It would have seemed like just a pleasant day's ride out in the countryside, if not for where they were, where they were going, and the army trudging along in back of them. It was a fine autumn day, the sky clear and blue, marked only off to the west, in the direction of Lake Calenhad, with a scattering of high white clouds. Just slightly on the cool side, with a gentle breeze, perfect travelling weather.
He looked around, breathing in deeply, revelling in the old familiar scents that even now, after all these years spent elsewhere in Ferelden, spoke to some deep inner part of himself and said home. He felt some inner knot of tension unravelling, as he drank in the achingly familiar sights. Lothering, he knew, lay over the hills off to the northwest – they would not see it today, as he judged it better to skirt the small town rather then marching the army through it; it would be less damaging to the surrounding farms, and less distraction and temptation for the soldiers.
Somewhere to the north of them now was the small farm where he had been born and raised. He wondered if it was still there, if anyone worked the land that had belong to his father's family for so many generations, or if the wilds had long since reclaimed the fields. If he turned his horse and rode there now, would the house still stand, or would it be a ruin of old wood and stone, matching the ruin the Orlesians had made of the family that had once lived there?
No. He would not remember those last terrible days of that long-vanished life. If he must remember anything of the farm, let it be the good memories, of working at his father's side in the fields, of coming home to his mother, smiling at them in welcome from where she stood by the fire, cooking their evening meal. For a moment he could almost smell the bread baking, taste again on his tongue the exact flavour of the lamb stew, thick with chunks of root vegetables and fresh green peas and herbs from the small garden near the back door...
"Teryn Loghain," a voice broke in on his thoughts, dispelling the ghost of sensory memory.
"Yes, Ser Cauthrien?" he asked, glancing over to the woman as she rode at his side.
"Do you mind if I go join one of the scouting patrols? I'd like to have a better feel for the lay of the land."
"Of course," he said. "Go ahead; we shouldn't have anything more exciting to expect out of today then another long dull day of travel, anyway. Seek me out in camp this evening, I may have some tasks for you by then."
"Of course, my lord," she said, dipping her head in the greatly abbreviated bow he favoured, and dropped back.
He drew a deep breath, looking around and making sure all his charges were where they should be. Prince Cailan rode several lengths ahead of him, one of those damnable Grey Wardens at his side, the boy smiling and then laughing as he talked. Doubtless retailing yet another lengthy story of the Wardens and their fabled prowess in battle. Several other of the boy's – no, he reminded himself sternly, the young man's – favoured companions rode near him as well, also listening attentively to the Warden's words. Ser Landry, Thomas Howe, Ser Garlan, a handful of others... he should probably move up and ride near the prince as well, but they were all so blasted young. And enthusiastic.
He eyed the prince, frowning. He looked so very much like his father, it never ceased to disturb Loghain. Especially now, especially here. They were only an hour or two east of the forested lands where Loghain had first encountered 'Hyram', fleeing from Bann Ceorlic's men, pale and shaken and bloody from having killed one of them while escaping after seeing them treacherously cut down Queen Moira. Maric had beaten the man's head in against a tree root, as Loghain recalled – though it had been years later before he'd ever actually heard about that detail of the story, something Maric told him when they'd both been far gone in drink and reminiscence after the death of Queen Rowan. And yet for all that he'd just gone through, Maric had still seemed so damnably young and innocent. He'd actually thought Maric younger then himself when they first met, been astonished to later learn he was in fact a year and a half older.
He glanced again in Cailan's direction, tried to imagine the golden prince in his father's place. Would he have had the fortitude to do as his father had done, to beat a man to death with his own hands in order to secure his escape? He doubted it. For all his seeming innocence, Maric had always had a streak of pragmatic determination at his core, legacy of his famed mother and his years at her side in the rebel camps. Cailan was... softer, seeming to have inherited little from Maric and Rowan save the Theirin looks from Maric and Rowan's determination to enjoy whatever life chanced to offer her. Maybe it was just that Maric had coddled the boy so much. He'd wanted his son to have the life that his own youth in the rebel camps had denied him. And after Rowan's death, he'd abdicated all responsibility for several years – responsibility for the kingdom, responsibility for his grieving young son.
And Loghain had done what he'd always seemed to end up doing; stepped in, picked up the reins, and kept things lurching along until Maric was able and ready to resume control.
"Loghain, I want your word that you will protect the prince." Almost his father's last words to him. His very last had been "Give me one minute. Then run." And then he'd gone out, into the rain and darkness, and bought them the precious time needed for Loghain and Maric to escape the outlaw encampment, as it was overrun and decimated by Orlesian soldiers. For a moment his throat closed at the memory of his last sight of his father, a distant blood-streaked figure surrounded by dozens of soldiers. The smoke and rain had hidden his final moment, thought his last defiant cry rang in Loghain's ears even now, across all the years between. Strange to think that he was years older now then his father had been then.
Unerringly his eyes turned to the southeast, where a distant hilltop reared out of the surrounding forest. There. That was where the outlaws had been encamped, and had died in droves as he did what his father commanded. He'd protected the prince, leading him off into the wilds, leaving his father behind. There was where Sister Ailis had later scattered the ashes of Gareth Mac Tir, and so many others.
He'd hated young Maric so much back then, as they fled into the stormy wilds and an uncertain future. He had never imagined, would never have believed, how much he later came to like – love – the damnable man. He'd spent his life fulfilling his oath to his father. Protect the prince. Protect him from his enemies, from the stupidity of others, from his own foolishness more then once. Protect the prince. He'd done it, and kept on doing it, until his prince, his king, finally went where he could no long protect him. And died, lost at sea, leaving not even a corpse for those who loved him to grieve over and burn.
And he'd somehow carried on after that, protecting what had been important to Maric; his son, his people, his kingdom.
He forced his attention back to the present, looking again toward the prince. The king, he reminded himself. King Cailan, a young man, his son-in-law – not Prince Cailan, not a boy any longer, not for years now. He never failed to address him properly aloud, but inside, in his heart of hearts, there was only ever one person who could possibly be king.
They were making camp for the night when Ser Cauthrien returned, bringing word that she and her scouting party had encountered the Cousland forces, and that they were only an hour or two away from joining the rest of the army. Loghain was pleased at the news, and sent her off to make sure that a section of camp was set aside for them.
The army had grown to a respectable size already, and with more troops due to join them between here and Ostagar, it should be a considerable force by the time they were settled in place. He just hoped this didn't prove to be a useless exercise; so far they'd seen very little sign of darkspawn, and certainly no blighted lands. They only had Duncan's word and a few corpses to prove that there even were darkspawn about somewhere. It would be annoying if this proved to be a false alarm, just a handful of darkspawn emerging from some forgotten entrance to the Deep Roads.
Still, it provided an excuse to get Pri... King Cailan and the army out in the field, and test how well the lords answered to the muster. That was all to the good; it had been less then thirty years since they'd kicked the Orlesians out of Ferelden, after all, and Orlais still acted as if it regarded this country as little more then a rebellious province, to be reclaimed at the convenience of the Queen and her chevaliers.
Only over his cold, rotting corpse would they ever set toe on Fereldan soil again.
The king's ornate tent had already been raised, and even from his own smaller and more sober field quarters he could hear the sounds of Cailan and his young noble friends, already singing along to lute music and undoubtedly drinking heavily as well. They could likely hear the raised voices all the way back to Lothering. Hardly a proper way to move through the field. He made note to speak to the king about it tomorrow – preferably early in the morning, when he'd still have a throbbing head reminding him of one of the several other reasons that such carousing was unwise.
For now he spread out and studied his maps of Ostagar and the surrounding lands, soon loosing himself in making notes on a separate sheet of parchment about troop deployments and fortifications.
