Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

That was only one of many things that bothered him about this case. The murders were being blamed on shifters, but what quarrel did shifters have with Throneholders? If anything, he would think the shifters would be happy to see the Flame blown out, considering all the persecution they had suffered at the hands of its worshippers.

And why so many perpetrators? A group of killers working in tandem-or, even more improbable, cooperating with each other? It was practically unheard of, though there had been that village in Karrnath. Located on the Mror River, it had been decimated by residents who had apparently succumbed to some mass psychosis, murdering their neighbors and then turning on each other in a mad frenzy. But this case was nothing like that one, thank the Host.

Still, no scenario made sense-not the official one presented by the local government, that it was the work of malcontent shifters, nor the counterargument that it was some Church conspiracy to rid Aruldusk of shifters, Throneholders, or both.

If anything, Greddark thought as he thanked ir’Sarhain for his time and left the man to his machinations, the murders were far more likely to be the work of a single individual, who might or might not be selecting his victims at random. True, there were a relatively high percentage of loyalists among the victims, but that could as easily be the result of the murderer’s chosen hunting grounds as any grudge against Throneholders.

Following a sudden hunch, Greddark paused at a nearby park bench and pulled out his map. In addition to the addresses of the victims’ families, he had also noted the location of each murder. Seventeen of the murders had occurred in either the Garden District-home to many old noble families, who typically still supported the throne-or the Market or Warehouse Districts. The only anomalies were Zoden’s brother, who had died behind the Cathedral only a few streets away from the Market District; Desekane, who’d been killed in a similar no-man’s land between the Market District and the Gutters-so named because most of the city’s gutters drained there; and Imaradi, the Throneholder who had been slain shortly before he and Zoden had arrived from Sigilstar, his body found in an alley near the East Gate. Desekane’s family had already been questioned by the paladin. That left Imaradi’s family, who lived in the Garden District, two streets over.

Perfect.

As Greddark snapped the map closed and stuffed it into a pocket, Zoden asked, “So where are we going next?”

“Imaradi’s family,” Greddark replied, heading towards Sylvan Street.

“Umm … I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Zoden said, having trouble keeping up with the dwarf even though his strides were twice as long.

“Why not?”

It didn’t take him long to discover the answer to that question for himself.

The Imaradis were preparing for their son’s funeral, to be held at Aruldusk’s small temple to the Sovereign Host the following day. They were understandably upset about Greddark’s arrival, and even more so when he told them he needed to examine Demodir’s body. Unlike Aruldusk’s Flamers, who routinely sent their adherents to “join the Flame” by cremating their remains, those who followed the Host-particularly, worshippers of Arawai and Balinor-buried their dead. Which meant that the unburied body of Demodir Imaradi was the inquisitive’s only chance at examining something in this case other than files.

“Please,” Zoden said. “This may be our only chance to discover who is really responsible for Demodir’s death, for Zodal’s, for all of them. I-”

“We know who’s responsible for Demi’s death,” Kaith Imaradi interrupted angrily. “They’re holding that shifter woman he fought with at the bar.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” When Demodir’s father didn’t answer, Zoden continued on, his voice pleading. “I swear we don’t mean any disrespect-Demi was my friend! But Master d’Kundarak is an inquisitive of some renown, and he comes highly recommended. Very highly.” Zoden paused in his pleading to emphasize that point, so the Imaradis would understand that the dwarf had been sent by the Wyvern herself. “Maybe he can find something the others missed. Please.”

The Imaradis remained unconvinced. Demodir’s father glowered at them, while his mother bit her lip uncertainly.

“Please,” Zoden said again, and this time Greddark could feel the persuasion behind his words, almost like a physical force.

Good. The bard was finally using his magic.

“I–I suppose it would be all right,” Imaradi’s mother said, still worrying her lip. “If it will help them catch Demi’s killer. Don’t you think so, Kaith?”

Kaith Imaradi still looked angry, but his anger was tinged with confusion.

“Ye-yes, dear. If you think it’s best.”

His wife nodded hesitantly, and Greddark needed nothing more. He followed the wafting fragrance of incense to the Imaradi’s small home altar, where Demodir’s body had been laid out beneath a statue of Arawai. The halfling-sized sculpture showed the goddess in her half-elf aspect, a flickering candle held in one hand and a morning star in the other while her face gazed down benevolently on the cold, blue corpse.

Demodir was naked, a white sheet arranged discreetly over his hips while they waited for the priests to come and anoint his body for burial. His wounds had been cleaned, leaving pale, ragged flesh where his throat and half of his chest used to be. Greddark cursed the timing. Had they arrived in Aruldusk even a few days earlier, he might have been able to collect evidence that had now been washed away unwittingly by loving hands. He leaned closer to the body, glad of the heavy incense that covered the scent of rot already beginning to set in despite whatever magic was being used to preserve the corpse. The left clavicle had been broken, but Greddark could not immediately determine if it was from the jaws of whatever had attacked Demodir, or if it had happened during the course of a struggle. A quick perusal of the man’s hands and arms showed defensive scratches, so he was inclined to think the bone had been broken while Demodir tried to fight off his attacker. The files Margil had given him indicated that the man had been unarmed at the time of the assault.

The muscles around the gaping wound were shredded and hung like limp fingers across the exposed sternum and rib cage, which showed signs of having been scored by sharp teeth, like some animal had tried to gnaw its way through their bony protection. The organs beneath were intact, save for the heart, which bore deep gouges beneath the fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs, as if the animal, frustrated with not being able to chew its way in, had resorted to trying to fish out the choice flesh with long claws. For all the seeming ferociousness of the attack, the neck laceration had missed the vital vein, so Greddark guessed that it was one of these deeper wounds that had actually killed the young Throneholder.

Wounds that were certainly not indicative of a shifter.

As he peered more closely at the heart and the torn flesh over the rib cage, other inconsistencies became apparent. He pulled out a thin book from his pocket and scribbled some quick notes. Then he motioned to Zoden.

“Here. Put your head down by his neck, with your jaw out.”

“What?” the bard asked, appalled. He had been studiously avoiding looking at the corpse, and his face turned an odd shade of greenish-white as Greddark forced him to look at it now.

“I need to compare the bite marks with a jaw roughly the same size as a shifter’s. Obviously I can’t use my own, so get your mug down here and let me sketch it out. Unless you’d like me to go ask his mother to do it?”