by David Gaider
She bit into her apple with a loud crunch and chewed it thoughtfully as she sat back in her rocking chair. “Why does anyone desire an audience with their sovereign?”
“You . . . want something from me?” He shrugged helplessly. “You probably would have been better off with my mother, if that’s the case. I don’t have much of anything.”
“Fortunes change.” The witch’s gaze shifted to far off in the distance. “One minute you’re in love, so much in love that you can’t imagine anything wrong ever happening. And the next you’re betrayed. Your love has been ripped from you like your own leg, and you swear you’d do anything—anything—to make those responsible pay.” Her eyes focused on Maric, and her voice became soft, caressing. “Sometimes vengeance changes the world. What will yours do, young man?”
He said nothing, staring at her uncertainly.
Loghain stepped forward angrily. “Leave him alone.”
The witch turned to regard him, her eyes delighted. “And what of yours? You’ve rage enough inside you, tempered into a blade of fine steel. Into whose heart will you plunge that one day, I wonder?”
“Maric and I are not friends,” he growled, “but I don’t want him dead.”
Her chuckle was mirthless. “Oh, you know what I speak of.”
Loghain paled, but regained his composure almost immediately. “That . . . doesn’t matter any longer,” he stated evenly.
“Doesn’t it? Have you forgiven them already, then? You no longer remember her cries as they held her down? The laughter of the soldiers as they held you back and made you watch? Your father when he—”
“Stop!” Loghain shouted, his voice filled with as much terror as fury. Maric watched in shock as Loghain launched toward the witch as if to strangle her. He lurched to a halt before he reached her, hands clenched tightly into fists as he struggled against his impulse. The trees around the hut seemed to creak in anticipation, like coiled springs. The witch merely rocked and watched him quietly, unconcerned. “You see too much, old woman,” he muttered.
“In fact,” her tone was dry, “I see just barely enough.”
“Please.” Maric stepped forward. “Tell me what you want.”
She studied him for a moment, and after taking a final bite from her apple and chewing on it in the quiet, she tossed it over her shoulder. It fell with a dull thud in the rotted leaves and moss. An instant later, something long and white slithered out from the shadows and snatched up the core. It was buried under the leaves, almost out of sight, but still Maric got the impression that it wasn’t a snake at all.
“You should thank me, young man,” the witch purred. “Fleeing into the Wilds as you did, what do you suppose would have happened to you? Taken by Chasind wild folk, slain by the Dalish, eaten by any one of the many creatures that lurk within its crevasses. Do you truly think this one outlaw alone could have seen you through it all?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
She arched a brow at Loghain. “He has quite the estimation of your capabilities, doesn’t he?” When he said nothing, she turned to gaze intensely at Maric. “Keep him close, and he will betray you. Each time worse than the last.”
Maric was unmoved. “So you brought me here to speak riddles at me, then?”
“No, no.” She waved a hand absently. “I brought you here to save you.”
Maric stared at her in disbelief. He wasn’t quite sure she could have said anything else that would have been less surprising. Well, perhaps a confession that she was actually made of cheese. But this ranked a close second.
“I’ve snatched you up from the brink of the proverbial pit,” she continued, “and I’m going to send you back out into the world. Safe and sound.” The witch reclined in her chair then, looking very much pleased with herself.
“And what do you want in exchange for this . . . help?” Loghain demanded.
“A promise.” She smiled. “Made by the King to me in private, and then never spoken of again to anyone.”
Maric blinked in surprise, but Loghain stepped in front of him. “And if he refuses?” he demanded.
She gestured toward the forest outside. “Then you are free to go.”
Loghain turned to Maric, and his opinion was evident in his expression. Mages were not to be trusted, and this old woman less than most. Perhaps Loghain thought the witch might let them leave even if Maric refused and they could take their chances. Perhaps they could even get their weapons back from the Dalish. The one who had brought them hadn’t seemed completely unreasonable, after all. . . . If they could make some kind of trade, they might even get a blanket or cloaks or . . . who knows what else.
The wind whistled in the trees far overhead. Maric wondered for a moment if they danced, for it almost seemed as if they did. Restless trees dancing to the music of the wind as they stood there in the shadows and silence. He looked at Loghain searchingly, asking for help, but there was no response. They were cold, battered, and exhausted, and in the middle of the Wilds. What choice did they have?
“I accept,” Maric said.
4
They spent the night outside the witch’s hut, next to a fire that had roared into life with a single tap of her foot. It stayed lit all night, even though Loghain couldn’t tell what was being burned inside it. Magic, he assumed, and decided it was best not to think about it too closely. There were a great many things about the hut and the objects around it that he didn’t want to think about too closely—the feeling that the marionette corpses hanging in the trees were watching them, for one. The way the trees seemed to change configuration around them, for another. Indeed, in the morning, the path they’d arrived on led away in a completely different direction.
Loghain also didn’t want to think about what sort of promise the witch had elicited from Maric. He had gone into her hut and had remained there for hours, long enough that Loghain grew concerned. He had been trying to peer in through its one filthy, grit-covered window when Maric walked out the door, alone. The man seemed shaken and quiet and was resistant to even the most casual efforts Loghain made to inquire about what had gone on. So it was to remain a secret, after all.
The witch did not reappear, so the two of them slept on the leaves by the fire. Or, rather, Maric slept. Loghain lay awake, watching the shadows and staring at the darkness where he knew Dannon’s body swung. He wondered when Dannon had fled the outlaw camp: before the attack or during? Eventually he approached the tree and looked up at Dannon’s sagging, swollen face. With effort, he pulled the body down, freeing it from the branches that clutched it. He struggled at first, but suddenly the body came all at once, as if released. The moist thud as it hit the ground was followed by a sickening belch of foulness. Working with his hands, Loghain collected masses of leaves and moss and small stones and buried Dannon’s body with them. It wasn’t a proper grave. He had no idea why he did it, but he felt it was right.
Sleep took him later by the fire, a fitful slumber filled with frightening wisps of images but no dreams. When he thought he heard footsteps, he woke and saw it was morning. Thin streams of sunlight came through the trees above, and the fire pit was black once again. Both of them were healed of all wounds, and piled neatly next to them were provisions: a pair of cloaks, their weapons, a bag filled with what looked like small loaves of bread and berries and strips of dry jerky, and one shiny red apple.
The hut was empty of everything but dust and rot, as if nobody had lived there for years. They searched about, but there was no sign of the witch. There was also, he noticed, no sign of Dannon’s body or his makeshift grave. It seemed they were free to go.
It took them four days’ travel to leave the Wilds. Supposedly, the witch had told Maric they would see the way out once they left her hut, and sure enough, not an hour away a bluebird appeared in the trees before them. It was so out of place, and sang so sweetly, that both Loghain and Maric took instant notice. As they approached, it flitted to the next tree and to the next until Loghain realized it was leading
them. So they followed. When it reappeared the next morning, there could be no doubt.
The weather cooperated for the most part, raining only the first night, then remaining chilly and dry the nights after. Having the thick cloaks made all the difference in the world, and it wasn’t long before Maric was restored to his usual chatty self. Loghain threatened to take away Maric’s cloak so the man would freeze again and perhaps be quiet for a while, but the annoying truth was that Loghain found himself not minding it quite so much anymore. Pretending not to care, he listened quietly while Maric talked about almost everything.
The only thing Maric didn’t talk about was the witch.
Loghain was fairly certain they were passing through areas controlled by the Dalish. Several times he could have sworn that he felt eyes on him, but saw nothing in the trees. Elves were good at keeping themselves hidden when they wanted to, or these elves were. All the elves Loghain had ever known were like Potter, and had lived among humans so long that the ways of the Dalish were just as foreign to them as to everyone else.
There were no more unexpected encounters, though on the third night they found the remains of an overgrown ruin. It was a sight to behold, tall stone pillars jutting into the sky like rib bones, presumably having once held up a great ceiling. Part of the foundation remained, along with a set of long stairs, all of it cracked and almost reduced to rubble by the encroaching greenery. Maric seemed awed by the structure and poked around it at length. He found the remains of an altar that held a great carving of what might once have been a dragon’s head. It was faded now, though Maric seemed to see where the eyes and teeth might have been and traced them out. Excitedly, he told Loghain that this was probably a temple of the ancient Imperium, from back in the times when they had encroached this far south and warred with the barbarian tribes. To him, the fact that the temple had lasted as long as it had was impressive. All Loghain knew of the Imperium was that it had once been ruled by mages, and he refused to have anything more to do with magic. The idea of taking refuge in the bones of a pagan temple made him agitated, and while Maric teased him for being superstitious, he didn’t object when Loghain insisted they leave.
It wasn’t long after leaving the ruins that they encountered wolves again. For the first time, Loghain was truly beginning to believe that the old witch had called on greater magic to aid them than just summoning a bluebird guide. Loghain stood with his bow at the ready, eyeing the wolves warily, while Maric remained breathless beside him. The entire pack, however, maintained its distance and watched, but did not threaten. Loghain and Maric moved cautiously through the trees, with perhaps twenty large wolves sitting and staring at them silently with their feral yellow eyes. Still, nothing happened. As soon as they were out of sight, Loghain let out a long breath. He swore that he never wanted to encounter magic again as long as he lived, and Maric murmured agreement.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, the forest had thinned enough that Loghain declared them out of the Wilds. He couldn’t be sure, but he believed the bluebird had led them west, just as he had originally planned, before veering north. This placed them a long way from Lothering, in the hills of the western Hinterlands. Sure enough, the terrain became rockier as they traveled, and off in the distance the magnificent vista of the Frostback Mountains could be seen. Loghain was pleased to see the return of the horizon. Too long spent in that wilderness with its cold and mist could drive a man mad.
When the sun went down that day, the bluebird vanished.
“Do you think it’s going to come back?” Maric asked.
“How should I know?”
“Because you’re the expert on all things magical and arcane?”
Loghain snorted. “It brought us out of the Wilds. Its job is done.” He looked at Maric impatiently. “Just how hard will it be to find this army of yours? It can’t be that well-hidden, can it?”
“We’ve managed to keep ahead of the usurper all these years, so I don’t know.” Maric hopped onto a nearby boulder and looked out over the hills. Dusk was providing a spectacular show of orange and crimson in the sky, but darkness was coming fast. “I think they actually may be nearby. If you had asked me earlier where we had been camping, I would have said west of Lothering. So . . . here?”
“Wonderful.”
Loghain selected a small clearing to make their camp and sent Maric to collect wood. Now that they were away from the eternal mist, it was far easier to build a decent blaze, but he knew being out of the dense woods also meant that the fire could be seen, especially in the hills. Maric’s hunters could still be searching for him, even out here. For all Loghain knew, what he’d said to Maric about mages looking for him could be true. They might be watching for people coming out of the forest, and what then?
Loghain already had the beginnings of a fire going. They would take the risk until it was proved otherwise, he thought. If he tried to account for magic, he would end up chasing his tail.
“I saw some more wolves,” Maric announced when he returned with wood.
“And? Were they hostile?”
“Well, they didn’t attack, if that’s what you mean. But they were planning to.”
“They told you that?”
“Yes, in fact. They sent a rabbit with a note to inform me of their intentions.” He dumped the wood unceremoniously next to the fire. “Rather gentlemanly of them, I thought.” Loghain ignored him, and he sat down on the grass, watching the darkening sky overhead. “I wonder if they were werewolves? Is there a way to tell?”
Here we go again, Loghain thought to himself. He didn’t look up from his task of slowly adding wood to the fire. “Do I even want to know?”
“I remembered the story one of my tutors taught me, about how the mist ended up in the Korcari Wilds. It has to do with the werewolves.”
“That’s nice.”
As usual, Maric seemed to miss Loghain’s uninterested tone. “It was back before King Calenhad united the Clayne tribes. There was a curse that spread among the wolves, and they became possessed by powerful demons. They turned into monsters that preyed on the farmholds and villages in these parts, and when they were chased into the Wilds, they would turn into wolves again and hide.”
“Superstition,” Loghain muttered.
“No, it really happened! That’s why everyone still keeps hounds. Back then, a hound could smell a werewolf approaching and warn you, maybe even attack and give you a chance to run away. It was an epidemic.”
Loghain paused and regarded Maric with a weary expression. “And what does that have to do with the mist?”
“The story says that a great arl finally created an army of hounds and hunters and went into the Wilds. For years they slaughtered every wolf they could find, possessed or no. The last werewolf swore vengeance, stabbing himself in the heart with the very blade that had slain his mate. As his blood touched the forest floor, a mist rose from that spot.
“The mist spread and spread, until finally the Arl’s army became lost in the forest. They never returned home, and eventually the arling was abandoned. My tutor claimed that the old ruins there are haunted by the ghosts of their wives, forever waiting for their husbands.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Loghain sighed. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. And there’s not nearly enough mist in the Wilds to make someone lose their way. It’s just a nuisance.”
“Maybe it was different a long time ago?” Maric shrugged. “Anyhow, they say that some of the werewolves survived. That they hide in these parts, taking vengeance when they can find a man alone.”
“They say a lot of things.”
“My tutor was a very learned man.”
“Especially them.” Loghain stood up, brushing himself off, and turned toward the reclining Maric just as an arrow flew by his ear.
Maric sat up, confused. “Was that—?”
“Get down!” Loghain sank to a crouch and drew his sword. Maric dropped to his knees, but also turned curiously to see where the arrow had come from
. Unwilling to discuss the matter, Loghain grabbed him by the hood of his cloak and pushed him down to his belly. Already the sound of several riders could be heard approaching the clearing, and Loghain cursed himself for a fool. He had underestimated just how badly they wanted Maric if they were on top of them already.
“We have to get out of here!” Maric shouted. He had drawn his own knife, but Loghain was already watching two horsemen entering the camp at full trot. The men were soldiers, wearing mail hauberks and full helmets, and already had their flails out and swinging.
As the first horseman raced past, Loghain ducked under the swing of his flail. The spiked ball passed over his head with an alarming whoosh. The second horseman was shortly behind the first, and Loghain sprinted forward, jabbing up with his sword before that soldier could begin his swing. Loghain felt the point of the blade jab into the rider’s armpit, and the man shouted in pain and tried to weakly bring the flail down on him. He pulled out his sword just in time to catch the flail’s chain, causing the heavy ball to spin around the blade. Girding himself, he pulled hard, and the rider was flung off his mount, crying out in surprise.
The soldier hit the ground awkwardly, rolling away with the flail. This time it was Loghain’s blade that was wrenched from him. The first rider had doubled back and was bearing down on him, leaving him with no time to do anything but watch the flail head swinging toward him. It slammed into his chest hard, several ribs cracking as the spikes dug painfully into his chest. He was lifted off his feet and thrown back several paces.
“Loghain!” Maric shouted, rushing into the melee with his dagger. He plunged the wicked blade into the leg of the mounted soldier. The man’s horse reared back and whinnied as the rider screamed in pain, unintentionally pulling on the reins. The other fallen soldier was groaning and trying to crawl away, and Maric jumped over him and ran to where Loghain had fallen.
Loghain gritted his teeth against the massive pain in his chest and tried to sit up. He was about to tell Maric to run, but it was too late. Four other horsemen had already arrived, one of them a knight in intricate plate armor. Clearly the leader, this one rode a great black horse and wore a full helmet with a green plume.