He backed into the oak tree, leaning against it for support as he fished his sword out of its scabbard. It almost dropped from his numb fingers. Wonderful, he thought. Is this how I die, then? Cut down while floundering about like a dazed calf?
The advancing soldiers looked confident. Their quarry was dangerous; a wolf who could snap back if treated without caution, but caught without a doubt. Maric’s horse whinnied piteously nearby and tried to stand itself back up, only to collapse again in a pathetic heap.
“What do you think you’re going to do with that?” one of the soldiers shouted mockingly. He was handsome, with a dark mustache and beard and a thick Orlesian accent. Their commander, Maric suspected. “Come now, put down your sword, you foolish boy. It looks like you can barely hold it!”
The others with him chuckled and came closer. Maric tightened his grip on the blade and forced himself to stand straight, ignoring the pain in his leg. His lips curled into a snarl as he pointed the sword at each of the men in turn. “You think so?” he said in a low and deadly tone. “Which of you wants to be the first one to see how wrong you are?”
It wasn’t a very good bluff. The dark-haired commander chuckled. “It would be better for you if we made this quick. Even now King Meghren crushes your pathetic army. We have been waiting for you all this time.”
Maric almost stumbled. “You . . . you’re lying.” It couldn’t be true. But it explained a great deal. It explained how they had known about him, for one. Could the whole thing have been a trap? But how?
The commander smiled even more broadly. “Enough.” He waved his hand impatiently, turning to the other soldiers around him. “Finish this,” he ordered.
The soldiers hovered, none of them wanting to be the first one to meet Maric’s blade.
“I said do it!” the commander shouted.
Maric braced himself as two soldiers rushed him together. They slashed down hard with their swords, but their strikes were clumsy. Maric ducked aside the first and raised his own sword to deflect the second. His body cried out with pain, but he ignored it and heaved against the second soldier’s blade. He stumbled back, and as the first soldier recovered his footing, Maric slashed at him quickly. The attack was lucky and cut across the man’s face, causing him to reel away, covering his face with his gauntlets.
The others backed off a step, their eyes flickering nervously to their wounded comrade, who fell to the ground nearby, screaming in agony. Their expressions held doubt; perhaps their prey wasn’t so helpless as he had seemed?
“I said finish it!” The commander behind them snapped. “Together!”
They raised their blades, setting their jaws and ignoring the screaming. They were preparing to do as their commander bade, and Maric saw that this time they would act together.
Rage welled up inside him. The thought of his head decorating some pole outside of the royal palace in Denerim, right next to his mother’s, passed through his mind. The thought of Meghren smugly laughing to see him up there. This was how it ended? After everything he had accomplished? His friends dead, the rebellion defeated? It was all for nothing?
Maric raised his blade high over his head and let out a cry of fury. It rang through the trees and startled a flock of birds into sudden flight. Let them come. Let them try. He would take as many of them with him as he could; they would respect the Theirin name.
The soldiers appeared unnerved. They readied their blades . . . and paused.
A new sound grew behind them, the sound of hoofbeats approaching. Maric glanced up, sweat dripping into his eyes, and saw two horses racing through the shadowy trees. More of their fellows, perhaps? Did they really need more? It seemed like they had plenty.
The handsome commander turned irritably toward the noise, raising a hand as if to wave the new arrivals away—and then an arrow sped out of the shadows and struck him dead in the chest. He stared down at the protruding shaft in confusion, as if its presence were unthinkable.
The horses slid to a halt in the mud and leaves while their riders leaped from their saddles. Maric strained to see through the shadows. One was in heavy armor, a female figure that began dashing toward the soldiers. The second was in leathers, carrying a longbow, and let another arrow fly as soon as he hit the ground. It streaked through the air and struck the Orlesian commander in the eye. The commander was knocked backwards by the force of the strike, dead even as he hit the ground.
Relief washed through Maric. There was no question who they were.
“Maric! Are you all right?” Loghain shouted, loosing another arrow that just barely missed one of the other soldiers. Rowan burst toward them, swinging her sword in a wide arc that one soldier just barely parried, the force of her blow knocking him off balance. The enemy broke apart in confusion.
“Do I look all right?” Maric shouted back. “What are you doing here? Where’s the army!” The enemy split up their efforts, and the chaos was more than Maric could follow. He found himself fighting two soldiers at once, their initial rush almost overwhelming him immediately. They were trying hard to strike him down as quickly as they could, their blows clanging against Maric’s blade and numbing his arm.
“We’re saving you, you dolt!” came Rowan’s shout from nearby. Maric was peripherally aware of her fighting several men at once but he couldn’t actually see what she was doing. Winning, from the sounds of it, though he wondered how long she would be able to keep that up. Longer than he could, he feared.
A blade stabbing into his collarbone snapped him back to reality. Maric cried out in pain and knocked the sword aside, but both the men on him pressed their advantage.
“Maric!” came Loghain’s concerned shout. Another arrow flew through the air, and one of Maric’s attackers screamed in pain, clutching at something impaled in his back. He fell to the ground, squirming. The other attacker stared in shock at his comrade, and Maric used the opening to run him through. It took all Maric’s strength and several heaves as bright blood gushed in waves from the soldier’s mouth.
He fell backwards to the ground, taking Maric’s sword with him. Maric stumbled, almost falling on top of him, but managing to land on one knee. His wounded leg threatened to buckle completely.
Maric looked up, his hands shaking with exhaustion, and saw Rowan and Loghain battling furiously against four soldiers nearby. Loghain had dropped his bow and come to Rowan’s aid, but these last few opponents were fighting for their lives. Blade clashed loudly against blade. Maric wanted desperately to help them, but it was all he could do to stop himself from passing out.
Maric looked up as he heard more men approaching. His hopes fell as he saw several soldiers in the usurper’s colors coming into the forest, pointing and shouting angrily, drawing their swords as they realized what was happening.
“Maric!” Rowan shouted, fear creeping into her voice. “Run while you can! We can’t hold them back!”
Gathering his strength, he limped over toward the soldier he had run through and yanked his sword out with great effort. He could barely hold the blade up, however, and almost fell backwards as it finally came free from the corpse. He had almost no strength left. But he was not going to run away and leave his friends behind. Not while he had a breath left in him.
Rowan finally bypassed the defenses of one of her opponents, slicing open his neck with a swing of her sword. Blood sprayed out as he stumbled to the side, gagging, and she turned to another. Loghain was gritting his teeth and holding his own, but it was inevitable that the three soldiers running their way would quickly overwhelm them both.