Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

It was as if the Bishop could read Andri’s heart, voicing his darkest, innermost thoughts, the ones he wouldn’t even dare admit to himself. Though he struggled against the temptation, Maellas’s words ignited a fire within him, one that threatened to rage out of control.

“Don’t listen to him, Andri!” Irulan called from behind Greddark, risking drawing Maellas’s attention to her and her bow in order to warn the paladin. “He’s trying to manipulate you!”

“Manipulate you?” Maellas scoffed. “I’m trying to help you, Andri. To give you the surcease you long for.”

He shook Pater roughly for emphasis. “You can end it all now. Kill the one who cursed your father, with your father’s own sword-isn’t it fitting? Do it now, Andri. Make the guilty pay for their crimes. You’re a paladin. It’s your calling. That’s why you were chosen for this task. You, and no other. Do it. Now.”

With a cry of grief and fury, Andri rushed forward, his sword raised. Maellas smiled, gloating as he thrust Pater into the path of Andri’s charge. At the last moment, sensing a sudden shift in Andri’s gait, the old werewolf seemed to sag against Maellas. The Bishop’s grip slackened, and before he could readjust, Pater, with an unexpected burst of speed and strength, twisted out of the way. Andri’s now-flaming sword skated over his ribs and singed his dark fur as it plunged past him and into Maellas’s abdomen.

The Bishop bellowed in surprised pain and released Pater, his hands spasming reflexively. As the old werewolf slumped to the ground, Irulan’s makeshift silver arrow thunked into Maellas’s left shoulder with such force that it pulled him off Andri’s blade and spun him around. Another half dozen arrows slammed into him as he fell-Ostra’s shifters loosing their own shafts along with their frustration. The paladin didn’t think Maellas would be getting up again.

Andri reached down and lifted Pater back to his feet. As his hand closed around the lycanthrope’s arm, revulsion surged through him, the sheer magnitude of the emotion catching him off guard.

Maellas was right, he thought as he held the old werewolf up in one hand, his silver blade grasped firmly in the other. Pater was responsible for the deaths of his parents, for the heartache and the loneliness that had plagued him ever since. For the nightmares that still woke him, sweating and crying out, in the middle of the night. For his inability to truly trust anyone or let them get close.

And he had in his hand the means to exact his revenge for it all, argent fire still dancing along its length. He could kill Pater now, finish the job his father started, and then, perhaps, finally, be at peace.

But even as he thought that, Maellas’s other words came back to him.

… your father decided to take matters into his own hands … we all know the results of his arrogance.…

And, finally, his own words to the Bishop back in Aruldusk rang in his ears.

… the blame for my father’s death lies solely on his shoulders, as does the blood of all those he took with him.…

Alestair chose to attack Pater, when all that had been required of him was to apprehend the werewolf. Just as he had chosen not to take any precautions other than chewing belladonna after Pater injured him. In both cases, the silver pyromancer’s arrogant self-assurance had led to severe lapses in judgment. Lapses that had ultimately cost several innocent people their lives-including his own beloved wife, Andri’s mother.

Pater may have infected him with lycanthropy, but Alestair’s true curse was, and always had been, his pride.

Andri let the old werewolf go, his hand falling to his side. His sword’s silver flames flickered and died. Killing the lycanthrope would accomplish nothing but leaving a pack leaderless and a young boy without a father.

“Pater-” he began, but he got no further.

The werewolf shoved Andri to the ground, his head just missing one of the rocks that circled the fire as he fell.

Maellas had risen up behind him, in hybrid form once more, arrows protruding from his blonde fur like feathered thorns on a pallid vine. As the pale werewolf went to drive his silver dagger into Andri’s back, Pater, his sensitive ears tracking movements his ruined eyes could not see, pushed the paladin aside. Andri could only watch in stunned horror as Maellas plunged the blade meant for him straight into the old werewolf’s chest.

As their leader fell, the pack converged on Maellas. Daimana, her copper fur glinting blood-red in the firelight, was the first to the Bishop, racing toward him on all fours and leaping up, her powerful jaws aiming for his throat.

“No!” Pater’s voice was weak, but it still carried, and his pack obeyed him instantly, not releasing the Bishop, but no longer trying to tear him limb from limb. “He must … return to Aruldusk … be judged. Free … the Circle … clear … names.”

Andri hurried over to the old werewolf, kneeling beside him. He tried to invoke the healing Flame, but realized he no longer wore his holy symbol, the focus through which he channeled the divine power. As he cast about for it, Irulan came up beside him and held the necklace out. His hand closed over hers briefly and their eyes met. Something indefinable passed between them in that instant, but Pater began to cough up blood, and Andri had to turn his attention back to the lycanthrope. He could sort his feelings for Irulan out later. He hoped.

He pulled Maellas’s dagger from the old werewolf’s chest, then placed his hands over the wound, still clutching the chain bearing Pater’s claws. He tried to stem the flow of blood with his hands as he closed his eyes and called once more on the restorative fire, anticipating its bright warmth.

There was no answer.

He could feel hot liquid seeping through his fingers as he tried again, desperately pleading with the Silver Flame.

Nothing.

He felt Pater’s hands cover his own. Opening his eyes, he looked into the werewolf’s blind orbs, knowing that Pater could not see the anguish on his face as Andri realized there was nothing he could do. But the werewolf sensed it, just the same, and he tried to comfort the paladin, even as his life bled away into the dirt.

“Not … your fault. My time. Forgive …?”

Pater’s words trailed off as he heaved one last, rattling sigh. For a moment, they both held the necklace that Andri’s father had given him. Then Pater’s hands went limp and slid away, and Andri was left with only a handful of bloody claws as Daimana sobbed quietly behind him.

Sar, Eyre 7, 998 YK

With the pack’s help, they secured Maellas in Andri’s silver manacles. Once in the magical shackles, Maellas reverted to his elf form, and Andri gagged him to keep him from casting any spells. Greddark had suggested using belladonna extract on the gag, but Andri had refused, though Greddark liked to think the paladin had at least been tempted.

Daimana, it turned out, was Pater’s daughter, not his mate. She would become leader of the pack now that the old werewolf was dead. The other two werewolves wanted to kill Maellas outright, but Daimana insisted they-and Andri-abide by her father’s dying wish.

“My father wanted justice done, Werebane. See that it happens.”

Luckily for the paladin, Daimana had replaced her shift after changing back into her elf form, so he was able to converse with her without stuttering and turning redder than her hair. Women probably thought such modesty was endearing, Greddark reflected, but, personally, he just found it annoying. And a little unnatural- he’d certainly enjoyed the view, and he wasn’t even an elf.

“You have my word,” Andri told her. If the Werebane moniker bothered him, he hid it well. “Maellas betrayed the Flame, and the Flame will judge him accordingly.”