Marsheila Rockwell - Legacy of the Wolves

Zol, Therendor 3, 998 YK

They stumbled out of the tavern, laughing and waving. The E’erful Well had lived up to its name tonight, with Demodir buying rounds of Nightwood Ale for a full house. Zoden still wasn’t sure exactly what it was they’d been celebrating, but he was never one to say no to a drink, especially when someone else was paying for it.

He and Zodal made their way through Aruldusk’s deserted Market District, hurrying from one pool of everbright lantern light to the next. The city’s decline was even more evident here than in other Districts. Shop windows were boarded over-more this month than last-the streets were pitted with missing or broken cobblestones, and a dank, sour smell permeated the air, hinting at rubbish and fouler things hiding in the shadows. Zoden rather liked this part of the city. It gave Aruldusk character, like a grizzled old soldier’s battle scars. Zodal just thought it stank. His brother wouldn’t even have come along this evening, but he was convinced Zoden couldn’t make it home on his own.

A concern that might not be so misplaced, Zoden thought as he caught his toe on a loose cobblestone and stumbled into his twin. Zodal shoved him away with a curse and glanced over his shoulder, his face drawn and worried.

“What’s wrong, little brother? Forget your money pouch?”

Zodal spared him an angry look.

“I told you we should have left sooner. Or, better yet, not gone out at all.”

Zoden laughed. His brother, ever the worrier.

“Relax. There are two of us, and we’ve got weapons. Even if Bishop Maellas is right, and the murders are the work of shifters, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to attack two armed men.”

“Two armed and drunk men,” Zodal muttered.

“Oh, that reminds me, I’ve been working on a new ditty. I’m thinking of calling it The Elf Bishop’s Downfall . Here, listen.

“When the silver you love so rejects you

And your miter no longer protects you

Then the wyvern will -

“Wait, where are we going?”

Zodal had grabbed his arm roughly and was steering him down a side street. He was fairly certain this wasn’t the way back to the Garden District, but he was having trouble focusing. That Nightwood was strong stuff.

“The lanterns up ahead were broken, and I don’t want to walk through the dark.”

Zodal was right, and even though two of Eberron’s twelve moons-Dravago and Lharvion-were full tonight, the Hunter’s Moon had not yet risen, and Lharvion’s slitted eye cast only a dim light. It did nothing to brighten the shadows. If anything, the pale light only seemed to make them darker by contrast. More menacing.

Zoden laughed at his own foolishness, but it sounded strained and nervous, even to his ears.

“Damn! Not another one!”

Zodal took them down another side street to avoid more broken lanterns, and after a quick jog through a narrow alleyway, they found themselves in a grassy courtyard. A statue of the paladin Tira Miron stood sentinel in the center, her sword raised up in a gesture of defiance.

“Where are we?” Zoden asked, beginning to sober up as he realized that there were no exits.

“I think we’re behind the Cathedral. Where they house visiting Church dignitaries.” Zodal drew his sword. “And I think we were herded here.”

Zoden looked at the dark windows and closed off balconies that ringed the small courtyard. No prelates visited at this time of year. The apartments would all be conveniently empty. He fumbled his own weapon from its sheath, though the dagger looked pitifully small in the moonlight.

“Ambush?”

“Trap.”

“So where are they?”

They turned as one back toward the entrance.

As if in answer, something stepped out of the shadows.

At first, Zoden though it was just a dog, but it was too large. A wolf, or a big cat? In the city? Zoden squinted, trying to make his drink-addled eyes focus, but the harder he tried, the fuzzier his vision became. Matters weren’t helped when a bank of clouds scuttled across Lharvion’s eye, casting the courtyard into gloom. The creature that approached was nothing but a grayish blur on four legs, advancing toward them.

“Is that a wolf?” Zoden asked, brandishing his dagger.

Zodal didn’t answer, instead taking up position beside him at the feet of Tira Miron. They stood, weapons forward and feet planted, and at any other time, the irony of two Throneholders making their stand in the shadow of the Flame’s greatest champion would have amused the cynical bard, but not tonight. Tonight Zoden was just scared.

With a speed that surprised both of the ir’Marktaros brothers, the animal leaped at them, coming down on two feet in front of Zodal and raking its front claws across his midsection, shredding clothing and leaving deep gouges in the hardened leather he wore beneath. Before Zoden could react, the creature-was it standing? — caught him on the backswing, its paw- fist? — connecting powerfully with his temple. The force of the blow sent Zoden flying across the courtyard to land in a stunned heap, his dagger sliding across the slick grass and into the shadows.

He tried to blink the stars out of his eyes, struggling up onto his hands and knees. From the statue, he heard a thump and a crack, then the sound of metal bouncing off stone. Shaking his long blond hair out of his face, Zoden looked up to see his brother pinned against Tira Miron’s jutting knee, his sword lying useless at his feet.

Zoden watched in horror as the thing swatted his brother’s head aside and opened its jaws wide. For a brief moment, Zodal’s blue eyes locked with his own, and he mouthed the word, “Run.”

Then his twin was screaming as the thing tore at his throat, his blood spraying out to coat marble, grass, and flesh.

Zoden felt a sudden wetness in his trousers, and then he lurched to his feet, choking on bile and tears. He looked about wildly for his dagger, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Lharvion escaped from the clouds’ embrace, and Zodal’s sword glinted mockingly in the moonlight. Zoden considered running to grab the blade and stabbing the creature in the back as it savaged his brother. Then Zodal’s scream of terror trailed off into in a wet gurgle, and his courage fled.

Praying his mother would forgive him, Zoden turned and ran.

And behind him, over the pounding of his heart and his terrified sobs, he thought he heard laughter.

Sar, Therendor 14, 998 YK

The lightning rail pulled into the station with an unexpected lurch, nearly sending Irulan into the arms of the white-robed priest who sat across from her. The man, whose brightly polished holy symbol marked him as a servant of the Silver Flame, waved her apology away, distaste flashing across his features before he could hide it. She wasn’t surprised. They had shared this cart from Aruldusk, and shifters weren’t very popular there right now. Then again, it could simply be the aroma of her stained leathers causing his nose to wrinkle like unpressed linen. Flame knew the last time they’d had a proper washing. Laundering her traveling clothes was the least of her concerns these days.

Whatever the reason, the priest had tried to find another seat when she boarded, but the cart was full, and he seemed unwilling to pay the cost to upgrade to a less crowded cart-apparently his attachment to his coin was marginally stronger than his aversion to her and her kind.

The thought brought a snarl to her face and the priest blanched, perspiration beading on his wide forehead. He grabbed his satchel and hurried from the cart, the fear rolling off him with a stench so strong she didn’t need a shifter’s nose to smell it.