Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

“I’m not following you,” Irulan said, though she thought perhaps she was -and didn’t particularly like where the dwarf was leading.

“There’s precious little to eat here, and we know Quillion-if it was him-didn’t get a chance to feed on Zoden. What’s more likely to bring him out of hiding than wounded prey on his doorstep, warm and ripe for the eating? Especially when this is the last night with a full moon for another two weeks?”

“And who did you have in mind for this ‘wounded prey’ of yours?” Irulan asked, already knowing the answer.

Eat or be eaten.

Damned rats.

Greddark’s smile widened, as if he had heard her thoughts. “You, of course.”

They would use the same trap as the one they had caught d’Medani in, this time amid the park’s black trees, their leafless branches jutting into the leaden sky like the grasping hands of drowning men, reaching out in supplication-though for what, Irulan couldn’t imagine. She’d been born and raised in the forests of the Eldeen Reaches, learning to climb trees before she learned how to walk. The woods were like a second skin to her, one she sometimes thought fit better than her real one. And while this place might once have been a peaceful woodland, there was nothing of the forest in it now. Burned by the ravaging Karrns, the Greensward was as dead now as on the day seven years ago when the invaders first set torches to its branches. Lifeless. Soulless.

More than the thousands of people who lost their lives when the Jewel of the Sound was plundered, the loss of this idyllic park filled her with a deep grief, and an even deeper rage. The Last War had touched her family only peripherally, and she’d never really understood the hatred the citizens of her adopted homeland had for Karrnath.

Until today.

She wondered why Quillion would choose to lair anywhere near this place. Perhaps he saw it as poetic justice-the charred remains of trees resembled the stakes still used for burning heretics in some parts of Thrane. A reminder that the fire that had taken the lives of so many of his kinsmen -her kinsmen-was indiscriminate, as likely to burn the executioner as the executed.

No. Quillion was not her kinsman. She might be descended from lycanthropes, but she was nothing like them, thank the Flame.

Irulan shook the distracting thoughts away and focused on looking for a likely spot for an ambush. Normally a wooded area such as this would be ideal for their purposes, but the stark, bare trees and lack of underbrush yielded few options. She settled on the bed of a dry pond, surrounded on three sides by a rocky outcropping. A small grotto had been carved into the stone, a place no doubt favored by young lovers during Shadukar’s heyday.

They camped in the cracked bed of the pond, easily finding enough tinder for a small fire that Irulan made no attempt to hide. They wanted Quillion to know where they were.

The sun was setting as they finished up their dinner of thrakel-spiced oatmeal and jerky. Aryth already rode high in the sky, orange-red face round and radiant.

“That was just about the worst meal I’ve ever had the displeasure of eating,” Greddark said with a grimace as he finished his last bite of dried meat and washed it down with several gulps of water. “And I’ve eaten a lot of bad meals. Dwarves aren’t very good cooks.”

“Apparently shifters aren’t either,” Andri said, giving Irulan a rueful grin.

She scowled at him. “You’re welcome to do the cooking yourself from now on. I’d just as soon eat my food raw and still squirming.” Not entirely true, but she enjoyed his grimace of distaste.

Greddark grunted. “Just what you’d expect from someone whose grandmother slept with a werewolf. Or was it your mother?”

They’d agreed that some insults would have to be thrown to make any sort of argument believable. They hadn’t discussed the potency of those slurs. The dwarf had gone straight for the jugular. Any other time, she might have been impressed. Now, she just wanted to claw the smirk off his face.

She rose from her place by the fire, her hand going to the hilt of her sword.

“How dare you?”

Greddark and Andri rose, the dwarf reaching for his own sword, while the paladin tried to placate her.

“I’m sure he was only joking, Irulan. He didn’t mean anything by-”

“Take it back,” she said coldly, precisely.

Greddark’s grin just widened. “Ah. Mother, then.”

Irulan lunged. Greddark’s short sword was out in an instant, and the clang of metal on metal rang off the rocks and through the barren trees.

“You sure you want to do this, shifter? I don’t have any qualms about hitting women.”

Irulan replied by lashing out with her foot, kicking the dwarf square in the stomach. The force of the blow sent Greddark stumbling backward, and Irulan pressed her attack. She pulled her sword in and spun, bringing her other foot around in a high arc. Her heel connected solidly with his jaw, and the dwarf went down. She reversed her hold on her hilt, and raised her sword, meaning to plunge it into the dwarf’s side as he lay sprawled in the dirt.

A strong hand on her arm swung her around, and she was face to face with Andri.

“Stop this,” he said, his brown eyes stern and compelling. As he held her gaze, she calmed a bit, remembering that this was supposed to be just an act. “Greddark’s not your enemy.”

Irulan took a few deep breaths to slow her racing heart as she stared into his eyes. This close to the handsome paladin, she could detect a hint of lavender clinging to his hair and skin. Leave it to Andri to still smell clean after a week on the road. She licked dry lips and his gaze darkened, his grip tightening on her arm. She felt her pulse begin to speed up again, though this time for a far different reason. The nature of the tension between them changed, becoming at once more powerful and more dangerous.

“I’m not your enemy,” Andri said softly. She lowered her sword, taking a small step closer to him.

“No,” she agreed, her own gaze flicking to his lips, then back up to the dark wells of his eyes. She had only a moment to register their shock before she felt a sharp agony blossom in her back.

She looked down in surprise at the sword tip protruding from her stomach.

Greddark had run her through.

They left her there, lying curled around her stomach beside a dying fire, though it was clear Andri didn’t want to abandon her. It wasn’t until she hissed at him to go that he’d allowed Greddark to drag him and the horses away. The torment in his eyes as he was leaving almost made up for the pain in her gut.

Almost.

Her canteen-filled with one of Greddark’s healing potions-was within arm’s reach, but she didn’t have the strength to reach it. Greddark’s thrust had been truer than he intended, and she was fairly certain he’d at least nicked something inside that ought not to have been cut. She was bleeding far more profusely than she should be, and though she was close to the fire, she was beginning to feel cold.

“Let me help you, little daughter.”

She struggled to turn her head. An old shifter stood beside her, his dark fur shot through with gray. He held her canteen in one clawed hand.

No, not a shifter. A werewolf, in hybrid form-standing upright on two feet like a man, but with the face of a wolf, down to his long snout and fangs.

Quillion.

She wondered if she hadn’t heard him because he’d teleported, or because the blood rushing in her ears was just too loud.

“Please …” she said weakly.

Quillion knelt beside her, raising her head gently and pouring a little of the canteen’s contents in her mouth.