked with just a hint of a mocking grin.

“It’s what I do,” he agreed with a belabored sigh. He hadn’t actually fallen off his horse for several years, now—except for that one time the previous winter when he’d ended up buried in a snowbank. It had saved his life, hiding him from the enemy until Loghain reached him and pulled him out. Loghain had called him absurdly lucky, and Maric had agreed through chattering teeth. Loghain and Rowan both continued to tease him about it mercilessly.

Maric turned and walked back to where his horse had retreated, taking its reins and calming it before finally leaping back into the saddle. Rowan watched him appreciatively before she glanced back at the horsemen waiting behind her. With a gesture, they rode off to continue their sweep.

“We’ve still got part of the town to search,” she said. “It will probably take the rest of the night to find them. I was hoping they would start coming out and surrendering—” She nodded to the various fires around them. “—but it looks like they would rather burn half of Gwaren down around our ears first.”

“So it seems.” Maric wiped the sweat off his brow. He wiped his bloody sword clean using a hay bundle that stood nearby. “Last I saw, the fighting was going well up at the manor. Loghain broke through the wall, I think.”

Rowan looked annoyed, as she tended to whenever he mentioned Loghain. She had denied doing so when challenged, so now he just ignored it. “So Gwaren is ours, then?” she asked crisply.

“Soon enough it will be.”