Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She headed deeper into the forest at a trot, dodging bushes and low branches with a lithesome grace Andri couldn’t help but admire. He prayed she would find what she was looking for in time.

Greddark groaned again, and Andri turned back to the dwarf, hefting his not inconsiderable weight in both arms. He could see last remains of their dying campfire through the trees and he set his course for the dancing orange and yellow flames, taking care not to jostle Greddark too much.

A quick glance as he came out of the trees assured him that Maellas was still chained to the tree, where they had left him. The priest was watching him with interest. It was a shame the elf had to be gagged. Surely his healing abilities must far surpass Andri’s own. If only … but, no. Best not even to set a foot on that path.

Andri laid the dwarf down gently on his bedroll. Greddark was shivering now, though he was giving off more heat than the fire. Andri gathered up his own bedroll and Irulan’s to cover him, tried to pour some water between the dwarf’s chattering teeth, then stared into the darkness, watching for any sign of Irulan, and prayed.

O gracious Flame, I know not why I have been deemed an unworthy conduit of your healing power, but I beseech you to ignore my sins and grant respite to this servant of the Host. Though he walks a different road, still his heart is good, and he seeks to right great wrongs. Grant that if I cannot heal him, your daughter Irulan might be led to the antidote he needs. Give her the speed and cunning of the wolf as she searches, and bring her back to me-to us-safely .

He was just beginning the Seventh Miracle-the Victory over Lycanthropes-when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. His hand went to his sheath, only to discover it empty. Then he remembered-d’Medani had disarmed him and thrown his sword into the underbrush. He cast about for Maellas’s silver dagger, his hand closing around its hilt before he realized that it was only the elf struggling against his bonds. He started to relax, then saw that the elf had managed to loosen his gag by turning his head and rubbing the side of his face against the tree. The rough bark had snagged the fabric, and with one sharp twist of his neck, the gag was dislodged. Maellas spat it out, coughing.

“Andri,” he wheezed, “let me help you.”

The paladin hesitated. A part of his mind was screeching at him not to listen, but that nagging little voice seemed distant. Irrelevant. What was important was healing Greddark.

“Look at him!” Maellas said. “He’s starting to convulse! If we don’t do something now, he’s going to die.”

Andri looked at the dwarf. His shivering had turned to shaking, and his limbs were jerking, as though he danced to some bizarre music only he could hear. Spittle flecked his mouth and his close-cropped beard, and his face had turned an angry shade of red.

Maellas was right. They didn’t have time to wait for Irulan and her antidote, which might not even work. If they didn’t do something now, Greddark was going to die.

They? the voice in his head questioned shrilly, protesting, but the cleric’s insistent words drowned it out.

“Hurry, Andri! Release me. Let us lay hands on the dwarf and call on the Flame together. Surely with our combined efforts, the poison will be neutralized. We can save him. But only if you free me. Now .”

Andri found himself nodding. The warning voice faded and grew silent.

“Don’t bring the dagger. Just the keys to the manacles. Hurry! There’s not much time.”

Andri dropped the dagger. He didn’t need it. Just the keys. He retrieved them from his belt pouch and stood. He had to hurry. There wasn’t much time.

He skirted the fire and walked over to the tree where Maellas was bound. Something was wrong. Why had they chained the Bishop to the tree? He was their friend. He only wanted to help them. Help Greddark.

Frowning, Andri knelt down beside the elf, fumbling with the key. Bishop Maellas was his superior, and by all accounts a humble, pious man. What had he been thinking , clapping him in silver manacles?

Silver … why was that important? He paused, key half in the lock, trying to remember.

“What are you waiting for?” Maellas demanded, his green eyes taking on an amber cast. “Release me!”

Andri wanted to obey-knew he should-but something stopped him.

Why did we put the Bishop in silver manacles?

“Damn you! Do it!”

Andri felt his hand moving of its own volition, sliding the key the rest of the way into the lock, twisting …

“Andri, no!”

He heard a sound like the whistling wind, then a soft thunk , and the Bishop’s silver dagger was protruding from the tree trunk, bare inches above the manacles and his own hands.

Irulan shoved him to the ground and turned the key back the other way before Maellas could escape. The Bishop started to shout something, an arcane word of power, and Irulan punched him full in the face, slamming his head up against the tree. Then she pried the dagger out of the pine and held it up to his mouth, running the tip of the blade along his lips.

“One more word out for you, Your Excellency, and I’ll cut out your Flame-forsaken tongue.”

Maellas’s mouth snapped shut and he glared.

“That’s better.” She grabbed the discarded wad of fabric and forced his mouth open. Not bothering to shake off the dirt and ants, she shoved it in so far that he gagged. “Choke on it, you mooncursed bastard.”

She turned back to Andri. He stared up at her from where he lay on the forest floor, shaking off the last vestiges of Maellas’s charm. Irulan held out a hand to help him up, and he took it, clambering to his feet.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quavering. If she had arrived even a few moments later … he shuddered to think what Maellas would have done to him. Though he knew it wasn’t possible for the priest to infect him, he had a sudden vision of himself standing over Irulan, as his father had stood over his mother, and bile burned the back of his throat.

Never! He would kill himself first.

He wondered abruptly if Alestair had thought that, too.

“Don’t mention it,” the shifter woman replied. She was staring at him oddly, and he realized he was still holding her hand, rather too tightly. He quickly let go and began brushing the pine needles from his clothes to cover his embarrassment.

“Did you find it?”

“It, and a few other things.” She gestured back over his shoulder, where he saw a black stallion standing at the edge of the clearing, tethered to a tree. Closer to the fire, next to Greddark, was an open saddle bag spilling food out onto the ground and his father’s silver sword, its rubies flashing crimson in the flickering light. “I had a quick look through her saddle bags, just in case she might have left the antidote behind. I found food. And this.” She held out a folded piece of paper to him. “There’s some other interesting stuff in there, too. You might want to take a look yourself, later.”

Andri took the paper and unfolded it.

His letter of credit.

He looked up at Irulan, who smiled wryly. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

As Andri pocketed the letter, Irulan headed back over to the fire. She threw on more wood, then retrieved a pot from her own saddle bags and filled it with water from her canteen. Andri watched as she set it over the newly-fed flames to boil and began preparing the stems from a handful of red flowers. She looked over her shoulder at him.

“This is going to take a while, if it works at all. You might as well eat.” As a weak moan escaped from Greddark’s now-bluish lips, she added, “And pray.”