Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne

by David Gaider

  Whipping his horse almost until it bled, Loghain led the charge across the open plain. The bluff was in sight, a long cliff along the edge of the rockier hills that marked the southern tip of the valley. He saw the path they needed, as well, and at the same time spotted a group of enemy soldiers coming out of the trees ahead. They were scouts, he assumed, or were part of the enemy’s broader lines. They were in heavy leathers and moderately armed, and spun about to face the approaching line.

  Well, Loghain thought, if they truly intend to stand in the way of charging horses, best give them what they deserve. He let out a cry of attack, raising his blade once again, and sped directly toward the enemy. The knights responded to his cry and followed.

  There was a thunder of hooves and war cries as they landed with full force upon the soldiers. For a moment it seemed to Loghain as if time moved at a crawl. He watched the horror dawning on their faces, saw how some of them in the back scrambled too late to get back into the trees. He saw his own horse crush one of them underfoot, an unfortunate man who went down without a single word. A sword slash opened the throat of a soldier to his right, before the man could swing his own blade, and blood fountained out.

  And then everything was moving fast again. Men screamed in pain, bones crunched, and steel rang on steel. Loghain struck at several men with his blade, but all too quickly, he was past and riding onward to the path. The rest of his men were busy overriding the enemy behind him; he didn’t even need to look to know it was so.

  It felt good, though it didn’t negate the fact that the army hot on their tails was a great deal larger than anyone could have expected.

  Within moments they were on the path, racing up the side of the cliff. At several points the path was wide enough for only two horses galloping side by side. Any more, and they risked someone sliding off and falling to the rocks below.

  “Come on!” he urged.

  More arrows shot by him as they reached the top of the bluff. He spun his horse around, and for the first time saw exactly what was behind them. The remainder of his thirty men was hot on his heels, and not far behind them were well over two hundred soldiers, charging madly across the field. They filled his field of vision, making his heart race with fear. Off their horses, cornered here on the bluff, they were massively outnumbered and could be pegged off by the archers at a distance.

  “Get under cover!” he shouted, quickly sliding off his horse. There were large rocks up on the ridge, which they fell behind.

  The flights of arrows halted as the commanders below ordered the archers to stop. There was no point while the knights were out of sight. Loghain couldn’t hear what their next commands were, but he could guess. They were preparing to rush the path up to the bluff, using their arrows to keep the knights under cover as long as they could. They would suffer losses, certainly, but eventually they would break through. They had the numbers.

  The knight nearest to Loghain looked over at him, breathing heavily with exertion. There was fear in the man’s eyes. “Are they going to come up here?” he shouted.

  Loghain nodded. “We have what they want. Or they think we do.”

  “Then what do we do now?”

  He tightened the grip on his sword. “We fight.”

  Inwardly he hoped that whatever the rest of Maric’s army did, they came quickly. That was the plan, after all, and so far it had worked. Which made Loghain all the more nervous as he heard the first cries ring out from below and readied himself for their charge.

  ______

  When the smaller enemy force entered the valley from the north, its commanders—Fereldan noblemen who were serving their king, Orlesian though he might be—they had expected to find a rebel force in disarray, possibly in the midst of a full rout.

  Instead, they found themselves under assault by the bulk of the rebel force. Magical balls of fire landed in their midst, the explosions sending them scattering. Immediately afterwards, a giant stone golem was the first to reach their line, great fists swinging and sending men flying into the air. Rebel infantry followed immediately thereafter, shouting their war cry and charging into the line.

  Maric was with that infantry, but well enough behind the front line that he wasn’t face-to-face with the enemy. Rowan watched him from farther up the hill, her own mounted troops pawing impatiently to enter the fight. Her father had told her to wait, hidden in the trees, until Maric’s force was well and truly engaged before she rode in to attack from the flank. Their only chance was to hit the enemy fast and hard, and hopefully to scatter them in time to reach Loghain. If they could catch the enemy at the bluff, they could smash them against the cliffs—they would be caught, unable to rout.

  It was a long shot. The worry that had lined her father’s face as he agreed to the plan told her that much. But if the plan had been impossible, he would sooner have clubbed Maric over the head and dragged him off personally than agreed to it.

  She could see Maric shouting orders to the men, urging them forward. He was trying to push through to the front, attempting to join the fight. The men immediately around him pressed close, however, forming a circle. Father would have told them to do that, she assumed. Even though Maric was wearing a helmet, she could tell he was becoming frustrated as he realized what the soldiers were doing.

  More magic crackled in the air as a blizzard formed around a large part of the enemy forces. They were beginning to retreat back out of the valley and regroup, their commanders becoming frantic, but the ice that was magically forming on the ground beneath their feet was making that difficult.

  One of the enemy commanders started shouting loudly and pointing at Wilhelm, who was standing on a rock not far beyond Maric’s men. The mage’s yellow robes unfortunately made him stand out, as did his exposed position. He needed to see his targets, however, and his range was limited. As arrows began to fly in his direction, he was forced to jump off his rock, his angry swearing so loud, even Rowan could hear it from where she stood. A wave of Wilhelm’s hand sent the stone golem ponderously charging toward the archers, its fists swinging. That would definitely keep them distracted.

  It would be close. Rowan couldn’t see just how many men there were here, but she figured it likely they had at least as many as the rebels did. As soon as they dug in and began to fight back, their offense would be ground to a standstill.

  Her warhorse whinnied nervously and she patted its head, shushing it gently.

  One of the riders nearby looked to her, apprehensive. “When do we charge, my lady? If they back out of the valley, we’ll never flank them.”

  “They won’t back out completely,” she assured him. “But we have to wait.”

  Still, she shared the anxiety. Already she could see signs of the enemy reorganizing and struggling to outflank Maric’s men by racing into the valley proper. Many of them were urged on, in fact, by their desperation to get away from the rage of the golem’s fists. It was going much as her father had forecast, but there were more men than the scouts had reported. That meant this would take longer. Even if they were able to defeat this part of the usurper’s forces, what would become of Loghain?

  Picking up the reins, she rode over to where her own lieutenant was waiting. A stout woman by the name of Branwen, the lieutenant was one of the few other women who served with the rebels as a soldier. Rowan knew that many of the men who didn’t know either of them well believed she had promoted Branwen for that reason only, but it wasn’t so. The lieutenant was strong and determined, perhaps because she had more to prove. Rowan knew exactly what that was like.

  “Lieutenant,” she called, “I need to speak to the Arl.”

  Branwen nodded solemnly. “Any orders, my lady?”

  “If I’m not back within twenty minutes, charge the flank as planned.” Rowan smiled grimly. “I’ll trust your judgment on everything else.”

  Branwen blinked with surprise and her lips thinned, but she otherwise took the unusual order without comment. “Understood, my lady.”

 
; Rowan spun her horse about and raced out of the trees and down into the valley. She tried to pay little attention to the battle that was still going on, though she did notice that Maric had at last gotten his wish: the circle of men around him had been spread out by the melee, meaning Maric could engage. Rowan worried about that, but not as much as her father would have. He had wanted to keep Maric out of the fight completely. Rowan knew that Maric was well-armored and a much better swordsman than he would ever admit to. One of the reasons she had worked so hard, after all, was to gain his respect.

  Her father’s men were waiting on the opposite side of the valley, and it took several minutes of hard riding to reach him. She splashed across the wide but shallow part of the stream, and when she came up the other bank, her father’s men were already running out to intercept her. Her father was brought out a moment later, riding on his own dark stallion, and looking more than a little concerned by the interruption.

  “What is it?” he asked. “You should be with the horsemen.”

  “There’s more men here than we thought, Father. That means that there might have been more coming from the east, as well. We need to help Loghain.”

  Her father grimaced. Sunlight glinted brightly off his silverite armor as he turned back to the soldiers standing just a few feet away. “Go”—he waved to them—“I wish to be alone for a moment.”

  His men hesitated momentarily, confused, but did not question the order. They left.

  He slowly turned back to her, white brows furrowed with concern. Rowan couldn’t tell exactly what he was going to say, but she already understood what he was thinking. She felt her fury rising. “I can see the same things you do,” he began. “And I agree. It will be difficult enough to defeat the usurper’s men here in the north.”

  “But . . . ?”

  He held up a hand. “Maric’s friend has done his job. We’ve yet to see any of the eastern force coming through the valley. He’s drawn them all off, and that gives us time to do what we must.”

  “Which is?” she snapped.

  “Which is,” he stated with force, “saving Maric as well as this army.” The Arl stepped closer to Rowan and put his hand on her shoulder. His expression was grim. “Rowan . . . the moment we drive these men into any kind of retreat, we need to flee the valley with whatever we have left. It is our only chance.”

  “Loghain is expecting us to reinforce him.”

  “He is expendable.” The Arl said the word with unease, but said it even so.

  Rowan stepped away from her father, frowning deeply. What he said wasn’t entirely a surprise, and yet still she felt disappointed. “We gave our word,” she protested. “He gave us the plan that is giving you your chance, and you’re going to abandon him?”

  “The part he is playing in his own plan,” her father sighed, “is that of the sacrificial lamb. Perhaps he didn’t realize it, but there it is.” He took hold of her gauntleted hand firmly, looking her straight in the eyes. “It’s a good plan. We must not waste it, for Ferelden’s sake.”

  She pulled her hand away and turned from her father, but didn’t leave. He patted her on the shoulder again. “There are things we must do, things that must be done. To survive. Queen Moira did them, and so shall her son. This Loghain is doing a service, as are the men with him.”

  She nodded slowly, grimacing. The Arl’s hand lingered on her shoulder a moment longer, but whatever else was on his mind he kept it to himself. “Go, then,” he finally said. “There isn’t much time.”

  She didn’t look back.

  When Rowan rejoined her own forces on the other side of the valley, she saw they were already preparing to ride. Her lieutenant rode toward her, flagging her down. “We were just about to charge,” Branwen informed her. “Did you want us to hold off, my lady?”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “The Prince seems to be doing well enough so far. He stopped the enemy from encircling him. The wizard is almost an army unto himself.” Her attention was then drawn as the sound of horns signaled from down in the valley. Two of the watchmen nearby waved to her, and she nodded an acknowledgment to them. “The Arl is engaging now, my lady.”

  Rowan did not answer right away. The green plume on her helm fluttered in the breeze as she stared hard at the ground from atop her horse. The sounds of many men shouting and screaming could be faintly heard in the distance. Any of them could be Maric, she thought.

  “My lady?” her lieutenant asked hesitantly.

  “No,” Rowan stated. She looked up and spun her horse about. “We are reinforcing the bluff now, before it’s too late.”

  “But my lady! What about the Prince?”

  Rowan began to ride forward, her expression firm. “The Maker will watch over him,” she muttered solemnly. Then, louder to address the startled riders assembled behind her: “All of you! Follow me! We ride south!” Without waiting for a response, she kicked her warhorse into a gallop and began to head into the valley.

  The enemy was on their third charge up the path.

  Loghain was soaked in sweat and blood both, a burning, fiery pain in his chest from where a blade had successfully stabbed earlier. He ignored it and fought on. Seven were left of the thirty knights that had ridden up the path with him, and they stood their ground at the top of the bluff as wave after wave of the enemy soldiers tried to break through. These were Fereldan soldiers they were fighting, urged on by Orlesian commanders who remained safely below. Sending their dogs to do their dirty work, he thought angrily.

  The enemy had brought halberds this time, wicked axe blades attached to long poles that gave them the advantage of reach. He had lost almost ten men immediately to the first rush of the halberdiers as they reached the top of the path and had nearly overtaken them. One man lost his arm as it was hacked off, blood spurting as the man stared at it, aghast.

  “Push them back!” Loghain shouted.

  An enemy soldier leaped on him, half to attack and half because he had been shoved forward from behind. Startled, Loghain was pushed back for a moment. The soldier, a short man with a weasel-like face, looked excited at the thought he might have struck a blow at the mighty prince and moved to strike again.

  Loghain grabbed the man by the throat and threw him back. The short soldier stumbled, and his flailing hands caught onto the royal purple cloak—which by now had been stained a sticky black by blood and filth. He fell to the side, tugging hard on the cloak, and Loghain slashed with his sword to cut the fabric. Released, the soldier stumbled back even farther and went careening over the cliff edge, screaming shrilly.

  Another man was on top of Loghain before he could recover, a large man with a robust red beard. And then a second charged him, axe held high overhead. Loghain ducked down low and spun around, swinging a wide arc with his sword. It took the axe-wielder across the abdomen, slicing him open. As the man stumbled, Loghain struck out with his elbow and took the red-bearded soldier in the throat. It didn’t stop him from stabbing Loghain in the shoulder, but Loghain merely hissed in pain and jumped back, forcing the blade to be pulled out of him

  He struck out with his sword again, and the red-bearded man barely parried as he gasped and coughed. They traded several blows, Loghain gaining greater strength and position with each one until finally he ran the man through.

  The few knights with him were barely holding on, and yet still the enemy pressed forward. Loghain almost couldn’t see with the sweat stinging his eyes, and the gore covering the ground at the lip of the path made getting one’s footing on the rocks difficult.

  Where is the damned reinforcement? he thought, striking out at new enemies as they pressed forward. Even as he asked the question he knew the answer. They weren’t coming. It didn’t make sense for them to come. In fact, if he was in the Arl’s shoes right now, he wouldn’t come, either.

  He grunted angrily and slashed even harder, trying to keep the enemy from getting past their line. Another man rushed him and he got his boot up onto the man’s midsecti
on and then kicked out, sending the man flying back and over the cliff edge with a horrified cry.

  And then a horn sounded.

  Loghain wiped his eyes and looked down the cliff, then began laughing out loud in sheer surprise. The thundering of hooves heralded the charge of the rest of the rebel’s force of horsemen as they struck the larger enemy force from behind. The armored figure leading the charge could only be Rowan, the green plume atop her helmet trailing.

  The effect on the enemy was dramatic. The Orlesians were pushed back toward the cliff, their shouts turning to confusion and surprise. Almost immediately their organization broke. Panic overtook the foot soldiers, and they began to scramble and run, even as the commanders screamed ineffectually for them to hold.

  Loghain had no more time to watch as the enemies still on the path became desperate. Caught between the crush of men trying to run up behind them to escape the cavalry charge and Loghain’s remaining men, their fearful cries became deafening.

  “Now! Do it! Push them back!” he shouted. Six knights stood next to him, their armor smeared with gore and all of them heavily wounded, but they gritted their teeth and did as he commanded. They pressed their advantage and began swinging hard to drive the enemy back.

  There was a long moment of frenzied resistance as steel met steel, and then the enemy line broke. With a victorious shout, Loghain moved forward and stabbed his blade into two men who scrabbled backwards while screaming for mercy. The knights beside him did the same, and as the enemy fell back, they ran out of ground and forced a whole group of their own soldiers off the cliff.

  There was mass panic below. The enemy was racing to get out of the way of the horsemen, dashing into the forest at the edges of the valley. Some even dropped their weapons in their rush. One of the Orlesian commanders screamed at his men with indignation, attempting to lead a rally, but Rowan put a quick end to that. A pair of hooves cut the pompous fellow off in midshout, sending his body flying against the rocks and galvanizing the nearest enemy soldiers into even quicker retreat.