Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

Andri bent down on one knee next to the body and made the sign of the Flame on ir’Marktaros’s cold forehead. Then he murmured the words of the Final Prayer, meant to guide the man’s soul to the cleansing light and warmth of the Silver Flame.

Standing once more, he asked, “What happened? He doesn’t look to have been killed the same way as the others.”

“He wasn’t,” the dwarf confirmed, pointing to long furrows on the bard’s neck. They were white and puckered, their edges crusted in dried blood. “His neck’s broken. The other wound happened after.”

“How do you know it was the same killer?” Irulan asked. She could smell the stale scent of alcohol and sweat coming from ir’Marktaros’s corpse, and a muskier odor, tantalizingly familiar, coming off the dwarf’s clothes. The fresh pink scars on his right forearm looked suspiciously similar to the wounds Zoden bore.

The dwarf looked at her appraisingly before responding, his tone clipped.

“Never said it was. But there’s a witness. Of sorts.”

He pointed over to a man sitting on a nearby bench, talking to a guard in subdued tones. The man was disheveled and clearly hung over. His eyes darted wildly, trying but unable to stay away from the sight of the dead bard.

“A neighbor. Coming home late from a night out on the town. Surprised the killer before he could do more than slice Zoden with his claws.” The dwarf glanced at her, his eyes sharp. “Said it was a shifter.”

Andri looked up at Irulan. “I’ll go talk to him.”

He rose and walked over to the bench. The guards moved away as well, as did the healer, whose services were obviously no longer needed, leaving Irulan alone with the body of the only other person in Aruldusk who had believed her brother was innocent. And the dwarf.

She eyed him distrustfully.

“House Kundarak, huh? Zoden hire you for protection?”

“The details of my employment are none of your concern,” he said, standing and dusting off his knees. He began to walk down the street, following faint tracks. Two sets-one booted, one clawed.

Like a shifter.

“Maybe not,” said Irulan, “but considering he was the only witness to the murder my brother was falsely accused of committing, what happened to him is.”

She walked after him, careful not to disturb the footprints. They led to an open gate and up a short path toward a large house.

“Wait,” she said, holding out a hand to stop the dwarf from stepping on another set of tracks, even fainter than the first. She bent down to get a closer look.

“There are only boot prints leading into the yard.”

“So the shifter came in another way,” d’Kundarak replied, shrugging.

“Maybe. Let me see your foot.”

“What?”

“This is ir’Marktaros’s house, right? I assume you’ve been here recently?”

“Of course,” the dwarf said, an interested gleam in his eye. He grasped where she was leading and lifted his foot so she could examine the sole of his boot.

“Look. There are three sets of boot prints here. Three different sizes. One set clearly belongs to ir’Marktaros-they’re the ones leading to the body. These are yours”-she pointed out the smaller set of prints to the dwarf, aware that he would likely only see them as a vague broken outline, obscured as they were by more recent tracks. “That leaves this set, which leads into the yard from back there”-she jabbed a thumb over her shoulder towards the house across the street-“unaccounted for.”

“A guest?” the inquisitive mused, but Irulan shook her head.

“Not unless he’s still in there-the tracks lead in, but they don’t come back out. Your tracks come in and out, Zoden’s do, too, but these don’t. One set of booted prints in, one set of clawed prints out.”

The dwarf had put his foot down and was looking up at the front of the house.

“Looks like Zoden also acquired a new statue while I was gone,” he said, mostly to himself.

Irulan followed his gaze to see a gray stone wolf in the open doorway, glaring reproachfully out at them.

“Some sort of familiar?” she wondered aloud, but d’Kundarak shook his head.

“A canary.”

At her puzzled look, he explained. “Dwarves sometimes use them in unfamiliar tunnels to make sure the air is good. You send them in first, and if they come back out alive, you know you’re safe. If they don’t, you find another way, and buy yourself a new canary.”

Irulan nodded and turned her attention back to the wolf. The sight of it reminded her of the wounds on the dwarf’s arm. They could have been made by a wolf. Or by whatever- whoever -had killed the bard.

“So, where were you last night, if you weren’t with Zoden?”

“Following a lead.”

“Looks like the lead fought back.”

D’Kundarak snorted. “You could say that,” he replied, unconsciously rubbing his arm.

Irulan abruptly placed the odor that hung about him like an old lover. She’d smelled it before in the Reaches-not this exact scent, but one very similar, and she was certain of its origin.

Not a wolf. A cat, and a big one.

Where could the dwarf have been that he’d come back smelling like a tiger’s chew-toy? Only one place-the House Vadalis compound.

And if he was following a lead there, then maybe he had a suspect-one that wasn’t a shifter.

But if the murderer wasn’t a shifter, then who was Ostra trying to protect? Because he had to be protecting someone, didn’t he? Why else would the shifter leader have sent her and Andri into a trap?

By Tira’s Sword, none of this made any sense! Just thinking about it was starting to give her a headache. If she didn’t get some answers soon, she thought her head might explode.

She’d start with the dwarf. He had to know something. It would just be a matter of convincing him to share.

“So who won? You or the cat?”

He didn’t even blink. “I did.”

He walked into ir’Marktaros’s yard, stepping through the thick grass and weeds so as not to compromise the tracks on the path. Irulan followed.

“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

He stopped and turned to her, his eyes cold and unfriendly. “Irulan Silverclaw, isn’t it?”

It was her turn to stop. How had he known that? She hadn’t introduced herself.

“Easy. You told me yourself,” he said, as if reading her thoughts, though she realized he was probably only reacting to the surprise on her face. She never had been very good at hiding her emotions. “The only murder Zoden witnessed-other than his own-was his brother’s. If your brother was accused of that murder, then you must be Javi Silverclaw’s sister, Irulan. Not to mention the silver-tipped claw on your left hand. Who else could you be?”

“Fine. You know my name. You know my stake in this case. So why won’t you tell me what else you know?”

“Also easy. You’re a suspect.”

Irulan’s jaw dropped before she could stop it. “I’m a what?”

D’Kundarak shrugged again. “Everyone’s a suspect … until they’re not.”

He turned and continued walking toward the porch, making more notes in his book as he went. Irulan resisted a momentary urge to run him through. Andri would never approve. Besides, the dwarf might well have uncovered information that would help her clear Javi’s name-information that would perish with him if she killed him now in a fit of annoyance. She would just have to figure out how to get him to spill it -then she could stab him.

“What was ir’Marktaros paying you?”

The dwarf had moved into the yard and was busy sketching something he saw amid the greenery. As Irulan approached, she saw what he was drawing-broken crossbow bolts littered about the yard.