The Stolen Throne

Rowan waved to her men to continue on without her, and they rode off, leaving Maric and Rowan to survey the town together. The area they were in had quieted considerably. Several blazes were going, but most of those who had decided to flee were long gone, and most of the enemy in this area had already been found. Maric felt helpless, watching the buildings burn, knowing that the fire would spread unchecked for some time yet. He could see the faces cowering behind the windows, watching Rowan and him as they rode past, but he could hardly expect them to come out now. Later, perhaps, but for now, he was the invader, the one responsible for the bloodshed and fires. Perhaps some even believed him to be the villain that King Meghren claimed. Most were no doubt justifiably terrified.

The streets were strewn with litter, as well as the occasional corpse. Many doors were hanging open or outright demolished, and surprisingly there seemed to be chickens everywhere. Where had they come from? Had someone let them loose? The birds were furious, strutting about the streets as if they were the true owners of Gwaren now.

Thunder rumbled in the sky and Rowan studied the swatch of gray clouds. “We can hope for rain,” she said. “That should help with the fires.”

There was another sound, however, that drew Maric’s attention. From somewhere nearby, he could hear the muffled sounds of a woman shouting for help. “Do you hear that?” he asked Rowan, but she looked at him quizzically. Without waiting for her, he spun his horse about and charged toward the shouting.

Maric heard Rowan’s shout of alarm behind him, but he didn’t care. Urging his steed forward, he raced down a street cluttered with empty crates. When he turned the corner at what appeared to be an alehouse, he saw the source of the shouts. A beautiful elven woman with long honey-colored curls and dressed in simple white traveling clothes was struggling wildly as three men held her down. Her shirt was half ripped from her body, and only her wild twisting kept the men from completing their task.

“For the love of the Maker, help me! I beg you!” she screamed, spotting Maric.

One of the burly men slapped a meaty hand over her mouth as the other two turned to face Maric. These weren’t his men, and he couldn’t imagine them being ordinary townsfolk. Convicts, perhaps? They were certainly filthy enough and had a dangerous look that left no question as to what they intended.

One of them drew a knife. Maric didn’t hesitate—he kicked his warhorse so it charged the men. The knife-wielding man lunged toward Maric. His mistake. Maric turned the warhorse and it kicked the man right in the head and sent him flying, dead before he hit the ground.

“You will leave her be!” Maric roared. He dismounted, drawing his blade to confront the remaining pair as his steed ran off. “In the name of the crown, I command it!”

The burly man tightened his grip on the elf as she struggled, screaming into his hand. The other man bared his teeth and ran at Maric, shouting in rage. Maric did not step out of the way, instead stepping forward and letting the man run into the pommel of his sword. He gasped and fell back, and Maric swung the blade around to bash the man in the head with the pommel again. He collapsed like a sack.

Rowan rode in, leaping off her mount and drawing her sword. The burly man looked at Maric, and then at her, and deciding that discretion was the better option, he abandoned the elf and ran for it. Rowan gave chase, her silent glare toward Maric saying everything of what she thought of the situation.

Maric went immediately to the elven woman’s aid. She lay in the street, trying to hold the tatters of her shirt together and crying pitifully. Her clothing was filthy and bloodstained, but Maric didn’t think the blood was hers. Other than some ugly-looking bruises on her arms and legs, she seemed unhurt.

“Are you all right, err . . . my lady?” Maric realized belatedly that he wasn’t sure what one called an elven woman. They had elves in the rebel army, of course, but one spoke to them as soldiers. He’d never had servants, though he’d seen them in some of the castles Mother had brought him to. Still, even then he’d never spoken to them.

The elf looked up at him, tears streaming down from eyes so incredibly green, he couldn’t look away. “My name is Katriel,” she said quietly. “You are too kind, Your Highness. Thank you.” With his help, she retrieved a cloth package from where it had fallen nearby. As she stood up, she attempted to keep her tattered shirt together. It was hardly possible. Maric removed his purple cloak and put it around her shoulders.

She stared at him with horror and tried to get away from his cloak. “Oh, no! No, my lord, I couldn’t!”

“Of course you can. It’s just a cloak.”