“Where are we?” It was Irulan, the first words she had spoken in nearly two days, since she’d gotten backhanded by one of Ostra’s men. Her lip was still puffy and bruised. “Is this … Lamannia?”
Lamannia. The Twilight Forest, a plane of untamed beauty, where nature and her wild children ran riot. They must have stepped into a manifest zone, a place where the normal boundaries between planes were fluid and shifting, sometimes allowing passage from one plane to another without a traveler even realizing they’d crossed over into a different realm of existence. Such zones were not unusual—the great Brelish city of Sharn, with its floating towers, was located in a manifest zone linked to Syrania, for instance—but Andri had never heard of one in the Burnt Wood. The lairing choice of the lycanthropes seemed much more logical now.
“I said no talking!” one of their escort snarled, a big brute of a shifter with horns and a wide, boarish face—the same one who had struck Irulan earlier. He raised his hand to do it again, and Andri tensed, wanting to jump in the way of the blow, but the chains and another shifter’s dagger at his ribs stopped him.
But Irulan did not need his aid. She was ready for the attack this time, anticipating it, and when the gorebrute shifter’s hand connected with her face, she stood her ground. Instead of allowing the impact to force her head to the side, she moved into the blow, opening her mouth and latching onto the other shifter’s hand with her sharp teeth. Then she bit down, hard, and Andri could see the blood starting to flow.
“You bitch!” The gorebrute spat, trying to extricate his hand, but Irulan held on with the tenacity of dog, her teeth sinking even deeper as the shifter’s struggles jerked her to and fro, nearly toppling Greddark in the process. The shifter punched her in the ear, trying to get her to release him, but she refused. With a howl of pain and outrage, the shifter drew his sword, intending to run her through.
“Hold!”
The voice held all the command of a general or a high priest, and Andri found himself turning with the others to find its source. Even Irulan loosened her hold on the gorebrute’s hand, and he wrenched it away, cradling the abused appendage against his chest. His sword remained poised near Irulan’s midsection, but he, too, turned his head to look.
An old werewolf stood on the path before them, upright in his hybrid form, but leaning heavily on a walking stick. His fur was brown but grizzled with age, and his eyes were a milky blue, the sockets surrounded by thick scar tissue.
Pater.
Two human men and an elf woman stood behind him. They were dressed in simple, loose-fitting clothes and wore no weapons. The woman carried a wolf pup in her arms.
Ostra stepped forward, cuffing the gorebrute as he passed. Then the shifter leader went down on one knee before the old werewolf, reaching out to grasp Pater’s free hand and touch the werewolf’s claws to his forehead. It was the same gesture of respect Irulan had given to Ostra in the shifter’s own tent.
“Grandfather,” the old shifter said, though Andri suspected the term was merely an honorific, “I bring you the werehunters, as you requested.”
“And did I request that you to bring them to me in chains?” the werewolf asked, pulling his hand out of Ostra’s grip, his displeasure clear. “How are we to convince them of our innocence if you imprison and abuse them?”
Ostra straightened. “Your pardon, Grandfather. The chains were to ensure they would refrain from attacking long enough to hear you out. You heard what they did to Quillion. I will remove their bonds, if you so desire.”
Pater ignored him, walking slowly over to the prisoners. He stopped in front of Irulan, cocking his head to the side. His nose twitched once.
“Bennin’s daughter,” he said, by way of greeting.
Irulan’s eyes narrowed, but she did not respond.
To the boar-faced shifter behind her, he said, “Put your sword away, and have Daimana dress your wounds.”
The gorebrute bowed his head in acknowledgement, the horns regressing back into his forehead as he shifted from his animalistic state. He sheathed his sword and walked over to the elf woman, who turned and led him back down the path.
The werewolf moved to stand before Greddark.
“Son of the mountains,” he said, inclining his head slightly.
Like Irulan, the inquisitive did not answer, and Andri wondered idly if dwarves were even susceptible to werewolf bites. He’d never heard of a dwarf lycanthrope, and how would the moons’ influence reach them deep in their rocky caverns, in any case?
And then Pater was before him, and all such frivolous thoughts fled.
The old werewolf’s blind eyes stared at him, not seeing his physical features but reading his very soul.
“Son of the Flame,” Pater said. “We have much to discuss, you and I.”
Not waiting for an answer, he turned and walked away, following in Daimana’s footsteps. As he went, he ordered Ostra to unchain them, return their belongings and their mounts, and bring them into the camp. The shifter leader did so reluctantly, though his men kept their own weapons trained on the trio.
As they collected their things, Greddark muttered something about another dead end.
“What do you mean?” Andri asked, pulling his silver sword out to check the blade over before returning it to its sheath.
“The old werewolf, Pater? He can barely stand, let alone chase down victims in the city streets. Plus, his fur’s the wrong color. And the others, the men and the elf? None of them are walking with a limp. Unless there are more of them back at their lair, I don’t think our murderer is here.” He shook his head in disgust. “Host, that’s just what we need. Another one.”
The werewolves’ lair was not so different from the shifter encampment outside Aruldusk, with tents made from animal skins set up around a central fire, upon which a large buck was being slowly roasted, sending out a delectable aroma that made Andri’s mouth water. A creek gurgled nearby, and a rock outcropping sported a small cave. Daimana sat at its mouth, playing fetch with the wolf pup. As Andri watched, the pup chased after a short stick, which landed on the bank of the creek. The overeager young wolf tried to stop but was going too fast and went tumbling head over heels into the water with an angry yowl. Andri was horrified and sickened to see the pup change as it stood in the middle of the creek, its back legs lengthening and stretching until it could stand on two feet and kick at the running water in frustration.
Not a wolf pup, but a young lycanthrope, morphing into a sweet-faced toddler, who, his mercurial temper fading, was now splashing about in the creek, laughing in delight. Daimana—his mother?—joined the boy, shedding her clothes before jumping into the water. As she raised her shift over her head, Andri quickly averted his eyes, but not before he saw that her long, white legs were free of blemish.
Pater sat near the fire. Ostra seated himself next to the old werewolf and gestured for Andri and his companions to do the same. As they did so, Andri taking the seat nearest to the lycanthrope, Pater began his tale.
“Please forgive Ostra and the Circle. They strive to protect us from the outside world but are sometimes … overzealous.”
Leata’s words suddenly clicked into place.
Half the Circle, and now Thorn? Why is the Host punishing us so?
And Quillion’s ramblings about silver circles made more sense now, as well.
“We are refugees from the Purge,” Pater said. “First we hid in the shifter quarters of Shadukar, then we fled here when the city was razed. We found this small area where Lamannia and Eberron intersect, and we have hidden here ever since, safe from those who would persecute us. We have even begun to breed again.”
Daimana’s laughter rang out against the trees as her son, in wolf form again, splashed her with his tail.
“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 outs
iders 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.
Chapter
NINETEEN
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?”
Maellas gave a nasty laugh. “Return to you? I didn’t even know you were here, old man. If I had, I would have come much sooner.”
“Such hatred is unbecoming in one of your position, my son. And unwarranted—in all the years since the Purge, you’ve not rid yourself of your ‘curse,’ despite the resources available to you. One has to ask, why is that?”
“Silence,” the Bishop snapped, pushing the point of his dagger deeper into Pater’s throat. Though he winced in pain as bright red blood wel
led up around the silver, the old werewolf did not stop.
“You claim to despise lycanthropes—and their descendants, the shifters—and profess to hate me for infecting you, but the truth is, you like being a werewolf. Being among the moontouched gives you strength and power you would never have known as the sickly, fragile priest I encountered in Shadukar, leaving the home of a shifter courtesan by the back way.”
“I said, silence!” Maellas roared, his skin rippling as he fought to control his rage and the transformation that so often accompanied it. He pulled the dagger away from Pater’s throat and with three quick, precise motions, sliced a crude rendition of the Flame into the old werewolf’s chest. As Pater moaned, Maellas laughed again.
“Hurts a bit more than you expected, doesn’t it? That’s because the blade’s been coated in belladonna extract, an interrogation method favored by dear Andri’s father. I’m surprised he didn’t use it on you—but, then, you didn’t put up much of a fight, did you? Played dead while he cut off your claws, and paid for it with your sight.”
Now Andri understood. It was common practice among the Purified who battled evil to sprinkle silver dust in the eyes of those they had slain, in order to prevent the dead from rising again. Since Pater had not actually been dead when his father had performed the ritual, the silver had burned the delicate flesh around the old werewolf’s eyes, blinding him.
But Maellas was wrong about Pater not fighting back—he’d used his claws to good effect before Alestair had brought him down, and it had been one of those wounds that had transferred the curse to his father. Just as, Andri now surmised, had happened to the elf Bishop himself, close to a century and a half ago.
The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Page 26
