The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  He looked back at the ghost tiger—too late!

  Sharihon sprang, her front paws landing in the middle of his chest, knocking him to the barn floor with enough force that his blade flew from his hand. On his back and weaponless, he watched as the tiger’s head dipped down toward him, her jaws wide and slavering. His arms free, Greddark waited until she was in range, then cocked his fist and punched the tiger in the mouth as hard as he could. He felt the crunch of breaking bone as teeth shattered. The tiger rocked to the side, momentarily off balance. Greddark used the opportunity to snatch a charm off his bracer. A bell grew in his hand—he could only pray it was the right one.

  As the tiger shook her head, showering him with warm blood, and came in for another bite, Greddark shoved the golden bell straight down her throat, slamming it to one side to activate the clapper even as the great cat bit down on his arm, stiletto-like teeth puncturing his flesh.

  Greddark felt more than heard the resonating sonic blast that blew out the back of the tiger’s skull, lifting her heavy body off him and propelling her ruined head across the barn, almost taking his arm with it as her jaw clamped down in a paroxysm of death. But he was able to twist his arm, dislodging the sharp teeth just enough that they only scored his forearm to the bone as the skull that bore them flew backward.

  Behind the tiger’s head, the bell’s tone had blasted a hole in the side of the barn, taking out one of the support beams. The sound of timbers creaking, breaking, and crashing to the ground almost drowned out Kyrin’s desperate shout.

  “Sharihon! No!”

  The dwarf climbed slowly to his feet as Kyrin ran over to the tiger’s now headless body, blood still pumping from what was left of her neck. Greddark replaced the bloody charm on his bracelet, wincing with pain as he did so, and removed another, this one shaped like a small silver leech. In his hand, it doubled in size and began to wriggle. He placed it on the ruined flesh of his forearm, where it sought out a severed artery and began repairing the blood vessel. The magical leech would not be able to stop the bleeding completely, but Greddark hoped it would at least reduce the flow enough for him to take care of Kyrin.

  He located his alchemy blade and hefted it clumsily. He was going to be hard-pressed to defeat the handler using the sword in his off hand. For the first time, he almost regretted his disdain for wands—he could use a nice paralysis spell at the moment, and it wouldn’t matter that most of his good arm was hanging in shreds from his bones. But the only wand he carried was simply a light source, and he couldn’t have reached it in any event.

  Kyrin rose from his place by the tiger’s corpse, his bare chest slick and red, his eyes wet and furious.

  “Host damn you! You’re going to pay for that!”

  Greddark set himself as d’Vadalis came for him. The dwarf held his short blade awkwardly in front of him as the handler advanced.

  “I told you I didn’t want to hurt her,” Greddark said. “I only wanted to ask you some questions. All you had to do was tell me why you killed Demodir. And how many others you’ve killed.”

  If Greddark could distract d’Vadalis long enough, keep him from attacking, he might be able to work a bloodspike out of his pocket with his right hand, though he didn’t think he could throw it with any accuracy. The tiger’s teeth had severed a tendon in addition to several arteries and veins, and Greddark’s fingers were already drawn up in a tight, agonized claw. If he could somehow manage to retrieve the spike, he’d have to be close enough to d’Vadalis to jam it someplace soft—an eye, maybe, or a temple.

  “Demi was trying to steal Gaida from me. I knew there were others, but he was the only one she was really serious about. I knew if I could just get him out of the way, she’d be mine.”

  Kyrin had a wild look in his eyes, but he was moving slowly, almost as if he were drugged. He was probably still in shock.

  Greddark inched his right hand closer to his pocket, trying not to hiss in pain. Just a little more time—

  “So you decided to kill him, to make sure he couldn’t challenge you for Gaida?”

  “No. No! It wasn’t like that.” The tip of Kyrin’s blade wavered, as if it were becoming too heavy for the grief-stricken man to hold. “I snuck Shari into town, because Gaida wouldn’t come out here. I was going to surprise Gaida—I knew if she could just see how beautiful Shari was, how beautiful all the animals are, she’d realize her place was with me, not that washed-up blueblood. But when I got to her place, he was there—he was just coming out, and I knew he’d been with my Gaida. When he saw me, he started to laugh and I—I don’t know what came over me, but the next thing I knew, he was on the ground, and my sword was bloody. I knew no one would understand—they’d think I killed him on purpose, so I had Shari drag him away from Gaida’s house—I couldn’t have her walking out in the morning and finding him there! And then I had Shari chew on him a little—I figured Maellas would just blame it on the shifters and no one would ever know.”

  Greddark’s hand had reached his pocket, and he was able to snag a bloodspike between two curled knuckles. Making sure it was snug, he slowly withdrew his hand, his eyes never leaving d’Vadalis.

  “So it was just an accident,” Greddark said, his voice calm and soothing as he lowered his own blade. “Of course. I should have realized that. Accidents happen, and they’re nobody’s fault. This was all just a big misunderstanding.”

  Kyrin nodded, the tip of his sword now dragging in the dirt. The anger had drained out of the handler as he spoke, and now he just looked sad, and lost.

  “A misunderstanding,” Kyrin whispered, and Greddark made his move.

  Lowering his shoulder, he rushed at the handler, colliding with the man so hard they both crashed to the floor, d’Vadalis’s blade skittering away while Greddark’s was trapped between them. Releasing the weapon, Greddark heaved himself up with his left hand and raised the bloodspike in his right, preparing to thrust it into the most vulnerable spot within reach—Kyrin’s wide, surprised eye. With any luck, the blow would only blind the handler, and not kill him, but Greddark was in no position to be picky. He had to end this fight now, before half the compound’s population arrived to investigate the commotion.

  Then he heard the unmistakable sound of multiple crossbows being loaded, the clicking of bolts rammed into their grooves echoing through the now-quiet barn.

  Too late.

  “One more move and you’re dead, dwarf.”

  Chapter

  NINE

  Sul, Therendor 22, 998 YK

  As Andri lunged at the wight that had once been the shifter Thorn, he heard Irulan cursing and scrambling to her feet behind him.

  “Don’t let it touch you!” the paladin called out, not daring to take his eyes off the undead monstrosity before him.

  “Now he tells me,” he heard her mutter as her blade cleared its scabbard.

  Then he had no more time to worry about the shifter woman, for the wight before him was barreling forward, thick arms raised for another blow.

  With a quick prayer, Andri brought his sword up to parry the wight’s attack, the argent flames burning away what was left of the hair on the undead shifter’s forearms. With a weird, ululating cry, the wight recoiled, pulling its arms away from the holy fire and flashing its fangs in an angry grimace.

  Andri pressed the attack, taking advantage of the wight’s fear to beat it back. As it stumbled over loose rocks from a broken cairn, Andri moved in to finish it off. Raising his sword, he intoned, “May the Flame have mercy on your soul, wherever it is,” and drove the blade downward toward the wight’s unprotected chest.

  And was knocked three feet to the side as Irulan’s limp body came flying through the air and crashed into him, sending him and his sword in opposite directions.

  Both he and the undead shifter scrambled to their feet. Irulan, obviously weakened by the other wight’s attack, lay panting where she had landed at the foot of a statue of Dol Arrah.

  A quick glance told Andri the Thorn-wight
would reach him before he could get to his sword. Knowing he had no other choice, he invoked the healing power of the Silver Flame and readied himself for the wight’s assault.

  Now that the wight no longer had to fear the silver flames of Andri’s weapon, the creature abandoned all caution and charged. As it neared, Andri opened his arms wide, as if to embrace the undead shifter. The force of the wight’s rush knocked him to the ground again, but instead of trying to get away, Andri wrapped his arms tight about the thing’s leathery chest and let the divine healing force of the Flame flow through his hands and out from his fingers.

  The wight screamed in agony as the holy energy coursed through it. Meant to restore living flesh, the paladin’s healing power washed over the undead shifter in a wave of pure silver light, eradicating the false life that had animated it and leaving its desiccated skin and bones crumbling to dust in Andri’s arms.

  Climbing to his feet once more, Andri saw the other wight bending over Irulan’s supine form. Willing the shifter woman the courage to hold on, he sprinted over to retrieve his sword. Recalling the argent fire that had guttered and gone out as soon as the blade was separated from his hand, Andri hoisted the flaming weapon and rushed toward the unnatural creature.

  “Get away from her!”

  The wight turned its head, baring its sharp teeth in an evil grin before slamming one fist down in the middle of Irulan’s chest. Andri could hear the dull crack of ribs breaking and the sudden gurgling gasp that indicated a punctured lung. Worse, the thing was draining Irulan’s life with every blow, its corpse-pale face becoming flush with her stolen essence.

  Andri knew she couldn’t withstand much more. With a desperate cry, he called upon the holy Flame once more to rebuke the creature.

  “In the name of the Silver Flame, I abjure thee!”

  Miraculously, the wight hesitated. In the split second it took the thing to shrug off Andri’s feeble attempt to turn it, the paladin covered the remaining distance between them and swung his blade with all the strength of his faith and his fear for Irulan. The wight’s head, severed cleanly from its body, sailed across the graveyard to land atop a rock cairn, then tumbled down the stone slope to land facing him, its sightless eyes staring.

  Andri pushed its headless body away from Irulan and knelt down beside her. He’d already used up most of the healing energy he had to kill the first wight. He prayed that the Flame would grant him enough to keep the shifter woman alive.

  “O benevolent and merciful Flame, I beseech thee on behalf of this shifter woman, a stout warrior and a true friend. Allow me the grace to heal her so that she may continue to fight evil and bring others to the faith.”

  He placed both hands lightly on her chest, palms down, directly over her broken ribs and pierced lung. Closing his eyes, he felt a rush of warmth as the power of the Silver Flame channeled through him, pouring into the shifter’s body to knit broken bone and mend torn tissue. Even as the energy coursed through him, he knew it would not restore the life the wight had drained from her, but that would come in time. It was enough, now, to know that she would not die.

  As the power faded, he opened his eyes. Some color had returned to Irulan’s cheeks, and the rise and fall of her chest was steady and unlabored. With a grateful sigh, he sagged against a tombstone. Now all he had to do was wait for her to wake up.

  The night passed uneventfully, and Andri was drowsing when he heard Irulan stirring with the morning sun. His eyes shot open and he came fully awake, cursing himself for his laxity of duty.

  “What … what happened?” she asked, her voice thick with weariness and thirst. She tried to rise and failed, still too weak from the wight’s attack.

  “Shh. Don’t try to talk,” he said, moving to her side and placing a steadying arm around her shoulders as he eased her into a sitting position. When he had her propped up against the base of Dol Arrah’s statue as comfortably as he could, he opened his canteen and helped her drink.

  “What happened?” she asked again when she’d drunk her fill, her voice stronger now and her gaze sharp, taking in the headless body rapidly rotting away not five paces away from her, and the pile of dust that had once been Thorn, now being scattered by the gentle morning breeze.

  “It was supposed to be a trap. Somehow Thorn got here before we did—”

  “Longstride reachrunner,” she said, and he nodded. Of course. Longstride shifters gained the speed of their wolf ancestors when they shifted, and he had heard that reachrunners were the fastest scout and trackers alive. Combine the two, and it was no wonder Thorn had been able to beat them here, even with them riding hard on a fast horse.

  Too bad his speed hadn’t been enough to save him.

  “The wight must have surprised him while he was setting the trap up for us. I found a net—”

  “The wight,” Irulan repeated, and he could see the memories come storming back as the ghosts of fear, anger and remembered helplessness flitted through her dark eyes. “The wight got Thorn. And it almost got me, too. Would have, if it hadn’t been for you.”

  Andri looked away, oddly embarrassed by the emotion in her voice.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replied, covering his discomfort by rummaging in a pouch for some hard tack. He offered it to her with an apology. “The rest of the rations are with the horse. I didn’t want to leave you to go get them.”

  “It’s still there?” she asked, her tone light and joking.

  “The horse, or the food?” Knowing Irulan’s aversion to horses, she could be talking about either one.

  “There’s a difference?”

  He chuckled, and Irulan smiled, but her merriment soon faded, and she looked at him with serious eyes.

  “Thorn was the only shifter to have visited this place in a very long time.”

  It took a moment for her meaning to sink in.

  “Skunk?” Andri asked, and she shook her head, then looked away, blinking rapidly.

  He didn’t ask how she knew—a lack of tracks, or scent, or perhaps she’d used some ranger magic. Whatever it was, she was certain, and coupled with Thorn’s botched trap, it could only mean one thing.

  Ostra had betrayed them. The shifters really were behind the murders, after all.

  “Irulan, I—”

  “Don’t. I can’t … think about it. Not yet.”

  Andri nodded. They would rest today, so she could regain her strength, then leave on the morrow. They would still have a two-day ride ahead of them. Plenty of time to figure out how to bring her people to justice. Not nearly enough for Irulan to come to terms with the pain of the shifters’ treachery. But then, two years would likely not suffice to heal that wound, let alone two days.

  He should know. It had been twice that number of years since his father turned on him, and his heart still ached anew every time he thought of it.

  But Irulan was strong. She would survive the heartbreak, just as he had. What other choice did either of them have?

  As it turned out, two days wasn’t enough. They were within sight of Aruldusk’s walls on the morning of the third day and still, every time Andri tried to bring the subject up, Irulan pleaded fatigue or faintness. It wasn’t entirely a charade, Andri knew—the wight had drained part of her life essence, and it was going to take time for her to fully recover, even with the aid of Andri’s healing. But she was dodging the issue. And, while he couldn’t blame her, they had to come to some consensus on how to deal with the shifters, or his only recourse would be to inform the Keeper that Maellas’s suspicions had been correct all along.

  Irulan reacted with predictable outrage at the suggestion.

  “You can’t be serious! You would be handing him the very thing he wants most on a silver platter, complete with garnish!”

  Riding in front of him as she was, Andri couldn’t see her expression, but he could feel the tautness of her anger vibrating through her slim form.

  “I don’t want to give the Bishop a reason for his p
rejudice any more than you do, Irulan, but we can’t just ignore what happened. Why would Ostra set a trap for us if he weren’t guilty, or at least complicit? If you don’t want me to go to straight to the Church with this, then give me another option.”

  Irulan was spared from answering by the sound of bells in the distance, the deep, insistent ringing that signaled an emergency.

  As Andri spurred his mount into a hard gallop, Irulan turned her head, grabbing her braids to keep them from scouring his face and exchanging a worried glance with him. They both knew without speaking what the nature of the emergency must be.

  There had been another murder.

  Chapter

  TEN

  Sul, Therendor 22, 998 YK

  Greddark froze.

  “Good,” said the voice. “You’re smarter than you look. Now put that damned spike down—slowly!—and get off my son!”

  Kyrin’s father.

  Wonderful.

  Greddark complied, slowly lowering the bloodspike to the floor and releasing it with difficulty from his crippled hand. He levered himself up and away from the handler with his good arm, sneaking a glance over at the speaker as he did so. A large man, easily a head taller than the six men arrayed on either side of him with crossbows cocked and aimed straight at Greddark. Bald, with a copper and silver beard and a golden House Vadalis hippogriff hanging around his neck on a thick chain. The Mark of Handling snaked across his scalp, down both sides of his neck and beneath his shirt, only to reappear at his wrists and across the backs of both hands.

  The head of the compound and an heir of Siberys.

  This just kept getting better and better.

  Kyrin scrambled to his feet.

  “Father! He killed Sharihon!”

  The elder d’Vadalis turned cold green eyes on his son.

  “I see that. Now suppose you tell me what she was doing out of her cage?”