Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

Irulan felt warmth spread instantly down her throat and into her belly, but she wondered if it was too little, too late. She didn’t immediately realize that Quillion was talking, and had been the entire time.

“… who wields silver cannot be trusted,” the old werewolf was saying, “So says Pater, so says the pack. That’s why the farsighted one hides them, deep in the forest that burned, so they will be safe from silver flames and silver swords and silver tongues.”

What was he rambling about? Who was Pater? And what pack? Of werewolves? One lycanthrope in Thrane was unusual enough, but a pack of them? Impossible! Forest that burned? The Greensward? Farsighted one? Not … Ostra? And was that about silver tongues …?

Silver .

The werewolf that murdered Zoden had been stabbed in the thigh with the bard’s silver cloak pin. If Quillion bore such a wound, they had their killer.

“Please, old one … more water?” she asked, interrupting his bizarre litany against silver, which had grown to include circles, chains, and forks.

The werewolf complied, lifting her head higher as he trickled more of the warm liquid down her throat. From her vantage point, she could see most of both thighs. They were uninjured.

Quillion was not the killer.

Some noise in the distance caught the werewolf’s attention, and he lowered her head gently to the ground before standing to peer out into the growing darkness. As he did, Irulan saw something on his hand glinting in the moonlight. She thought at first it must be the teleportation ring Ostra had talked about. Then she realized it was one of his claws, tipped in silver.

Like her own.

As strength returned to her, she gulped down the remains of the healing potion, feeling skin and muscle knit back together. With Quillion distracted by whatever he’d heard out in the night, she slowly climbed to her feet, watching him all the while. She spied the ring on his other hand, and just as he was turning back toward her, she leapt. As her hand closed tightly on his and she felt the cold touch of metal, Irulan looked toward the copse where Andri and Greddark were hiding and willed herself to be there with them. There was an instant of dizzying disorientation, and then she and Quillion were amongst the blackened trees. But apparently her will had been too strong. They appeared directly in front of Andri, who brought his sword forward in a bright silver arc, not realizing who it was that faced him.

Before Irulan could do more than flinch, Quillion twisted out of her grasp and threw himself in front of her, intercepting Andri’s blade as it swept down. Unable to check his blow, the paladin could only gape in horror as his silver sword cleaved through the werewolf’s neck and chest.

As the old werewolf collapsed onto the ground, he began to change. Bones and muscles moved beneath his skin like something fluid and alive, accompanied by the wet snap of gristle popping into place. His face shifted, compressing like clay in the hands of an angry and ungentle god. His snout retracted, his forehead flattened out, and he was no longer a creature out of legend, but simply an old shifter with tired eyes.

He looked up at Irulan, and for a moment, she thought those eyes shone with gratitude. Then they glazed over, and Quillion was dead.

She tore her gaze away from Quillion’s corpse and looked at Andri, who stared back at her, stunned and sickened.

“What have I done?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

Irulan fought to keep her voice even. “I’m not sure, but I think you may have just killed my great-grandfather.”

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With an anguished cry, Andri pulled his sword out of the old shifter’s body. It came loose with a sucking sound that made the bile rise in his throat. Swallowing it down, he tossed the weapon aside and fell to his knees, begging the Flame that it was not too late.

He laid his hands on the shifter’s ruined chest, closed his eyes and prayed, fervently invoking the healing power of the Flame.

Nothing happened.

No argent light or soft heat spreading out from his hands, no divine presence, nothing but warm, wet fur beneath his palms, cooling quickly in the chill night air.

He tried again, his brow furrowing with the intensity of his intercession, as if he could heal Quillion through force of will alone. As if the Flame were his to command, instead of the other way around.

It was futile, and he knew it, but he didn’t stop until he felt Irulan’s hand on his shoulder.

“Andri, let him go. He wouldn’t thank you for bringing him back even if you could.”

The paladin opened his eyes and looked over at the shifter woman, who was kneeling beside him on the ground, her own gaze focused on Quillion.

“What do you mean?” he asked, the slight quaver in her voice making his heart wrench. Because he had put it there.

Irulan reached over and lifted Quillion’s left hand. “Do you see? The silver claw? He was a member of my clan. Probably Bennin’s own son, Rave of the Silver Quill.”

Greddark dug out his wand from within his coat and now whispered something in Dwarven. The multifaceted crystal began to glow, infusing the stand of trees with a hazy, indistinct light. Andri knew it was for his benefit. Both Irulan and the dwarf could see well in the dark. It was a kindness he could have done without, though. The light made Quillion’s dead eyes gleam. Andri knew he was only imagining the accusation he saw there, but the knowledge did not allay the guilt.

“Who’s Bennin?” Greddark asked.

“The greatest shifter hero who ever lived,” Irulan said, her tone regaining some of its usual acerbity at the dwarf’s ignorance. “There was a time when the Church did not differentiate between the weretouched and the moontouched. Bennin changed that. He was a renowned lycanthrope slayer who became famous during the Purge for his efforts on behalf of the Church, hunting and killing more than fifty of the moontouched with his claws alone-claws fashioned magically of pure, holy silver. The stories tell of how he led a contingent of brave knights and clerics into the Demon Wastes to destroy a cult of lycanthropes who were set on taking revenge against the Church. The mission was betrayed by a member of the expedition who was, unbeknownst to Bennin, infected by a wererat’s bite.” Irulan’s voice had taken on a sing-song quality, and she rocked slightly on her knees, her eyes half-lidded as she recited the shifter tale. “The Betrayer led Bennin and his men into a fatal ambush. The battle was fierce and bloody and raged beneath the light of no fewer than five full moons. But finally, the Silverclaw and the three most powerful leaders of the cult were all who remained. Bennin fought with speed, cunning, and above all, honor, but he was overmatched and died beneath the jaws of an old werebear. But not before reaching into the lycanthrope’s chest with his silver claws and ripping out the creature’s still-beating heart. His sacrifice broke the power of the cult and ended the Church’s persecution of shifters. His son, Rave of the Silver Quill, was the first to set his father’s story to paper, and now all of Khorvaire knows of Bennin’s greatness.” She stopped rocking and looked askance at Greddark. “All of Khorvaire except for the Mror Holds, that is.”

The dwarf shrugged. “Sorry. Must have skipped that lesson.”

“I still don’t understand what that has to do with Quillion,” Andri said, finally reaching out to close the dead shifter’s eyes and free himself from that unseeing stare.

“Bennin left three legacies for his descendants: his name, his silver claws-we all have the one claw tipped in silver out of respect for him-and his hatred for the moontouched. Quillion-whom I believe was really Rave of the Silver Quill-was infected with lycanthropy, just like the Betrayer. He would not want to live so afflicted. None of us would. It’s probably what drove him crazy.” She looked up into Andri’s eyes, her expression earnest. “He wasn’t trying to save me when he jumped in front of your sword, Andri. He was trying to die . And you helped him do that. You did him a favor, one I hope you would do for me, if it ever came to that.”