Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

“The Path of the Howl?” Greddark asked from his place by the tent flap, where he was watching for the rescue attempt they all knew would be coming-they hadn’t exactly snuck in to Ostra’s tent, after all, nor had the camp leader been particularly quiet in his protestations of innocence.

“It’s a network of safehouses, tunnels, and hidden paths that crisscross each of the Five Nations,” Andri explained. He had heard of its existence from his father, who had actually helped to fill in one such tunnel beneath Thalingard-thankfully, long before the pyromancer had cause to try and use such an escape route himself. “It was used to transport lycanthropes and shifters beyond the reach of the Church during the Purge. Now I suppose, if it’s used at all, it’s the province of smugglers and other criminals.”

“Well, I hate to break up this little history lesson,” Greddark said, drawing his sword, “but they’re here.”

Andri rose from his seat.

“How many?”

“Ten that I can see, so that probably means twenty. Longbows, a few crossbows. The ones circling around the back will have blades.”

“I’ll deal with them,” Irulan said, drawing her own sword and disappearing into the interior of the tent.

Ostra heaved himself up from the dirt floor. “Let me go out and talk to them. Once they see I’m safe, they’ll back off.”

Andri didn’t particularly want to let the duplicitous shifter out of his sight, but he didn’t have a ranged weapon, and Irulan had left her bow, unstrung, strapped to their horse’s saddle. As if reading his mind, Greddark pulled a wand out of his multi-pocketed coat.

“Go ahead. But I’m going to have this wand trained at your back the entire time. One false move and you’ll find your guts blasted all over the campfires. And I don’t think you want roasted innards to be that last thing you smell before you die, especially when they’re yours.”

Ostra sighed. Defeat hung about him like a miasma.

“There’s no need for threats. If I wanted you dead, I would have impaled myself on your blade and let the tribe do the rest.”

He squared his shoulders and raised his chin. Greddark stood aside to let him pass, keeping the wand’s crystalline tip pointed at the shifter the whole time.

The shifter leader exited the tent, both hands raised in a calming gesture. Greddark kept him covered from behind the dubious safety of the tent flap.

“Peace, my children. I am unharmed. There is no need for weapons or violence. Go back to your tents.”

“We saw the furless storm into your tent!” a shifter shouted. “We heard you yell!”

Furless . Andri hadn’t heard that particular insult before.

“A misunderstanding,” said Ostra. “Nothing more. All is well. The furless and Bennin’s heir have my blessing. They are not to be harmed.”

There was low murmuring and grumbling that Andri could not decipher. Finally, someone said, with obvious reluctance, “As you wish, Father.”

“He’s coming back,” Greddark said. “The shifters are dispersing.”

“Not all of them,” came Irulan’s reply.

Andri turned to find her yanking another female shifter by the braid into the sitting area. The shifter was no warrior. Her long skirts and apron made that clear, as did the heavy pan Irulan carried in her own hand now in place of her sword.

“I found her trying to sneak in through the back. It’s Leata, Ostra’s first wife.”

“Leata!” Ostra exclaimed as he entered the tent. The shifter woman twisted violently in Irulan’s grasp and Irulan released her with a curse. Leata ran into her husband’s arms.

After a moment, she pulled back from his embrace to look him over. “Did they hurt you? I’ll have Thorn hunt them down and kill them!”

At the name of his nephew, Ostra let out a long sigh and pulled his wife close again, burying his face in her thick braid.

“Thorn is dead, my love. Killed by foul undead while carrying out a special task for me. Irulan and her friends brought me word of his fate.”

“D-dead?” came Leata’s muffled response. “Oh, Ostra! Half the Circle, and now Thorn? Why is the Host punishing us so?”

Ostra shushed her and there was nothing but the sound of her quiet weeping for long moments.

Andri looked away, uncomfortable with the show of grief, and the part he had played in causing it. If only he’d been willing to pursue the idea of a lycanthrope earlier, Thorn’s grisly fate might have been avoided. But, no-he would still have come to question the shifter leader, and Ostra would still have sent him southward, only this time with a tale of a lycanthrope lairing among the graves instead of an outcast from the tribe. Thorn’s death was Ostra’s fault, not his. But somehow, knowing that didn’t make him feel any less guilty.

As the shifter woman sobbed and Ostra murmured quiet words of comfort in her ear, Greddark kept watch out the tent flap. Irulan looked embarrassed and studiously avoided staring at the couple, casting her gaze about the tent and finally settling for contemplating the claws on her feet.

At last, Leata pulled away from her husband, wiping the tears away with the corner of her apron. She turned to Andri and Irulan, not leaving the protective circle of her husband’s embrace.

“Thank you for bringing us word of Thorn’s passing. Did he die bravely?” Her voice nearly broke on the last word.

Andri exchanged a quick glance with Ostra. He had no idea how the shifter had died the first time, and he didn’t think Leata would want to know the circumstances of his second passing.

“He fought well,” he said, hoping it would be enough.

Leata nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“They’re going after Quillion now,” Ostra said, holding her tightly to him as her eyes widened in shock.

“No!”

“It’s the only way, Leata. He’ll never come out for us, but for … them, he might.” It was a brief pause, almost imperceptible, but Andri caught it. The shifter had been about to say something else, but substituted “them” at the last second.

What had he meant to say? Andri wondered, guessing it was important, but having no way to ferret the knowledge out. Not for the first time, he wished his abilities allowed him to detect actual thoughts, not just honesty and intent.

Ostra looked back up at Andri.

“Promise me, if you find him, and he’s guilty, you won’t let them torture him again.”

They hadn’t discussed going after the old werewolf, but of course that was the next logical step in their investigation. It should have been the first , that accusing voice in the back of his mind whispered, but he ignored it.

Andri had heard tales from his father about what the Church had done to lycanthropes during the Purge. Barbaric tortures-skinning them alive with silver blades, sprinkling belladonna over their open wounds, or binding them in close-fitting suits of silver while in their humanoid forms and then forcing them to change, their bodies trying painfully to shift into a shape the holy metal would not allow. He could understand why the shifters would want to protect the werewolf from that doom, especially here in Thrane, where he’d be found guilty regardless of whether he’d committed the murders or not. Andri wouldn’t wish such a fate on anyone-except perhaps his father.

“I promise,” he said.

They emptied the contents of Andri’s trunk into sacks and traded the intricately carved chest to a shifter merchant for supplies and two more horses. If the others were surprised by the silver manacles, various extractions of belladonna, and other accoutrements of a lycanthrope hunter that Andri transferred from the trunk, they didn’t say anything, though Greddark looked at him speculatively. He wondered how much more curious the dwarf would be if he knew Andri never went anywhere without them-though he’d never had cause to use them and prayed fervently that he never would.