Maric, for his part, was proving difficult to hate. He kept pace and had yet to complain, not about being hungry or exhausted or anything else. He also did as he was told and had saved himself more than once from blundering into danger by responding instantly to Loghain’s barked orders. If he had one flaw, it was the talking. The man chattered constantly and amiably about almost anything. If it wasn’t his amazement at the size of the trees, it was his assessment of the size of the Wilds or his recollection of the lore on the Chasind people that were supposed to live in the forest. Loghain listened quietly to the constant prattle, wishing nothing more than for him to shut up. After the second night, Maric became quieter and Loghain was disgusted to discover he actually missed the sound.
It must have been easy for the man to make friends, Loghain surmised. Even exhausted and half covered in filth, Maric had a natural, easy charm. As Maric was the favored son of a Queen whom Loghain’s father had all but worshipped from afar, Loghain truly wanted to despise him. He had every reason to despise him. But the truth was, he just couldn’t maintain the cold fury he had felt before, and that was almost worse than anything else.
On the third night, it rained. Freezing without a fire, Loghain and Maric huddled under an outcropping of rock, their breath coming out in plumes through chattering teeth. That night, the wolves made their appearance. Tentatively the beasts hovered nearby, gathering their courage before making any sort of attack. Several times, Loghain sent them running with a shot from his bow, only to have them edge back into sight later on. Loghain had only so many arrows and no way of making more, so he conserved what he had and used them only when there was no other choice.
By the time morning came, the wolves had decided there was less vigilant prey to be found elsewhere. Loghain was weary, chilled to the bone, and became more than a little concerned when he found Maric shivering and unable to wake up. So pale, he was almost white, Maric could at best be roused to a strange state where he uttered delirious nonsense through his chattering teeth.
Loghain built a fire, no mean feat considering that mist and rain had drenched almost everything. He dug for dead wood, searching for dry moss and twigs hidden away out of sight. And then came frustrating hours of smoke and embers, and him nearly nodding off while trying to maintain focus. When the flame finally caught, he could have jumped for joy and would have given much to listen to Maric ask twenty different questions about how he managed it.
He settled for finessing the fire into a sizable blaze. More damp wood was added, and more moss, and more sticks . . . and after those dried and caught fire, he repeated the process. Eventually he had what he needed: a crackling pyre that gave off more heat than smoke. He pulled Maric as close to the flames as he dared and sat nearby, trying to keep an eye out for the wolf pack’s return. After a time, the warm glow made his lids heavy and he fell asleep.
Loghain woke up hours later, discovering that Maric was not only already awake but also tending the fire. He was pale and shaky, but mobile. Maric nodded to Loghain, silently acknowledging his thanks with a slightly embarrassed grin, but Loghain only frowned back. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve put me through?” he demanded.
Maric rubbed his arms, shivering. “I’m, uh, very happy not to be dead. And that you didn’t leave me here. To freeze.”
“The wolves would have eaten you long before you froze.”
“Well, that’s something.”
Loghain turned to leave. “I’m going to hunt, while I can. I’d appreciate it if you managed to not freeze while I’m gone. Do you think you could do that?” He didn’t wait for a response and felt pleased by Maric’s slightly injured expression.
On the fourth day, Loghain realized they were being followed.
The wolves had not returned, which was odd. After a time of having the strange sensation of being watched, he heard something out in the bushes. Whoever was out there—and he did think it was a who, since he doubted a predator would have spent so long stalking them—was skilled. Try as Loghain might, he could not spot anyone in the shadows.
He held up a hand, quieting Maric. “Don’t look now,” he muttered, “but I don’t think we’re alone any longer.”
To Maric’s credit, he didn’t look. “Are you sure?”
“Well, it is difficult to hear much with you blathering on like you do.”
“I’m not blathering!”
“Really? It’s no wonder you nearly froze to death the way you spend all your energy moving your mouth.” Their eyes glanced around nervously, without making it obvious what they were doing.
Maric made a subtle motion to his left. Loghain followed it, not quite believing that Maric could be capable of spotting something first. Then, he saw it. Just ahead, in the deep shadows between two of the taller trees, two points of light glinted at them, like a cat’s eyes as it watched you in the dark.
Like elf eyes.
“Blast!” Loghain swore, his panic catching him off guard. In a single motion, he shoved Maric to the ground and unslung the bow from his shoulder. As he dove for cover he heard an arrow whistling toward him. It sank into his shoulder with considerable force, sending him stumbling backwards with a grunt of pain.
“Loghain!” Maric shouted. He leaped up and ran to where Loghain was sprawled, gasping when he saw the arrow had passed almost completely through Loghain’s shoulder. Bright blood stained the tall grass. Looking around, his eyes wide with fear, Maric pulled out his dagger.
“Run!” Loghain rasped at him, trying to clutch at the arrow shaft and get up at the same time. But it was too late. Elves materialized out of the shadows around them, running toward them with barely a sound. They were dressed in hunting leathers, their foreheads tattooed in vivid colored patterns representing their pagan gods. The expressions in their bright alien eyes said murder. Some held bows trained while others held amber-colored ironwood blades in hand.
Maric raised his dagger, but even as he did, a thick net landed over them both. The elves were on them, grabbing at arms and legs and shouting angrily in their strange language. Loghain struggled, hissing in pain as the weight of the net forced the arrow farther through his shoulder, but it was futile. Maric thrashed in the net next to him until there was a loud thumping sound and Maric slumped to the ground. A moment later, held down by many strong hands, Logain felt something hard slam his head and he, too, slipped into darkness.
Loghain awoke to the sharp tingle of pain in his skull and a bath of heat on his face. He could hear a roaring fire nearby, a large one, and before his eyes opened, he could tell he was seated against some kind of pole with his arms tied together behind it. Was he going to be cooked, then? Roasted on a skewer over a roaring fire? Was that something elves did? It seemed unlikely, considering the arrow wound in his shoulder was now treated and bandaged. At least he was finally warm.
He opened his eyes and the light hurt.
Sure enough, he was set up before a bonfire with Maric slumped next to him. Beyond the fire was a group of long, oddly shaped covered wagons, circled in the forest clearing. Each of the wagons had a mast with one triangular sail attached to both it and an elegantly shaped piece of wood off the back, which could have passed for a rudder. Though Loghain had never encountered a landship before, he’d heard enough stories to know one when he saw it.