Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

Lamannia. The Twilight Forest, a plane of untamed beauty, where nature and her wild children ran riot. They must have stepped into a manifest zone, a place where the normal boundaries between planes were fluid and shifting, sometimes allowing passage from one plane to another without a traveler even realizing they’d crossed over into a different realm of existence. Such zones were not unusual-the great Brelish city of Sharn, with its floating towers, was located in a manifest zone linked to Syrania, for instance-but Andri had never heard of one in the Burnt Wood. The lairing choice of the lycanthropes seemed much more logical now.

“I said no talking!” one of their escort snarled, a big brute of a shifter with horns and a wide, boarish face-the same one who had struck Irulan earlier. He raised his hand to do it again, and Andri tensed, wanting to jump in the way of the blow, but the chains and another shifter’s dagger at his ribs stopped him.

But Irulan did not need his aid. She was ready for the attack this time, anticipating it, and when the gorebrute shifter’s hand connected with her face, she stood her ground. Instead of allowing the impact to force her head to the side, she moved into the blow, opening her mouth and latching onto the other shifter’s hand with her sharp teeth. Then she bit down, hard, and Andri could see the blood starting to flow.

“You bitch!” The gorebrute spat, trying to extricate his hand, but Irulan held on with the tenacity of dog, her teeth sinking even deeper as the shifter’s struggles jerked her to and fro, nearly toppling Greddark in the process. The shifter punched her in the ear, trying to get her to release him, but she refused. With a howl of pain and outrage, the shifter drew his sword, intending to run her through.

“Hold!”

The voice held all the command of a general or a high priest, and Andri found himself turning with the others to find its source. Even Irulan loosened her hold on the gorebrute’s hand, and he wrenched it away, cradling the abused appendage against his chest. His sword remained poised near Irulan’s midsection, but he, too, turned his head to look.

An old werewolf stood on the path before them, upright in his hybrid form, but leaning heavily on a walking stick. His fur was brown but grizzled with age, and his eyes were a milky blue, the sockets surrounded by thick scar tissue.

Pater .

Two human men and an elf woman stood behind him. They were dressed in simple, loose-fitting clothes and wore no weapons. The woman carried a wolf pup in her arms.

Ostra stepped forward, cuffing the gorebrute as he passed. Then the shifter leader went down on one knee before the old werewolf, reaching out to grasp Pater’s free hand and touch the werewolf’s claws to his forehead. It was the same gesture of respect Irulan had given to Ostra in the shifter’s own tent.

“Grandfather,” the old shifter said, though Andri suspected the term was merely an honorific, “I bring you the werehunters, as you requested.”

“And did I request that you to bring them to me in chains?” the werewolf asked, pulling his hand out of Ostra’s grip, his displeasure clear. “How are we to convince them of our innocence if you imprison and abuse them?”

Ostra straightened. “Your pardon, Grandfather. The chains were to ensure they would refrain from attacking long enough to hear you out. You heard what they did to Quillion. I will remove their bonds, if you so desire.”

Pater ignored him, walking slowly over to the prisoners. He stopped in front of Irulan, cocking his head to the side. His nose twitched once.

“Bennin’s daughter,” he said, by way of greeting.

Irulan’s eyes narrowed, but she did not respond.

To the boar-faced shifter behind her, he said, “Put your sword away, and have Daimana dress your wounds.”

The gorebrute bowed his head in acknowledgement, the horns regressing back into his forehead as he shifted from his animalistic state. He sheathed his sword and walked over to the elf woman, who turned and led him back down the path.

The werewolf moved to stand before Greddark.

“Son of the mountains,” he said, inclining his head slightly.

Like Irulan, the inquisitive did not answer, and Andri wondered idly if dwarves were even susceptible to werewolf bites. He’d never heard of a dwarf lycanthrope, and how would the moons’ influence reach them deep in their rocky caverns, in any case?

And then Pater was before him, and all such frivolous thoughts fled.

The old werewolf’s blind eyes stared at him, not seeing his physical features but reading his very soul.

“Son of the Flame,” Pater said. “We have much to discuss, you and I.”

Not waiting for an answer, he turned and walked away, following in Daimana’s footsteps. As he went, he ordered Ostra to unchain them, return their belongings and their mounts, and bring them into the camp. The shifter leader did so reluctantly, though his men kept their own weapons trained on the trio.

As they collected their things, Greddark muttered something about another dead end.

“What do you mean?” Andri asked, pulling his silver sword out to check the blade over before returning it to its sheath.

“The old werewolf, Pater? He can barely stand, let alone chase down victims in the city streets. Plus, his fur’s the wrong color. And the others, the men and the elf? None of them are walking with a limp. Unless there are more of them back at their lair, I don’t think our murderer is here.” He shook his head in disgust. “Host, that’s just what we need. Another one.”

The werewolves’ lair was not so different from the shifter encampment outside Aruldusk, with tents made from animal skins set up around a central fire, upon which a large buck was being slowly roasted, sending out a delectable aroma that made Andri’s mouth water. A creek gurgled nearby, and a rock outcropping sported a small cave. Daimana sat at its mouth, playing fetch with the wolf pup. As Andri watched, the pup chased after a short stick, which landed on the bank of the creek. The overeager young wolf tried to stop but was going too fast and went tumbling head over heels into the water with an angry yowl. Andri was horrified and sickened to see the pup change as it stood in the middle of the creek, its back legs lengthening and stretching until it could stand on two feet and kick at the running water in frustration.

Not a wolf pup, but a young lycanthrope, morphing into a sweet-faced toddler, who, his mercurial temper fading, was now splashing about in the creek, laughing in delight. Daimana-his mother? — joined the boy, shedding her clothes before jumping into the water. As she raised her shift over her head, Andri quickly averted his eyes, but not before he saw that her long, white legs were free of blemish.

Pater sat near the fire. Ostra seated himself next to the old werewolf and gestured for Andri and his companions to do the same. As they did so, Andri taking the seat nearest to the lycanthrope, Pater began his tale.

“Please forgive Ostra and the Circle. They strive to protect us from the outside world but are sometimes … overzealous.”

Leata’s words suddenly clicked into place.

Half the Circle, and now Thorn? Why is the Host punishing us so?

And Quillion’s ramblings about silver circles made more sense now, as well.

“We are refugees from the Purge,” Pater said. “First we hid in the shifter quarters of Shadukar, then we fled here when the city was razed. We found this small area where Lamannia and Eberron intersect, and we have hidden here ever since, safe from those who would persecute us. We have even begun to breed again.”

Daimana’s laughter rang out against the trees as her son, in wolf form again, splashed her with his tail.