Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

But, then, he knew he could hurt the magebred cat. Not so one of the moontouched.

He was alone, with a crazy, possibly murderous werewolf sneaking up on him, and his only defense was a vial of purplish-green liquid that smelled like an ogre’s breath after a night of hard drinking.

The surprise was not that he was afraid, but that he wasn’t more so.

There. Another footfall. He was sure of it this time.

Twin whinnies from the horses as they pulled against their tethers confirmed it. Quillion was here.

With a prayer to Onatar and Andri’s Silver Flame-because it couldn’t hurt to have the favor of a deity whose very essence was anathema to werebeasts-Greddark popped the stopper on the vial and turned, intending to fling its contents full in the lycanthrope’s face.

Instead, the vial was slapped out of his hand and sent flying to the ground where it shattered, the belladonna extract oozing out to form a nacreous puddle.

Greddark found himself looking at the business end of a war spikard aimed straight at his head.

His eyes focused on the quarrel, then followed the shaft of the crossbow bolt upwards to his assailant’s arm, and the dark lines of the Mark of Detection that wound up it. Above the arm, violets eyes regarded him coolly out of a delicate face framed by soft golden curls.

The half-elf from Sigilstar flashed him a smug grin.

“I told you it wasn’t over.”

Greddark thought quickly. She was a bounty hunter, not an assassin, or she would have killed him in the City of Spires. If he could stall her, get her talking, it would give Andri and Irulan time to get in position. Thankfully, Irulan was the one with the ranged weapon. Unlike the paladin, she would have no qualms about loosing an arrow into an enemy’s back.

He hoped.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, taking a step back toward his horse so he could see her better.

“Don’t move,” she said, her grin morphing into a scowl as she resighted the crossbow. “My employer wasn’t too explicit on whether he wanted you dead or alive, and it’s a lot easier to transport a corpse.”

“Your employer?” There were a lot of people who might put a bounty on his head, but most of them would have been quite specific about the dead part.

The half-elf shrugged. “You’re the inquisitive. You figure it out. It shouldn’t be that hard. But first get your hands in the air and turn around-slowly, unless you want to find yourself doing a bad impression of the House Orien unicorn.”

Greddark complied, raising his arms and turning around, not risking a glance at the road where Andri and Irulan should be entering the junction. He prayed to Olladra that the two would have the sense to change their tactics once they saw they weren’t dealing with Quillion-he didn’t relish a crossbow bolt sticking out of the back of his head any more than the front.

The thought brought him up short. When he’d first encountered her in Sigilstar, the bounty hunter had been accompanied by a muscle-bound human who had done most of the talking. That is, until Greddark had used his blasting chime to send the brute hurtling over the railing of his balcony.

“Where’s your friend?” he asked with studied nonchalance as the woman pressed the spikard into his back. She pulled his short sword from his scabbard and tossed it aside, then patted him down, discovering the pocketful of bloodspikes in short order.

“Maybe he’s still in the Jorasco house, recovering from our last meeting. Or maybe he’s watching from a window or a rooftop, waiting for one wrong move from you to pay you back with a little blast of his own.” As she spoke, she pulled the spikes from his pocket and dropped them onto the ground. The crunch of breaking glass and the shuff-shuff of a heel in the dirt told the sorry tale of their fate. Damn. Those had been expensive.

Despite her bravado, Greddark could tell she was lying. Wherever her former partner was, she was alone now. Good. It would be three against one. He liked those odds.

And he didn’t really need inquisitive skills to figure out who had sent her. House Medani didn’t have a lot of bounty hunters, and her partner in Sigilstar had worn boots of a style only popular in Korth.

She was here about Yaradala. Wonderful.

Where were that damned shifter and her sanctimonious paladin?

He heard the clink of iron on iron.

“Lower your right arm behind your back. Slowly.”

As he did so, he felt the cold kiss of metal on his wrist.

Manacles.

“Now your left.”

Onatar’s empty chest! If those two didn’t show up within the next few seconds, he was going to have to take matters into his own hands. Make that, hand .

“Move it, dwarf! I want to be out of this accursed graveyard before nightfall.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Irulan’s voice rang out from somewhere behind them.

Finally .

He couldn’t see, but it sounded as if d’Medani turned to glance over her shoulder. The spikard never wavered from its spot pressed up against the middle of his back, though, so he couldn’t risk trying to break free just yet.

“You’ll never get that arrow off before mine impales your friend through the heart,” d’Medani said.

Greddark could imagine Irulan’s lazy shrug.

“So? You hurt him, we’ll just heal him up again. We have a paladin. What have you got?”

Hopefully not a teleportation spell. But then, if she’d had that, she wouldn’t still be debating an answer.

Finally, he felt the grip on his manacled arm go slack and the spikard move away from his back. He stepped forward, expecting to feel the fire of a crossbow bolt burying itself in his flesh at any moment. When he’d put his horse between d’Medani’s weapon and his backside, he turned to survey the scene.

The bounty hunter had lowered her spikard to the ground and was standing with her arms up, facing Irulan, who had an arrow trained at the half-elf’s heart.

But d’Medani wasn’t looking at the shifter. Instead, her gaze was focused on Andri, who had dismounted and stood close to the half-elf, his sword drawn and ready. Greddark could feel the charm pouring off the woman like fine perfume.

“If you’re a paladin of the Silver Flame, then truth and justice are as sacred to you as they are to me,” she said, her lilting voice going husky and her violet eyes luminous. If Andri was reacting to the enchantment, he didn’t show it. “This dwarf,” d’Medani inclined her head-just slightly; her charm wasn’t aimed at Irulan, and the shifter might take any movement as an excuse to let her arrow fly-to indicate Greddark, “is wanted in Karrnath for murder.”

Andri turned his own dark gaze on Greddark.

“Is that true?” he asked. The warning was unspoken, but the paladin’s tone was clear: don’t lie to me .

Greddark reached up to pat his horse’s rump, one open manacle still dangling from his wrist. He briefly considering jumping on the mare’s back and riding away, but he discarded the idea as soon as it occurred to him. He’d never be able to outride Irulan’s arrows.

The inquisitive sighed. Perhaps he’d be able to reason with Andri. If not, and worse came to worst, he still had his wand bracelet and its chimes. Much as he’d hate to hurt an erstwhile partner, if that’s what it took to keep from going back to the Tower to face Yaradala’s father, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“It’s true,” he replied, bracing himself. “I’m wanted for murder.” Before d’Medani could crow her triumph, he continued. “But I didn’t do it.”

Greddark and d’Medani sat on the edge of the merman fountain, their arms bound behind them-he in the bounty hunter’s iron manacles and the half-elf in Andri’s silver ones.