Andri followed Irulan into the graveyard, his eyes struggling to adjust as the sun set and night fell across the cairns. Wind whispered through the grasses, night birds called in the distance, and he could even hear an occasional whicker as their horse voiced his displeasure at being left behind. But among the tombs themselves, there was little noise. Andri’s breathing sounded loud in his ears and his footfalls seemed to echo. Irulan, on the other hand, was as stealthy as her wolf forebears, a silent shadow moving against growing darkness.
Andri moved in the direction he thought she had taken, his eyes searching the area where he’d last seen her. As he passed between a waist-high pile of stones and a weathered marble statue, his foot caught on something soft and he stumbled.
Irulan came loping toward him through the cairns.
“Run!”
Too late. Behind her, a desiccated corpse leaped from atop a crumbling statue. He caught a glimpse of the thing’s eyes, glowing red with malevolence, as it flew through the air and landed squarely in the middle of Irulan’s back, sending both of them tumbling through the dirt.
Wight.
Even as he called on the Silver Flame, the back of his neck tingled. He twisted out of the way just before two leathery arms slammed down in the space where he had been. Andri spun to face his own attacker.
Correction. Two wights.
the inquisitives
Bound by Iron
BY EDWARD BOLME
Night of the Long Shadows
BY PAUL CRILLEY
Legacy of Wolves
BY MARSHEILA ROCKWELL
The Darkwood Mask
BY JEFF LASALA
LEGACY OF WOLVES
The Inquisitives • Book 3
©2007 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.
EBERRON, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.
All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Cover art by: Michael Komarck
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6323-2
640-A1480000-001-EN
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v3.1
Dedication
For my husband, Lt. F.O. Meñez, CEC, USN, currently deployed in support of Operation, Iraqi Freedom: you are, and always have been, my hero, and I am so very proud of you. Seabees CAN DO!
Acknowledgements
They say it takes a village to raise a child. It most certainly takes one to publish a book, and I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to many people for helping bring this one to fruition. First and foremost, to my husband and my sons, for their patience and support. To my editor, Mark Sehestedt, for taking a chance. To my fellow WotC authors, Keith Baker, Matt Forbeck, Don Bassingthwaite, and especially Elaine Cunningham, for helping out a newbie. To my fellow Inquisitives authors, Ed Bolme, Paul Crilley and Jeff LaSala, for making it fun. To the Musers and the MOPers, especially Marcie Lynn Tentchoff, Samantha Henderson, Jaime Lee Moyer, Mikal Trimm, Stuart Etter, Ed Gentry and Harley Stroh—you guys rock. And to Catherine, who knows why.
CONTENTS
Cover
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
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 th
e 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.
Chapter
ONE
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.
Irulan waited until the cart emptied before slinging her bow over her shoulder and gathering up her own bag, not wanting to deal with any other disembarking Arulduskans. She knew she had a fight ahead of her, and she couldn’t afford to use up her limited reserves of patience now.
She’d only been to Flamekeep once before, and then she’d been approaching from the north, through farmland ravaged by the War. After passing the Face of Tira, a huge likeness of the paladin carved into a rocky crag eighty miles to the west, Irulan had been expecting Flamekeep to be even more magnificent and awe-inspiring. But when she’d entered the city through the smaller northern gate, accompanied by farmers, refugees, and road-weary pilgrims, she’d been disappointed to see nothing but the back side of the high gray wall that surrounded the Grand Cathedral.
It hadn’t helped that she’d made the long trek over from the Reaches on foot with Javi in tow, the youngling whining with every step. The thought of her brother brought a burning lump to her throat, and she swallowed it with difficulty, along with the accompanying anger. She couldn’t afford that right now, either.
Her scabbard slapped against her thigh as she stepped out onto the boarding platform. A stiff wind blew in from the Sound, laced with the faint scent of salt and the harsh cries of sea birds. She hurried over to the main concourse, her many looping braids whipping around her face like tiny scourges. Shoving her way past the crowd of people that clustered in front of the vendor stalls, she entered the main building through a set of wide double doors.
Inside the concourse, passengers milled about, some buying tickets to Sigilstar and points south, others reading notices posted on the various message kiosks. Still others rested comfortably on the myriad benches while they waited for the rail to depart. The great House Orien unicorn stretched out across the floor in a bright mosaic that contrasted brilliantly with the dusky rose marble. As she admired the artistry of it, a House Orien courier, her dragonmark glowing blue against the golden skin of her cheek, appeared at the base of the unicorn’s horn and hurried off to a side door.
A schedule and map of lightning rail routes adorned one wall, while a map of Flamekeep filled another. Irulan walked over to examine the second, and far larger, map. She easily identified the Cathedral of the Silver Flame, towering as it did over the entire city, as well as its much smaller offshoot, Thalingard. A few other buildings were identified on the map, such as the Great Library and the city’s sole Temple to the Sovereign Host, tucked away in the eastern harbor district. The city’s largest thoroughfare, the High Road, encircled the cliffs that housed the Cathedral like a silver necklace. A necklace—or a noose. Pushing that thought away, along with its attendant images of Javi, Irulan headed through the front doors of the concourse, back out into the wind.
Though the temperatures were rising with the advent of spring, the icy waters of the Sound were always the last to feel the sun’s warming touch, and the wind seemed even colder on this side of the stat
ion. Irulan pulled her collar up in a futile attempt to protect the back of her neck from its chill caress. She surveyed her options from the relative protection of the concourse building. Past the bridge and over the soaring walls of Flamekeep, she could just make out the great silver fire that burned above the Cathedral, though from this distance, it looked more like a candle flame than the huge conflagration she knew it to be. Nearer to the concourse, she saw single- and double-seated carriages lined up to ferry disembarking passengers into the city, along with a few skycabs. Having coin for neither, she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder for the long walk across the bridge.
She had just reached the bottom stair when she felt her bag shift. It could have been the wind, but she knew it wasn’t.
Turning, she snagged a handful of reddish hair just as the would-be pickpocket darted around her, making for a nearby alleyway. She hauled the diminutive thief back, his feet scrabbling ineffectually against the dirt, and called for the House Orien guards she knew would be stationed somewhere close.
As one approached, she grabbed the youngster’s wrist with her other hand and twisted sharply, forcing him to drop the small knife he’d used to slice open her bag. Just a child, his face and clothing smudged with dirt. Not even in his tenth year by the look of him, and already resorting to robbing weary travelers for the price of his next meal. She felt a tiny twinge of sympathy: a few unkind twists of fate and her feet—or Javi’s—could easily have trodden the same path. When she saw what the boy had taken, though, any feeling of empathy evaporated like sweat on a reachrunner.
Flame!
Her identification papers.
“What seems to be the problem?” the guard asked, his bored tone belying the hand that rested lightly on the hilt of his sword.
“A thief, and a poor one at that,” Irulan answered, shoving the boy roughly at the guard. She quickly rifled through her bag to see if the brat had stolen anything else. With a sigh of relief, she saw that everything else was undisturbed, save by her own frantic rummaging. The packet was still there.
The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves Page 1