Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

“The forest sustains us,” Pater continued, “and those few things that we cannot make ourselves, Ostra’s shifters bring to us once a month-sometimes sooner, if we need medicine for the cub. Their rangers patrol the woods, and they keep outsiders from coming too near the manifest zone, though I believe they tell those they turn away that it is for their protection, not ours.”

At the mention of rangers, Andri felt himself gripped by a sudden dread, and he turned to look at Irulan. No. She couldn’t be involved … could she?

Pater, sensing his movement, chuckled.

“Not Irulan. Do you truly think she would try to protect us when we represent everything she hates about herself?”

Irulan opened her mouth to protest, glaring first at Andri and then at Pater, but the old werewolf’s next words silenced her.

“Though Javi, on the other hand, has been most helpful. He’s turning into quite the ranger-almost as good as his sister. It’s a shame she can’t be swayed to our cause. The two would make quite a team.”

Irulan’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Black rage chased disbelief across her face for several moments before the rage won.

“That crooked bastard!” she snarled, her words venomous. “After all I’ve done-”

“He’s hardly that,” Pater interrupted. “He has the same father you do.”

“Not if he’s helping you , he doesn’t,” Irulan spat. “No real Silverclaw would jeopardize his freedom-his life -to aid a werewolf. We remember the Betrayer.”

“As do we,” Pater replied, his tone no longer mild. “Do not paint us all the same hue, simply because we share the same heritage. It is yours, no less than ours.”

Irulan glared. “Regardless, after we free him, I’m going to kill him.”

Andri wasn’t entirely sure that she was joking.

Pater seemed satisfied, though, for he continued his tale. “Ah, yes. That’s why you have come, is it not? To free your brother and the other members of the Circle from their imprisonment? Ostra has told us of your investigation, and-”

“What do you mean, other members?”

The old werewolf turned his head in Greddark’s direction.

“Several members of the Circle have been among those arrested, yes. Is that important?”

Greddark shrugged, then seemed to realize Pater couldn’t see him. “Could be,” he said, but Andri could almost see the wheels turning in his head as the inquisitive mulled over this new piece of the puzzle.

“We know that you believe the murders in Aruldusk are being committed by a lycanthrope. While we sympathize with the good citizens of that city, we are not responsible for what is happening there.”

“Prove it.”

Pater looked at the inquisitive in surprise. “How would you have us do that, master dwarf, if your own ability to discern lies will not convince you?”

“The killer was stabbed in the thigh by his last victim. Let us examine your people to see if any of them have similar wounds.”

Pater did not hesitate. “Of course.”

He called the two men and Daimana over.

“Not her,” Andri said as the elf woman approached, still naked save for her sodden coppery hair, which clung to her body like sheer silk and left little to the imagination. He could feel his cheeks burning as he looked anywhere but in her direction. “We can see she’s not hurt. She can go.”

The elf laughed at his prudishness and walked the long way around the fire to get back to the creek, making sure to brush up against him as she passed. When she was gone, Andri looked up again, only to find Irulan frowning at him.

The two men dropped their trousers and submitted themselves to Greddark’s inspection. As the dwarf had surmised earlier, neither of them were injured.

“Is this all of them?” Greddark asked, resuming his seat.

Pater nodded. “Save for the cub. And me.”

So saying, the old werewolf clambered to his feet, and began to methodically part the fur on his thighs with both hands to show that he bore no wounds underneath. But doing so required him to put his entire weight on his own legs, instead of using the walking stick, and it was too much. Pater’s knees buckled and he would have fallen, but Andri sprang up and caught the lycanthrope before he hit the ground. As he helped the werewolf back to his feet, Pater’s hand darted out, unerringly finding the chain Andri wore and yanking it from around his neck.

The werewolf held the necklace up.

“Son of the Flame, son of the Flame wielder,” he said, hissing the sibilants, and Andri saw his hand.

He had no claws .

Sar, Eyre 7, 998 YK

Before Andri could think to react, something big and white blurred past him and crashed into the old werewolf, knocking both him and Pater to the ground and sending the necklace of claws flying. As Andri rolled frantically to the side to avoid the fire, he caught glimpses of Pater and his attacker tumbling together in a brown and white tangle a few feet away. He regained his feet and drew his sword, joining the others who had gathered around the two combatants.

As they fought, Andri saw that Pater’s assailant was another werewolf. The ivory-furred lycanthrope wore simple gray trousers and the shredded remains of a like-colored tunic, no doubt ruined when he transformed. A dark stain marred the fabric of one pant leg, and it took Andri a moment to realize it was old blood. A similar stain discolored the bottom of a small pouch he wore at his waist.

Then the interloper was standing, dragging Pater to his feet. He had the old werewolf by the neck, a dagger pointed at his throat. The blade glinted silver in the reflected light of the fire.

He turned to face them, using Pater as a shield from the arrows of Ostra’s shifters. Not that those arrows would do more than annoy him, even if one of the shifters could get a decent angle. They had been meant for mundane foes and would not harm a lycanthrope. There were only two weapons visible here that would-the dagger the blonde werewolf held, and Andri’s sword. The werewolf knew it and directed his words to the paladin.

“I really must thank you,” he said, his voice incongruously cultured, coming from the muzzle of a wolf. “I had hoped only that you would lead me to the pack. I never dreamed you would lead me to my own sire. I thought your father had killed him, but apparently getting himself cursed wasn’t the only mistake Alestair made.”

As he spoke, the werewolf dug the tip of his blade into Pater’s throat, and the movement caused a second flash of metal, this one on his hand.

The werewolf wore a silver ring, set with a single, bright diamond.

Andri’s gasp of shock echoed through the camp, and he felt as if he’d just been punched in the stomach. The world spun, and he thought he might pass out.

He blinked away the sudden vertigo, praying to the Flame that his eyes were deceiving him, but when the world righted itself again, the scene before him had not changed. Pater was still held captive by a white-furred werewolf with a leg wound, the murderer who had been plaguing Aruldusk, none other than …

“Bishop Maellas?” Andri whispered in horror.

The werewolf looked at him and smiled.

“Ah, Andri. Brighter than your father, after all. That complicates things a bit.”

As he spoke, he changed , though his grip on Pater never loosened. The fur on his body retracted, the amber cast left his eyes, and his face reshaped itself into a familiar countenance.

“So you have decided to return to us?” It was, against all expectation, Pater. The old werewolf showed no fear, seeming calm, even resigned as he leaned heavily against Maellas, trying to lessen the burden on his frail legs. “Surely there are better ways to ensure your welcome?”