Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

Irulan was more concerned with trying to calm the nervous nag they’d purchased for her. She was not happy about having to ride her own mount, but Shadukar was over two hundred fifty miles away following the Orien trade route-trying to ride double on his warhorse would have stretched a trip that was already going to take nearly a week into two, and that was time none of them had to waste.

Ostra had offered the services of his best trackers, but Andri had politely declined, while Irulan opined that they’d had more than enough “help” from the shifter leader and his people. Instead, they had quizzed the trackers on likely lairing spots within the ruins of Shadukar. Armed with that knowledge and several detailed maps of the city as it had been before it was razed, they set off for what had once been known as the Jewel of the Sound.

Leaving the shifter encampment just after noon, they pushed the horses and got in a full day’s ride by evening, but were still only halfway to Angwar Keep, their first stop on the way to Shadukar. The outpost had been hit hard and often during the Last War, located as it was just across the river from Cyre-or what had once been Cyre. Now the only enemy facing the keep was the dead gray mist of the Mournland, ever-present and oppressive, reaching up into the sky like a wall of stone that kept the residents of the fort from ever witnessing a true dawn. Of course, since most of the inhabitants were warforged, they probably didn’t care.

They pitched camp several hundred feet to the west of the road, wanting to put as much distance as possible between them and the mist that lingered just beyond the river’s opposite bank. Andri and Greddark tended to the mounts while a surly Irulan complained about saddle sores and prepared dinner. Over a mixture of fried eggs, salted pork, and tubers that the shifter had spiced liberally with thrakel, the trio compared notes.

The dwarf was intrigued by the tuft of fur Irulan had found and asked to examine it, though his perusal yielded nothing new. When Andri had finished the tale of his and Irulan’s investigation, Greddark shared what he and Zoden had learned. As he did so, Andri found himself nodding at several points, and shaking his head in confusion at others. Why had Greddark’s contact included the scrap of paper with the list of spell components on it? There was nothing linking it to the murders, save proximity to Desekane’s body, which had been found in one of the dirtiest parts of the city. Desekane had not been a spellcaster-did the dwarf’s contact think the killer was?

And what was the significance of the smudges of silvery dust? It sounded like silverburn, but that was so commonplace as to be useless as a clue to the killer’s identity-Andri carried a small container of it himself, for use in his private prayers.

And if the paper was somehow related to the murderer, what spell or potion were the ingredients for? He knew chameleon skin was a component used in a spell to obscure objects from scrying, but could such a spell be used to obscure a person? Is that why the Keeper’s wizards had been unable to locate the killer with their magic?

Thinking of the Keeper brought Andri back to Greddark’s contact. Who could it be? Someone high up in the local Church hierarchy, that much was obvious, but who? Not Maellas, surely, but someone close to the Bishop-Xanin, perhaps? The thought disturbed Andri. It was further evidence of the corruption that ran through every level of the Church like the silver veins in its ubiquitous black marble. Though he had to admit, in this case the evil had served a larger good-or would, if they caught the killer.

But while the information the dwarf provided painted a clearer picture of that killer, it raised more questions than it answered, and the murderer’s motive still remained obfuscated. Why would an old werewolf from Shadukar want to kill Throneholders in Aruldusk, especially when the murders were being blamed on the same shifters that were trying to protect him? Was his supposed madness really enough of an explanation? If anything, wouldn’t Quillion want to kill followers of the same Flame that had burned him so awfully so many years ago? Why attack people who wanted the Flame to gutter and die out just as much as he did?

“I don’t know if the political affiliation of the victims is really that important,” Greddark said, scooping up a spoonful of the egg mixture and spreading it over a slice of vedbread. He took a bite and chewed as he thought. “Most of the murders occurred in or around the Garden District. Maybe the location was the important factor, and the victims were mostly Throneholders because that happens to be where most of them live.”

“But that still doesn’t make any sense,” Irulan argued, washing down her own mouthful with a swig of water from her canteen. “The Garden District is practically in the middle of the city. Why wouldn’t Quillion-if it is him-have chosen a location closer to the gates, where it would be easier for him to escape?”

“Look at this,” Greddark said, pulling out one of the maps of Shadukar he’d gotten from Ostra’s tracker. It showed the city’s Cathedral complex and surrounding environs. “Shadukar had a Garden District, too, only it didn’t house nobles. It was the neighborhood where the Cathedral was located. And this”-he indicated a large open square in front of the Cathedral-“is probably where they set up the stake whenever they burned a lycanthrope. If it is Quillion, maybe he’s somehow reliving his past, seeing Aruldusk as Shadukar and hunting his enemies in the same place where they hurt him so badly. Or maybe it’s just the easiest place for him to teleport to, because it is so similar to the layout in Shadukar.”

Andri considered the dwarf’s conjecture. It did fit the facts, but so did any number of other theories. The only one who knew the truth was Quillion.

“Well, there’s only one way to know for sure,” Irulan said, echoing his thoughts. She climbed up from her spot by their small fire to take the first watch.

“What’s that?” Greddark asked curiously.

The shifter shrugged. “Find him and ask him.”

They reached Angwar Keep the following night, just before the gates closed. From a distance, bits of broken glass in the keep’s high windows shone gold and carnelian in the fading light and made the battered fortress seem to shimmer, like some otherwordly bastion of Thelanis. Closer up, though, it was evident that this was just another forgotten outpost languishing in decrepitude. Debris from the War still littered the fields around the fort, including the charred remains of what looked like a Karrnathi siege engine. The keep’s central tower was missing half its roof and listed so far to one side that Andri thought a strong gust of wind might blow it over.

Beyond the crumbling outer wall, however, he could see that the old fort was actually in much better condition that it first appeared. The stone walls had been reinforced with heavy wood and steel beams, the gatehouse had been completely rebuilt and was manned with alert archers, and two catapults sat loaded and ready in the middle of the well-kept courtyard.

Angwar Keep was known throughout eastern Thrane as the Stubborn Shieldmaiden, because it had never fallen during a hundred years of war, despite frequent attacks from both Cyre and Karrnath. It looked as though the keep’s new inhabitants, monks though they were, fully intended to keep that well-deserved reputation alive.

Once inside the gates, the companions were welcomed by the fort’s monastic warforged, who gave them a hot meal and beds in the keep’s old barracks, which had been refurbished into a communal sleeping area. The monks were self-styled disciples of the Redeemed, an elite cadre of warforged who defected from Cyre and had devoted themselves to the defense of Thrane and the precepts of the Silver Flame. Now that the War was over, they were rebuilding the fort as a haven for other warforged who followed the Flame and desired a simple life of labor and service to others. A haven they would have no problems protecting, should the need ever arise.