She singled out a large gray one in the front of the teeming mass.
I do not have food enough for all your people, rat-brother.
The rat’s nose twitched, and its red eyes gleamed. The squeaks and chitters, both in front and behind her now, subsided as her chosen envoy replied.
Those who cannot eat will be eaten, wolf-sister. It is the way.
She nodded. It was, indeed.
I travel with three horses, a man, and a dwarf. I need you to erase all evidence of our passing, so that we may not be followed.
The rat regarded her with beady eyes before nodding its head once in a gesture it knew she would recognize.
We have done this for the wolf-brother. We will do this for you.
Wolf-brother?
Quillion.
But if he could teleport, why did he need the rats to hide his tracks? Perhaps, she thought, the spell required a focus his addled mind was no longer truly capable of, and transported him to the gates or the Garden District, instead of to his lair.
Where might I find the wolf-brother? I wish to pay my respects.
The rat clicked its teeth at her.
The wolf-brother sleeps beneath the blue waves and the black ships.
Blue waves and black ships? Was Quillion lairing in the ruined docks down on the Arrow? That hadn’t been one of the places Ostra’s shifters had marked on the maps.
Can you show me?
The clicking became more pronounced. The rat was getting angry.
We do not wish to die.
Apparently, humans weren’t the only things Quillion liked to eat.
Irulan wished she could ask more questions, but the creature’s growing impatience was obvious. So she simply nodded her thanks. Perhaps Andri or Greddark would be able to puzzle out this choice bit of information later. But first she had to get it to them.
She slung her bow over her shoulder and began an easy lope back towards Artificer’s Avenue and the circular junction. Behind her, the rats swarmed over the road, their long, segmented tales sweeping over the dirt and erasing all the tracks—including their own—as if they had never existed.
At the entrance to the junction, she had the rats wait while she hurried over to speak with Andri and Greddark, who were understandably unsettled to find her at the head of a horde of vermin.
“You brought friends?” the dwarf asked when she got close.
Irulan ignored him. “I need your food,” she said to Andri.
“What? All of it?”
“Just the fruit, vegetables, and bread.”
“That is all of it,” Greddark muttered.
“But that will only leave us with jerky, and oats for the horses,” Andri protested.
“We can resupply in Olath,” Irulan said impatiently. “Just hurry up. They’re hungry, and there’s enough of them they could eat us if they decided to.”
“And why are we feeding the local rat population?” Greddark asked, fishing his own supplies out of his pack and handing them over to Irulan reluctantly.
“Because they’re going to make sure your friend from House Medani doesn’t sneak back to bother us again,” Irulan gave the dwarf a dark look. Then she allowed herself a triumphant grin. “And because they told us where to find Quillion.”
“Beneath the blue waves and black ships?” Greddark asked, flicking his reins. “Sounds like the docks to me.”
Irulan had cast her spell to keep them and the horses from making any tracks, and then they had exited the junction after leaving their rations in the dry fountain basin. They were trying to put some distance between themselves and the squealing of rats feasting on fresh food—including meat, as they tore one another apart to get to the fruit and bread.
Eat or be eaten, indeed.
“I thought of that, but the docks aren’t marked,” Irulan said, astride her own horse now. The nag still fought her. She might be able to calm anything from an angry bear to a host of hungry rats, but no horse had ever responded to her touch or her magic. Flame, but she hated the things, and the need to ride them. Why couldn’t she have been born a halfling? Fastieths had to be easier to handle.
“I don’t think they meant the docks,” Andri said. He looked over at the dwarf. “Let me see the maps again.”
Greddark reined in his horse and handed the maps over, watching Andri with interest. After a few sharp tugs on her own reins, Irulan’s mount followed suit.
Andri pointed to the first spot marked on the map, the large park to which they were heading.
“See this district that backs up to the park? It was known as the Crown District, because of all the nobles who lived there. What if Quillion isn’t lairing in the park, but in one of these estates?”
“So the blue waves and black ships are some sort of family crest?” Irulan asked. That would make sense—since most shifters she knew didn’t care much for any body of water they couldn’t cross under their own power, she would be surprised to find a lycanthrope choosing to lair virtually on the banks of the Sound. Then again, Quillion was supposed to be crazy.
“Yes,” said Andri.
That was abrupt.
“You recognize it?” Greddark asked, picking up on the brevity of the answer.
The paladin looked uncomfortable.
“I believe it is the device used by the Stalsun family. The entire family died in the invasion of Shadukar, all save one—Lady Hathia Stalsun, who now resides in Flamekeep.”
“You know her?” Greddark pressed, his curiosity clearly piqued.
Andri did seem to have a lot of information about her.
“I know of her,” the paladin replied, and something in his tone made Irulan wonder just how well-acquainted he and the Lady Stalsun actually were. Then she decided she probably didn’t really want to know.
“Well, how are we going to figure out which estate belonged to the Stalsuns?” she asked, turning her attention back to the map. “There must be at least twenty properties near the park alone, and that doesn’t include the rest of the Crown District. We can’t possibly search them all.”
“We don’t have to.”
Both Irulan and Andri looked at the dwarf, who was smiling.
“Why not?” Irulan demanded, not liking the inquisitive’s smug expression.
“Your rat friends gave me the idea,” he replied. “Look what they were willing to do for food that was several days away from fresh, and then again what happened when they turned on each other to get that food—a feeding frenzy, driven by the scent of new blood. Of rat blood.”
“I’m not following you,” Irulan said, though she thought perhaps she was—and didn’t particularly like where the dwarf was leading.
“There’s precious little to eat here, and we know Quillion—if it was him—didn’t get a chance to feed on Zoden. What’s more likely to bring him out of hiding than wounded prey on his doorstep, warm and ripe for the eating? Especially when this is the last night with a full moon for another two weeks?”
“And who did you have in mind for this ‘wounded prey’ of yours?” Irulan asked, already knowing the answer.
Eat or be eaten.
Damned rats.
Greddark’s smile widened, as if he had heard her thoughts. “You, of course.”
They would use the same trap as the one they had caught d’Medani in, this time amid the park’s black trees, their leafless branches jutting into the leaden sky like the grasping hands of drowning men, reaching out in supplication—though for what, Irulan couldn’t imagine. She’d been born and raised in the forests of the Eldeen Reaches, learning to climb trees before she learned how to walk. The woods were like a second skin to her, one she sometimes thought fit better than her real one. And while this place might once have been a peaceful woodland, there was nothing of the forest in it now. Burned by the ravaging Karrns, the Greensward was as dead now as on the day seven years ago when the invaders first set torches to its branches. Lifeless. Soulless.
More than the thousands of
people who lost their lives when the Jewel of the Sound was plundered, the loss of this idyllic park filled her with a deep grief, and an even deeper rage. The Last War had touched her family only peripherally, and she’d never really understood the hatred the citizens of her adopted homeland had for Karrnath.
Until today.
She wondered why Quillion would choose to lair anywhere near this place. Perhaps he saw it as poetic justice—the charred remains of trees resembled the stakes still used for burning heretics in some parts of Thrane. A reminder that the fire that had taken the lives of so many of his kinsmen—her kinsmen—was indiscriminate, as likely to burn the executioner as the executed.
No. Quillion was not her kinsman. She might be descended from lycanthropes, but she was nothing like them, thank the Flame.
Irulan shook the distracting thoughts away and focused on looking for a likely spot for an ambush. Normally a wooded area such as this would be ideal for their purposes, but the stark, bare trees and lack of underbrush yielded few options. She settled on the bed of a dry pond, surrounded on three sides by a rocky outcropping. A small grotto had been carved into the stone, a place no doubt favored by young lovers during Shadukar’s heyday.
They camped in the cracked bed of the pond, easily finding enough tinder for a small fire that Irulan made no attempt to hide. They wanted Quillion to know where they were.
The sun was setting as they finished up their dinner of thrakel-spiced oatmeal and jerky. Aryth already rode high in the sky, orange-red face round and radiant.
“That was just about the worst meal I’ve ever had the displeasure of eating,” Greddark said with a grimace as he finished his last bite of dried meat and washed it down with several gulps of water. “And I’ve eaten a lot of bad meals. Dwarves aren’t very good cooks.”
“Apparently shifters aren’t either,” Andri said, giving Irulan a rueful grin.
She scowled at him. “You’re welcome to do the cooking yourself from now on. I’d just as soon eat my food raw and still squirming.” Not entirely true, but she enjoyed his grimace of distaste.
Greddark grunted. “Just what you’d expect from someone whose grandmother slept with a werewolf. Or was it your mother?”
They’d agreed that some insults would have to be thrown to make any sort of argument believable. They hadn’t discussed the potency of those slurs. The dwarf had gone straight for the jugular. Any other time, she might have been impressed. Now, she just wanted to claw the smirk off his face.
She rose from her place by the fire, her hand going to the hilt of her sword.
“How dare you?”
Greddark and Andri rose, the dwarf reaching for his own sword, while the paladin tried to placate her.
“I’m sure he was only joking, Irulan. He didn’t mean anything by—”
“Take it back,” she said coldly, precisely.
Greddark’s grin just widened. “Ah. Mother, then.”
Irulan lunged. Greddark’s short sword was out in an instant, and the clang of metal on metal rang off the rocks and through the barren trees.
“You sure you want to do this, shifter? I don’t have any qualms about hitting women.”
Irulan replied by lashing out with her foot, kicking the dwarf square in the stomach. The force of the blow sent Greddark stumbling backward, and Irulan pressed her attack. She pulled her sword in and spun, bringing her other foot around in a high arc. Her heel connected solidly with his jaw, and the dwarf went down. She reversed her hold on her hilt, and raised her sword, meaning to plunge it into the dwarf’s side as he lay sprawled in the dirt.
A strong hand on her arm swung her around, and she was face to face with Andri.
“Stop this,” he said, his brown eyes stern and compelling. As he held her gaze, she calmed a bit, remembering that this was supposed to be just an act. “Greddark’s not your enemy.”
Irulan took a few deep breaths to slow her racing heart as she stared into his eyes. This close to the handsome paladin, she could detect a hint of lavender clinging to his hair and skin. Leave it to Andri to still smell clean after a week on the road. She licked dry lips and his gaze darkened, his grip tightening on her arm. She felt her pulse begin to speed up again, though this time for a far different reason. The nature of the tension between them changed, becoming at once more powerful and more dangerous.
“I’m not your enemy,” Andri said softly. She lowered her sword, taking a small step closer to him.
“No,” she agreed, her own gaze flicking to his lips, then back up to the dark wells of his eyes. She had only a moment to register their shock before she felt a sharp agony blossom in her back.
She looked down in surprise at the sword tip protruding from her stomach.
Greddark had run her through.
They left her there, lying curled around her stomach beside a dying fire, though it was clear Andri didn’t want to abandon her. It wasn’t until she hissed at him to go that he’d allowed Greddark to drag him and the horses away. The torment in his eyes as he was leaving almost made up for the pain in her gut.
Almost.
Her canteen—filled with one of Greddark’s healing potions—was within arm’s reach, but she didn’t have the strength to reach it. Greddark’s thrust had been truer than he intended, and she was fairly certain he’d at least nicked something inside that ought not to have been cut. She was bleeding far more profusely than she should be, and though she was close to the fire, she was beginning to feel cold.
“Let me help you, little daughter.”
She struggled to turn her head. An old shifter stood beside her, his dark fur shot through with gray. He held her canteen in one clawed hand.
No, not a shifter. A werewolf, in hybrid form—standing upright on two feet like a man, but with the face of a wolf, down to his long snout and fangs.
Quillion.
She wondered if she hadn’t heard him because he’d teleported, or because the blood rushing in her ears was just too loud.
“Please …” she said weakly.
Quillion knelt beside her, raising her head gently and pouring a little of the canteen’s contents in her mouth.
Irulan felt warmth spread instantly down her throat and into her belly, but she wondered if it was too little, too late. She didn’t immediately realize that Quillion was talking, and had been the entire time.
“… who wields silver cannot be trusted,” the old werewolf was saying, “So says Pater, so says the pack. That’s why the farsighted one hides them, deep in the forest that burned, so they will be safe from silver flames and silver swords and silver tongues.”
What was he rambling about? Who was Pater? And what pack? Of werewolves? One lycanthrope in Thrane was unusual enough, but a pack of them? Impossible! Forest that burned? The Greensward? Farsighted one? Not … Ostra? And was that about silver tongues …?
Silver.
The werewolf that murdered Zoden had been stabbed in the thigh with the bard’s silver cloak pin. If Quillion bore such a wound, they had their killer.
“Please, old one … more water?” she asked, interrupting his bizarre litany against silver, which had grown to include circles, chains, and forks.
The werewolf complied, lifting her head higher as he trickled more of the warm liquid down her throat. From her vantage point, she could see most of both thighs. They were uninjured.
Quillion was not the killer.
Some noise in the distance caught the werewolf’s attention, and he lowered her head gently to the ground before standing to peer out into the growing darkness. As he did, Irulan saw something on his hand glinting in the moonlight. She thought at first it must be the teleportation ring Ostra had talked about. Then she realized it was one of his claws, tipped in silver.
Like her own.
As strength returned to her, she gulped down the remains of the healing potion, feeling skin and muscle knit back together. With Quillion distracted by whatever he’d heard out in the night, she slowly climbed to her f
eet, watching him all the while. She spied the ring on his other hand, and just as he was turning back toward her, she leapt. As her hand closed tightly on his and she felt the cold touch of metal, Irulan looked toward the copse where Andri and Greddark were hiding and willed herself to be there with them. There was an instant of dizzying disorientation, and then she and Quillion were amongst the blackened trees. But apparently her will had been too strong. They appeared directly in front of Andri, who brought his sword forward in a bright silver arc, not realizing who it was that faced him.
Before Irulan could do more than flinch, Quillion twisted out of her grasp and threw himself in front of her, intercepting Andri’s blade as it swept down. Unable to check his blow, the paladin could only gape in horror as his silver sword cleaved through the werewolf’s neck and chest.
As the old werewolf collapsed onto the ground, he began to change. Bones and muscles moved beneath his skin like something fluid and alive, accompanied by the wet snap of gristle popping into place. His face shifted, compressing like clay in the hands of an angry and ungentle god. His snout retracted, his forehead flattened out, and he was no longer a creature out of legend, but simply an old shifter with tired eyes.
He looked up at Irulan, and for a moment, she thought those eyes shone with gratitude. Then they glazed over, and Quillion was dead.
She tore her gaze away from Quillion’s corpse and looked at Andri, who stared back at her, stunned and sickened.
“What have I done?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Irulan fought to keep her voice even. “I’m not sure, but I think you may have just killed my great-grandfather.”
Chapter
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With an anguished cry, Andri pulled his sword out of the old shifter’s body. It came loose with a sucking sound that made the bile rise in his throat. Swallowing it down, he tossed the weapon aside and fell to his knees, begging the Flame that it was not too late.
The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Page 21
