Maric was incredibly excited by the entire idea, and immediately ran about the rebel camp announcing that the duel was about to occur. Within an hour, Loghain and Rowan had an audience of hundreds of cheering men.
Leery of the size of their audience, Loghain turned to Rowan. “Do you truly wish to pursue this?” he asked her, his expression solemn.
“I believe it was you who challenged me.”
“Then I withdraw the challenge,” he said instantly. “And I apologize for losing my temper. It will not happen again.”
Amid the boos and sounds of disappointment made by the soldiers nearby who had heard him, Rowan appeared nettled instead. “I do not accept your withdrawal,” she replied, “provided you fight me to the best of your ability. You want to see which of us knows how to use our sword better? So do I.”
Loghain stared at her appraisingly, wondering if she was, in fact, serious. She said nothing, instead drawing her blade and returning his stare defiantly. After a long minute he finally nodded his assent, cheers going up from the crowd.
Loghain was the stronger of the two, but Rowan was the quicker—and perhaps the more determined. Their initial feints drew loud cheers from the audience, and then they settled into a series of back-and-forth blows to test the other’s defenses. Rowan soon realized that Loghain was holding back, however, and angrily dived in with a blindingly fast slash, cutting him across the leg. He waved off aid, staring sternly at Rowan for a moment before nodding. If this was how she wanted it, this was how it would be.
The following battle lasted almost an hour and was the talk of the camp for months afterwards. Loghain and Rowan fought savagely, each giving as good as they got, and both of them were bloodied before long. A slash across Rowan’s forehead sent blood dripping into her eyes and gave Loghain the opportunity to go for the final blow—which he took. Only at the last second did she roll out of the way, then tipped her sword toward him respectfully. With both exhausted and sweating, a worried Maric tried to end the duel by calling a draw. Not looking away from Loghain, Rowan waved him off.
Minutes later it was over when Loghain came in low and unexpectedly thrust upward with his blade, disarming Rowan. The audience murmured excitedly as her blade skittered far out of her reach. Instead of giving up or going for her weapon, Rowan dropped down and kicked out with her leg, tripping Loghain, and leaped to grab his sword. The two of them fought for control of the blade, rolling around on the ground, their sweat and blood intermingling. Finally Loghain kicked Rowan off, the audience cheering as he rolled after her and sprang to his feet, sword pointed at Rowan’s throat.
She glanced at the sword, her breathing ragged and blood still running down into her eyes. Loghain was similarly panting, pale and favoring his wounded leg. He held out a hand to Rowan and reluctantly she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. The audience went wild, cheering with approval.
They got even louder when Rowan shook Loghain’s hand, congratulating him. She then wavered weakly and stumbled, and Maric scrambled to catch her. She chuckled as he called for Wilhelm, telling him that perhaps Loghain was a good enough tutor for him after all.
Later, as Maric stood outside the tent where Wilhelm was busy healing Rowan, Loghain limped up, freshly bandaged, and stiffly apologized. He had let his pride get the better of him, he said, and very nearly hurt the future queen. Maric listened, wide-eyed, and then laughed heartily. From where he stood, he said, it seemed like the opposite had very nearly been true. Loghain merely nodded gravely, and that was where the matter was left.
As spring melted the snowdrifts left by a hard winter, Maric remarked to himself that it had been almost three years since his mother was murdered and he returned to the rebel army for that fateful battle. As slow as their progress had been since then, the rebel army managed to survive and continued to frustrate the usurper’s efforts to corner and eliminate them. If anything, their numbers had increased. Meghren was a merciless ruler, and the more he taxed and the more he punished, the more the ranks of the rebel army swelled. They had reached a size where they couldn’t even afford to be in the same region all at the same time. Even with the support of many farmholders, it was becoming difficult for the army to feed itself. So, too, had the risk of taking in informants become too high. The speed with which the usurper’s forces found out where the rebels were camped increased with each passing month.
The time had come to act.
The town of Gwaren was a remote place on the southeast corner of Ferelden past the great tracts of the Brecilian Forest. A rough town full of loggers and fishermen, it was accessible to the rest of the country only by boat or along the narrow trail leading through the miles of forestland to the west. It was a defensible place, but Arl Rendorn had ascertained that the majority of its forces were off in the north—levies supplied by the ruling Teyrn of Gwaren to the usurper to help hunt the rebels. This meant the town was ripe for the taking.
Weeks earlier, the Arl of Amaranthine and his men had split off from the main force. He had gone westward to engage in raiding and draw the attention of the King’s forces in the region toward him. Maric assumed he had been successful, as they encountered no pursuit when moving through the forest toward Gwaren. By the time they reached the town, it was apparent the defenders had become aware of their approach, but had little time to do more than rouse their militia. A number of the locals had fled on fishing boats, but most were trapped.
The assault began immediately. The town was spread along the rocky shore, a veritable maze of cobbled streets and plaster-covered brick. It had no wall, but it did have a stone manor atop the hill that overlooked the town, and that was where the majority of the Teyrn’s men had withdrawn.
Maric and Rowan charged down from the forest and into the town itself, meeting the line of poorly trained militia that tried to keep them out. Very quickly things had fallen to chaos. The militia fell back almost immediately, withdrawing into the alleyways and the buildings and forcing the rebels to search for them, building to building.
Despite Maric’s insistence on not causing more destruction and hardship for the townsfolk, several fires began to spread. He could see the smoke rising, and the panic of the populace made the search difficult. People were running in the streets, fleeing from the rebels and militia both. They carried the few valuables they could manage and ran for the forest, hoping that the rebel army would ignore them. The streets were a mass of people, all smoke and screams everywhere, and after turning a corner, Maric realized he was separated from his own men.
His warhorse stamped in agitation, and he fought to bring it under control as a group of people came through the smoke toward him. They halted, terrified. Dressed in simple clothes, many were carrying belongings wrapped in cloth, and several had children hiding behind them. Not more militiamen. He moved his horse aside and waved them by. Tentatively, they went. One of the children burst into frightened tears.
More smoke billowed through the streets, and he heard the sound of fighting ahead. The port was not far away, and he was certain that some of his soldiers would be there, but as he turned his horse about, he found he had no idea which direction that might be. Just follow the smell of salt and fish, he told himself. But all he could smell was smoke and blood.