The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  “Go on.”

  “Several years ago, before Irulan and Javi came to stay with us, there was an … incident. A dreamsight shifter, hardly more than a boy, but revered far beyond his years for his exceptional gifts, journeyed into the Burnt Wood alone to commune with the Ancient One.”

  At Andri’s questioning look, Irulan supplied, “An old dire bear who is said to have been born before the start of the Last War.” She was leaning forward, listening intently, and Andri realized that, like him, she was hearing this tale for the first time.

  “Over a hundred years old?” he asked, startled. Was that even possible?

  It was Ostra who answered.

  “We believe the Ancient One has been blessed by Balinor, and on occasion, shares those blessings. Skunk went seeking the favor of the Host—”

  “Skunk?”

  “The boy,” Ostra explained. “We called him that because he was marked by one of his dreams. Though he would never speak of it, the memory of that vision branded him with streaks of hair so white it shone in the moonlight. The streaks seemed to widen with time, so that after a while, his fur was more white than black. More like a tiger, really, but the name Skunk seemed to fit him better.”

  Andri exchanged an excited glance with Irulan. So white it shone in the moonlight! Could it be that the shifter they were looking for was not an albino, or even an elder, but simply a skunk-streaked mystic prone to nightmares? Mikal had been in the shadows when he was attacked—in the darkness, only the whitish fur would have stood out to him.

  Andri knew he was reaching, but a shifter—any shifter—was better than the alternative. Moontouched.

  He wondered briefly if that was Bishop Maellas’s reasoning, as well, but before he could follow that twisted path, Ostra resumed speaking.

  “He was gone for months, and when he returned, he was not the same. No longer a boy, surely, but also sullen, uncommunicative, almost feral. He began getting in fights, but he was not strong and was beaten down many times, until he found someone even weaker than him. A gentle swiftwing girl who believed her love could change him.” Ostra paused, shaking his head sadly. “She was wrong.”

  After that, the shifter leader fell into a thoughtful silence. Andri was both curious and hesitant to hear the rest of the tale. The story obviously ended badly for the girl. The only question was how badly? All things considered, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. But Irulan, never patient even at the best of times, had no such misgivings.

  “What happened?” she asked, sitting forward in her chair.

  Ostra heaved a sigh so long it verged on the theatrical—an uncharitable thought for which Andri chided himself.

  “They married, taking a tent on the edge of camp, between the tanners and the butchers, where few would care to visit and where the noise of dying animals would hide any errant cries from the ears of those who did. The swiftwing girl—Kira, her name was—soon stopped visiting her family, leaving the tent only rarely to barter for scraps of fruit or bread. When she did, those who traded with her marked the bruises and cuts she could not conceal. And the bulge of a belly quickly swelling with Skunk’s seed. They gave her twice what her poor bone necklaces were worth, and more besides, urging her to take herself and her unborn child far from Skunk’s angry hand. But she would not listen, would not speak against her husband, and soon no longer came to trade at all. She was still two months shy of her time by the midwife’s reckoning when they found her body in the corrals, where she had seemingly been trampled by horses, though we all knew the truth. Neither she nor the babe survived. Skunk made a great show of grief, and I do believe a part of him was truly sorry. But no amount of remorse would have been enough to cover his guilt—”

  Or yours, Andri thought. He kept his silence—barely—but inside he was furious. How could the tribe have let the situation get so far out of hand? If they suspected Skunk of harming his wife, why hadn’t they done something?

  “—banished him from the camp and struck his name from the tribal chants, with only the marker on Kira’s grave to show he’d ever even existed.”

  “So that’s why I haven’t heard this story before,” Irulan said, but Andri wasn’t listening. He imagined that poor shifter girl, alone and frightened in her tent, neighbors on either side knowing what was happening to her every night, but turning a blind eye and a deaf ear. It was too much to be borne.

  “Why in the name of the Flame didn’t you do something?” His voice broke on the accusation. “You all knew what was happening, and yet you did nothing. I don’t know whose sin is worse—Skunk’s, or yours.”

  Ostra blinked at him, unperturbed. “Think what you want, paladin. Kira was of age, her marriage formally recognized by the tribe. We could not act on her behalf without her consent, though some tried. Every time someone attempted to intercede, the healer had to make a visit to Skunk’s tent the next day to mend a broken bone or a shattered jaw. Kira was so clumsy, he said, and she did not once deny it. Finally, her brothers cornered Skunk and beat him to within an inch of his life, warning him that if he touched their sister again, they would risk banishment themselves to deal with him. Kira’s body was found in the corrals three days later.”

  Andri shook his head, disgusted beyond words by the rationalizations. If a society’s rules did not protect those who could not protect themselves, then what good were they? Sometimes doing the right thing meant not following the rules—a stance which had landed Andri in trouble with his superiors more than once. But he had seen firsthand what happened when strict adherence to regulations superceded compassion and common sense, and he had made the decision long ago that he would always err on the side of mercy.

  “So you think Skunk is behind the murders?” Irulan asked, having noticed Andri’s anger and obviously trying to derail it before he erupted and lost any chance to get information out of Ostra. Seeing her worried look, he forced himself to remember why they were there—to find a murderer, for the sakes of both the victims and those who had been wrongly accused. Focusing on the task at hand, he was able to rein in his anger at the old shifter’s complacency, but in his heart, he promised Kira and her unborn child a reckoning.

  “You asked if there was anyone who would have a grudge against the whole tribe,” Ostra replied, shrugging. “Skunk vowed vengeance when we shaved him and drove him from camp. No one took the threat seriously—if he returned here, he would be killed on sight, with no questions asked. I half-believed Kira’s brothers would hunt him down and save us the trouble. But he disappeared, and we were, for the most part, happy to let his memory fade. Alas, that was not to be.”

  “What do you mean? He defied the ban and came back?”

  The camp leader shook his head. “No. No one from our tribe has seen him since he was shunned. But lately we have begun to hear rumors of a wild shifter terrorizing travelers to the south. He attacks at night, his dark fur nearly invisible in the darkness, save for streaks of unearthly white.”

  “Skunk,” Andri said, certain of it.

  “We don’t know that,” Ostra cautioned, but Irulan overrode him.

  “Who else could it be? You know how rare that coloring is.”

  Ostra nodded, the claws on his necklace clattering against each other with the movement.

  “To the south, you say? Can you be more specific?”

  The shifter hesitated, making the sign of Balinor’s tusks to ward off evil before answering.

  “Cairn Hill.”

  “I’m a paladin, Irulan. I have no reason to fear the undead, if any truly do haunt this graveyard.”

  “I’m just saying, I don’t think we should rush off unprepared.”

  Andri stopped in his tracks and turned to face Irulan. She’d been arguing with him since they left Ostra’s tent to purchase horses, saying they should question Kira’s brothers first, or Skunk’s old neighbors, to try and learn more. Ordinarily, he would agree, but Cairn Hill was two days’ hard ride to the south, and the longer they dallied, the more li
kely it was that Skunk would strike again. And the murdering bastard’s killing spree had gone on far too long already, beginning with his poor, defenseless wife.

  Mindful of the shifters who moved about the camp or peered curiously at them from inside tents, he kept his voice low, but he could not hide his impatience. “Why are you so opposed to traveling to this hill? The undead hold no fear for those who follow the Flame, Irulan—you know that. If you are truly that frightened, then stay behind me. I will protect you.”

  Irulan’s lips pulled back in a snarl, and she looked as if she were about to launch herself at him—and she probably would have, had they not already gathered a sizeable audience in the short time since they’d stopped walking.

  “I don’t need your protection, you arrogant ratspawn,” she spat at him, her claws flexing at her sides. “I just don’t particularly want to walk into a trap because you’ve decided you need to avenge some weak-willed girl who didn’t have enough sense to get out of a bad situation while she still could.”

  “This isn’t about Kira—” he began, but Irulan cut him off.

  “Kira, Kira,” she parroted back at him. “Tell me, Andri—what’s my brother’s name?”

  Andri opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again.

  He didn’t know.

  Oh, he’d heard the name, surely, but he could not now recall it, or the names of any of the other accused. The victims, yes. He could rattle those names off in his sleep. But the ones still living, the ones he could still help—they were somehow less real to him, their plight less urgent.

  Not so surprising I’d feel that way, he thought, since I’ve always believed the same was true of myself.

  But these shifters deserved better from him than he’d ever be willing to do for himself. Irulan deserved better.

  “You’re right, and I’m sorry. It’s just that this is our best lead—our only lead—and I want to follow up on it as quickly as possible. Every moment we delay could mean another death in Aruldusk.”

  His apology seemed to appease Irulan. She expelled her anger in a long sigh and resumed walking. As Andri fell into step beside her, their audience dispersed, returning to their own business about the camp.

  “I know this isn’t your fight, not really. How could it possibly mean as much to you as it does to me?”

  They walked on in silence, and Andri tried to think of a way to respond. She was right. It wasn’t his fight. He wouldn’t even be here if the Keeper had not specifically asked him to come. But he was a paladin, sworn to uphold the rights of the innocent and essay the battles they could not. In that sense, every fight against injustice was his, this one included.

  He was about to tell her that, when she said something so softly he didn’t quite catch it.

  “What?”

  She looked askance at him, and he was surprised to see she was blushing.

  “It’s the horses,” she said again. “I hate horses, and I’m a horrible rider. And I know there’s no other way to get to Cairn Hill.”

  “Wait.” Andri put his hand out, touching the soft fur of her arm to stop her. “You’re a ranger, and you don’t like horses?”

  She gave him an embarrassed grin. “So? You’re a paladin and you don’t like Cardinals.”

  He laughed at that.

  “Come,” she said, pointing between two tents, though Andri’s nose could have told him they were nearing their destination if he’d been paying more attention. “We’re almost there.”

  As they reached the corrals, Andri grabbed her arm one last time.

  “Javi,” he said. “Your brother’s name is Javi.”

  She rewarded him with a smile brighter than the sun.

  They’d ultimately chosen to ride double on a heavy warhorse, not in small part due to the exorbitant prices the shifter handlers were asking—not that Andri couldn’t have paid the cost twice over without blinking, but it was the principle of the matter. He wouldn’t have paid that much for a Valenar stallion, let alone the Aundairian nags the shifters were trying to pawn off on them. But even more compelling than the lower cost was the horse itself—a chestnut stallion that stood a respectable sixteen hands, he was the only one in the lot that didn’t roll his eyes and shy away from Irulan’s obvious unease. Since Andri did not relish the thought of fighting a skittish mount all the way to Cairn Hill and back, he paid the shifter’s fee without haggling.

  As it was, they spent the first day arguing over every stop he made to pray.

  “We rush out of camp like the fiends of Khyber are on our heels, because ‘any delay could cost another life,’ and yet you have no qualms about stopping for an hour to pray a Mystery or two? That’s insane!”

  “Irulan,” Andri replied as calmly as he could, given that he’d been trying to explain his reasoning to her almost since they mounted up. At least this time, she’d had the decency to let him finish the Fifth Mystery—Tira’s Sacrifice—before snapping at him. “I have to pray. It’s where I get my ability to heal and to turn back the undead. If there is anything lurking in that graveyard besides Skunk, then the more time I spend in prayer before we get there, the better. And we have to stop to give the horse a rest, and let him eat. Driving the poor beast into the ground won’t benefit anyone.”

  “That’s all well and good, but we’re using up precious daylight! Unless you really want to get to a haunted burial ground and fight a feral shifter on his home territory after nightfall?” She tossed the remains of their short meal into her pack and went to stand by the horse, impatiently waiting for Andri to mount. “Why can’t you just pray while we’re riding?”

  He hoisted her up into the saddle and climbed up after her before responding, with some alacrity, “I’ve been trying.”

  After that, Irulan stopped complaining and they rode in silence, for which Andri offered up his unabashed thanks to the Flame.

  Despite riding well past dusk and rising with the sun, limiting their stops, and driving the horse harder than Andri wanted, it was nearing evening on the second day when they spotted the hill. Not truly a cemetery, Cairn Hill was one of many places throughout Khorvaire where armies, too far from their own countries during the Last War to bear the fallen home, had instead buried their comrades on foreign soil. Since the end of the War, some families had come and erected small monuments in memory of their loved ones, but the majority of the graves were marked with simple piles of stones, some only a few feet high, and some as tall as a man.

  As they neared, Irulan motioned for Andri to stop the horse. She jumped lightly from the stallion’s back and bent down close to the ground, examining the brush. She walked slowly to the left, kneeling at one point to grab a handful of earth that she sniffed deeply before letting it sift through her fingers. Andri was impatient to follow her and see what she had found, but he held his position, instead scanning the terrain ahead. The cairns were painted in rich shades of vermillion and scarlet on the west while their lengthening shadows stretched out to east, providing more than enough cover for someone to lie in wait. His eyes jumped from stone edifice to tombstone to marble statue, alert for any sign of movement. So focused was he that Irulan’s voice at his knee startled him.

  “Shifter tracks,” said Irulan. “Less than a day old. Moving fast, and leading into the graveyard.”

  Andri smiled. “We have him.”

  “Maybe,” Irulan cautioned. “It could be another shifter. Even if it is Skunk, we have no way of knowing if he’s still in there. But just in case, you’d better leave the horse here and we’ll follow the tracks on foot. It’s getting dark, and I don’t want to miss anything.”

  Andri readily agreed and dismounted, tying the horse to a small thicket and pulling his holy symbol out from beneath his armor. Then he unsheathed his father’s silver sword, its two large wolf eyes glinting redly in the last light of the dying sun.

  “Let’s go.”

  Andri followed Irulan into the graveyard, his eyes struggling to adjust as the sun set and night fell across
the cairns. The area around the burial ground was quiet, though not eerily so. Wind still whispered through the high grasses that surrounded the small hill, night birds called to one another in the distance, and he could even hear an occasional whicker as their tethered 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 that he lost sight of more than once.

  Andri moved in the direction he thought she had taken, his eyes searching the area where he’d last seen her and not the ground in front of him. As he passed between a waist-high pile of stones and a weathered marble statue that might once have depicted Tira Miron, his foot caught on something soft and he stumbled forward, nearly losing his grip on his sword. Recovering quickly, he turned to see what had tripped him, calling silver flame to his blade with a word.

  It was a net, half-stretched between the two grave markers. To one side, an uncoiled rope, hammer, and some stakes lay scattered on the ground, as if their owner had been disturbed in the middle of something.

  Like setting a trap.

  Even as the realization struck him, he felt a sudden chill and Irulan came loping toward him through the cairns.

  “Run!”

  But it was too late. Behind her, a desiccated corpse leapt from atop a crumbling statue, its twisted form weirdly illuminated by the flickering argent light of Andri’s sword. 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 to rebuke the foul creature, the back of his neck tingled with sudden apprehension and he twisted out of the way as two leathery arms slammed down in the space where he had just been. Andri spun to face his own attacker.

  Correction. Two wights.