Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

Something dove at them from the high branches of the canopy overhead, and Andri’s blade arced up to meet it, blazing a trail of argent fire in the settling darkness. As his sword clanged against their foe, Greddark cried out, “No! Wait!”

But it was too late. Andri’s magical blade met little resistance, cleaving the airborne assailant neatly in two. As both halves of what Andri now realized was some sort of mechanical construct fell to the ground with twin thumps, Greddark let out a low groan.

“Wonderful. You just broke my messenger bird. Do you have any idea how much that thing cost to make?”

Andri extinguished his blade and sheathed it as Greddark hurried over to the remains of his metal bird, fussing over it as if it had been a real pet. When Andri got closer, he saw it wasn’t the construct itself the dwarf was worrying about, but what it had been carrying-a piece of parchment that was miraculously still intact, and the shattered remnants of a glass vial that had contained what looked like silverburn.

“What is it?” Andri asked.

Greddark scanned the parchment before responding. “Remember that bit of paper found at one of the crime scenes, with what looked like a partial list of spell components? My wizard friend in Sigilstar thinks it’s a sort of nondetection spell, one customized specifically for lycanthropes.”

That would explain why even Flamekeep’s top wizards had been unable to locate the source of the fur Irulan had found.

“But this is odd,” the dwarf continued, rubbing some of the silver dust thoughtfully between his fingers.

“What is?”

“The smudge on the paper was from silverburn, as you suggested, but with a rather unique composition. It seems it’s not made of silver at all, but of plat-”

The inquisitive was interrupted by a noise from the underbrush. They turned to see a shifter step into the clearing. It was Irulan, returning from her hunt at last.

And though the dire wolf was not with her, she was not alone.

“Well met, Sir Paladin, Master Dwarf,” Ostra Farsight said, nodding to each of them in turn. As the shifter leader shoved Irulan to the ground before him, belying his polite greeting, Andri could just make out the chain that led from her bound wrists to the older shifter’s belt. Andri reached for his sword, but several other shifters moved out of the trees, long bows and crossbows trained on him and Greddark.

They were surrounded.

Ostra smiled unpleasantly, his teeth flashing white in the gloom.

“On behalf of Pater and the Silver Circle, I bid you welcome.”

They traveled for another day and a half into the heart of the Burnt Wood. Ostra and his shifters led them through the dense forest, chained to one another like prisoners in the iron mines, their horses-loaded with their equipment, including their weapons-being pulled along behind. They weren’t allowed to speak to one another. Irulan had gotten cuffed across the mouth when she tried to tell them how the shifters had ambushed her. But Andri was able to piece together some of what had happened from snatches of conversation between their captors that he caught along the way. Apparently, Ostra had sent another reachrunner to Shadukar ahead of them. He had just been meant to observe and report, but after they had confronted Quillion, he’d followed them and watched long enough to see they were heading into the woods. When he had returned to pay his respects to Quillion, he’d found the old werewolf’s body defiled-the fingers on both hands were missing, cut off cleanly with a sharp blade. The teleportation ring was still there, however, and the shifter had used it to travel to Ostra. The camp leader and his men-the so-called “Silver Circle”-had not been at Aruldusk, as the shifter had expected, but at the werewolves’ lair. Once Ostra’s men knew they were coming, it was a simple matter for the shifters to find them in the forest, and to overpower both Irulan and their dire wolf guide. Now they were taking the trio back to the lair where Pater, the leader of the werewolves, would “deal” with them.

Andri was dismayed to hear what had happened to Quillion’s body, but surely the shifter was mistaken. Irulan had expected the rats would come to claim the werewolf for their own-perhaps they had conquered their fear and begun their feast with his fingers, only to be frightened away by the shifter’s return before they could finish the job.

And why had Ostra been with the werewolves and not in the shifter encampment? Surely he couldn’t have known Quillion’s ramblings would lead them to the Burnt Wood? Even the reachrunner had been surprised to find him there, though Andri had heard something about a schedule being “moved up.” The shifter leader must have had some other reason for being there, then, one that had nothing to do with them. But what? Obviously, he was in league with the werewolves, but what did that mean, exactly? Was he helping to harbor the murderer, or simply trying to protect them from discovery and persecution, as he had claimed to be doing for Quillion?

But that line of thinking left Andri with even more disturbing questions. Andri’s father had been infected by a werewolf from the Burnt Wood. It stood to reason that the lycanthrope was a member of Pater’s pack. So if Ostra was helping the werewolves and had been for some time, how much did the shifter really know about what had happened to Alestair Aeyliros? Ostra had called him “child of the moontouched,” yet the true tale of what had transpired that night in Flamekeep was not widely known. Either the old shifter had a spy network to rival the Queen’s, or he had gotten his information from the only other party to Alestair’s infection-the werewolf that had doomed him and Chardice to death.

Which meant the werewolf had survived his encounter with Andri’s father and might still be alive.

The possibility stunned Andri. His father had been sure of the lycanthrope’s demise-Andri wore the thing’s claws around his neck, for Tira’s sake-and the paladin had never had any cause to doubt Alestair’s certainty. He had never even contemplated seeking revenge for the deaths of his parents, because he’d believed the one who had cursed his father-and, ultimately, his entire family-was already dead.

And now, it seemed, he might have been wrong.

Andri tried to marshal his thoughts as he stumbled along behind Irulan and Greddark. The Keeper had sent him to find a killer and prevent potential genocide, not to pursue a personal vendetta. He had to focus on his duty, not vengeance.

But the opportunity to make someone else pay for taking his parents from him … the thought of it was heady and sweet, like fine Aundairian wine.

Too sweet.

He knew temptation when it reared its vile head, and he would not be lured by its empty promises. He was here to apprehend a murderer, not slay a demon from his own past.

But, Flame help him … what if they were one and the same?

It was nearing evening on the second day of their capture when Andri began to notice subtle changes in the forest around them. As he followed Irulan and Greddark along a game trail, pulled along by the chains that bound them at the wrists and ankles, he realized that it wasn’t as humid as it had been, or as warm. Though he wasn’t a ranger by any stretch, the trees seemed different to him-taller, perhaps, with thicker trunks and darker foliage. The animal life seemed more abundant-birdsong trilled overhead and the leaves all about rustled with unseen activity. It was as if they had entered some primal place in the woods, an area ancient and undisturbed by even the faintest vestiges of civilization. Andri found it both peaceful and profoundly unsettling.

“Where are we?” It was Irulan, the first words she had spoken in nearly two days, since she’d gotten backhanded by one of Ostra’s men. Her lip was still puffy and bruised. “Is this … Lamannia?”