Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

“What?”

“Cut them off.”

Back at Zoden’s house, Greddark double-checked his wards and gathered his things.

“Where are we going?”

“I am going to the House Vadalis compound to question Kyrin. You are staying here.”

Zoden stopped in the midst of donning his scarlet cloak to glare at the dwarf. “I thought we went through this already!”

“We did,” Greddark agreed. “That was before, at the Cathedral, and when we were questioning the Throneholders. I needed your help then. I freely admit it. I do not, however, need it now.”

As he spoke, he palmed an orange bloodspike.

“But I helped you! You wouldn’t have made it this far without me!”

“You did help me. And now you can help me even more by staying here, out of harm’s way, until I return.”

“No! I’m not-”

The bard didn’t get any further. As he threw his arm out in a typically theatrical gesture, Greddark darted in and jabbed the bloodspike into the soft flesh of Zoden’s neck. The young noble had only a moment to register hurt surprise before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward. Greddark caught him before he could fall and eased his body to the floor. The potion, brewed for a dwarf’s constitution, should keep the slim human sleeping peacefully until Greddark returned. Hopefully, with the case solved. And as long as the bard stayed put, he would stay safe-Greddark didn’t call himself a security specialist for nothing.

“Sorry, Zoden,” he said as he let himself out, pausing only long enough to reset the house wards. “I tried to tell you. I work alone.”

Sar, Therendor 21, 998 YK

Stepping outside of Aruldusk’s so-called East Gate-actually on the city’s northeastern side-Andri was overwhelmed by a hundred shelters in a dizzying array of colors, fabrics, and shapes, encroaching on either side of the Orien trade road like fantastical weeds. The camp boasted everything from waterproof tarps barely large enough for one person to sleep in, to tents made of stitched animal hides, to great pavilions streaming rainbow ribbons into the breeze. The tents housed both people and businesses, organized in roughly concentric circles. As might be expected with a race so sensitive to scent, the more aromatic trades-trappers, butchers, and tanners-were located downwind, on the fringes of the settlement, along with the livestock pens and horse corrals, while the herbwives and sellers of produce and breads were located closer to the center. Closer still, clothing and weapons could be found, and in the center of the encampment, two large pavilions faced each other over a group of fires-a temple to Balinor and the quarters of Ostra Farsight, the shifter leader. It was to this tent, the plainer of the two, that Irulan led him.

“Ostra doesn’t follow the Flame,” Irulan warned him as they walked towards the tent, “so don’t expect him to cooperate simply because you’re a paladin. You’re going to have to convince him to help us, and the fact that you’ve been sent by Cardinal Riathan isn’t necessarily going to weigh in our favor.”

Riathan was known as a shifter supporter, but his sympathy was largely theoretical. When it came to helping the shifters in any meaningful way, the Cardinal’s voice was often conspicuously silent. If Andri were a shifter, he wouldn’t think much of anyone who’d been sent by Riathan, either.

A tall shifter with black hair stood guarding the open tent flap. Vivid red and yellow tattoos twined up through the thick fur on both arms to disappear beneath a sleeveless leather jerkin. Twin scabbards rode his hips, and long fangs protruded over thin lips that pulled back in a grimace when he caught sight of Irulan.

“Thorn,” Irulan said, nodding her head at the larger shifter.

“Irulan,” he replied, returning the gesture but not looking especially pleased to see her. “I see you’ve returned from Flamekeep.”

“Yes. And I’ve brought a gift for Ostra, from the Keeper herself.”

“A gift? From the Keeper?” That got his attention. “What is it?”

“Not what. Who.” Irulan jabbed a thumb in Andri’s direction. “Him.”

The inside of Ostra’s pavilion was as plain as the outside. Heavy linen curtains divided a small sitting area from the rest of the tent. Unpadded wooden chairs sat around an unlit brazier in the middle of a swept dirt floor. Thorn ushered them in then disappeared into the deeper recesses of the tent to fetch Ostra.

“So I’m a gift, now, am I?” Andri asked, genuinely amused.

Irulan’s cheeks colored. “Well, I’m sure your parents think you are,” she said, trying to cover her embarrassment with humor.

Andri felt the mirth drain from him like wine from a spilled glass. If his parents had thought anything of him in their last moments, it certainly wasn’t that he was a gift-quite the opposite.

“My parents are dead,” he said, earning him an unreadable glance from the shifter. Her parents were dead, too, he remembered, feeling a sudden surge of sympathy, followed quickly by a wave of shame. A lot of people had lost their families in the War. The loss did not make him unique, even if the circumstances of his bereavement did.

Much to his relief, Irulan ignored the comment, continuing on in a more serious tone. “The camp shifters consider themselves a tribe, however loosely organized and fluid their numbers might be. And you never approach a tribal leader empty-handed, unless you plan on leaving the same way.”

“Unusual wisdom from one of our more ‘fluid and unorganized’ members,” a sardonic voice said, and Andri and Irulan turned as one to see a shifter silhouetted in the tent opening.

“Ostra!” Irulan exclaimed as the old shifter stepped into the tent, closing the flap behind him. As he did, Andri caught a glimpse of black, red, and yellow beyond-Thorn, returning to his accustomed duty. Apparently the wily elder had left the tent by another exit and lingered outside the opening to judge the merit of the Keeper’s “gift” for himself.

“Irulan, my child. I am pleased to welcome you back to the fire.” He extended a hand, and Irulan rose from her chair to grasp it, then she bowed low and touched his claws reverently to her forehead. As Ostra withdrew his hand, Irulan straightened.

“I am grateful to find it still burns, Father,” she replied, apparently completing some tribal ritual. Then she returned to her chair and waited while Ostra looked them over.

Andri returned the favor, studying the old shifter even as the camp leader assessed him. Like Thorn, tattoos covered both his arms, but where the colors of the younger shifter’s decorations were still distinct and vivid, Ostra’s markings were faded and blurred around the edges, reminders of the glories of a youth long passed. He had lanky brown hair, with thick gray sideburns framing a strong face, and wore plain clothes. Though he bore no visible weapon, Andri knew that no shifter was ever truly unarmed, thanks to the legacy of their lycanthropic forebears. His only badge of office appeared to be a three-stranded necklace with a set of claws on each strand-rat, wolf, and bear, if he knew his shifter lore. The wolf claws at least he was sure about. They matched the set of werewolf claws he wore about his own neck.

“I understand you’ve brought me a small token of honor, Irulan?” the old shifter said, his keen glance having already taken the measure of that gift.

Irulan rose, gesturing for Andri to do the same.

“I present Andri Aeyliros, paladin of the Silver Flame and chosen of Jaela Daran. A brother to the shifters, he is descended from those who hunt the moontouched.”

Ostra’s lips twitched, and he stepped forward, reaching out one clawed hand to lift Andri’s chin. Andri stiffened, but did not pull away as the shifter scrutinized him. He half expected the camp leader to check his teeth, as if he were some prize stallion Ostra was considering putting out to stud.