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.”
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.