The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  “I don’t know if the political affiliation of the victims is really that important,” Greddark said, scooping up a spoonful of the egg mixture and spreading it over a slice of vedbread. He took a bite and chewed as he thought. “Most of the murders occurred in or around the Garden District. Maybe the location was the important factor, and the victims were mostly Throneholders because that happens to be where most of them live.”

  “But that still doesn’t make any sense,” Irulan argued, washing down her own mouthful with a swig of water from her canteen. “The Garden District is practically in the middle of the city. Why wouldn’t Quillion—if it is him—have chosen a location closer to the gates, where it would be easier for him to escape?”

  “Look at this,” Greddark said, pulling out one of the maps of Shadukar he’d gotten from Ostra’s tracker. It showed the city’s Cathedral complex and surrounding environs. “Shadukar had a Garden District, too, only it didn’t house nobles. It was the neighborhood where the Cathedral was located. And this”—he indicated a large open square in front of the Cathedral—“is probably where they set up the stake whenever they burned a lycanthrope. If it is Quillion, maybe he’s somehow reliving his past, seeing Aruldusk as Shadukar and hunting his enemies in the same place where they hurt him so badly. Or maybe it’s just the easiest place for him to teleport to, because it is so similar to the layout in Shadukar.”

  Andri considered the dwarf’s conjecture. It did fit the facts, but so did any number of other theories. The only one who knew the truth was Quillion.

  “Well, there’s only one way to know for sure,” Irulan said, echoing his thoughts. She climbed up from her spot by their small fire to take the first watch.

  “What’s that?” Greddark asked curiously.

  The shifter shrugged. “Find him and ask him.”

  They reached Angwar Keep the following night, just before the gates closed. From a distance, bits of broken glass in the keep’s high windows shone gold and carnelian in the fading light and made the battered fortress seem to shimmer, like some otherwordly bastion of Thelanis. Closer up, though, it was evident that this was just another forgotten outpost languishing in decrepitude. Debris from the War still littered the fields around the fort, including the charred remains of what looked like a Karrnathi siege engine. The keep’s central tower was missing half its roof and listed so far to one side that Andri thought a strong gust of wind might blow it over.

  Beyond the crumbling outer wall, however, he could see that the old fort was actually in much better condition that it first appeared. The stone walls had been reinforced with heavy wood and steel beams, the gatehouse had been completely rebuilt and was manned with alert archers, and two catapults sat loaded and ready in the middle of the well-kept courtyard.

  Angwar Keep was known throughout eastern Thrane as the Stubborn Shieldmaiden, because it had never fallen during a hundred years of war, despite frequent attacks from both Cyre and Karrnath. It looked as though the keep’s new inhabitants, monks though they were, fully intended to keep that well-deserved reputation alive.

  Once inside the gates, the companions were welcomed by the fort’s monastic warforged, who gave them a hot meal and beds in the keep’s old barracks, which had been refurbished into a communal sleeping area. The monks were self-styled disciples of the Redeemed, an elite cadre of warforged who defected from Cyre and had devoted themselves to the defense of Thrane and the precepts of the Silver Flame. Now that the War was over, they were rebuilding the fort as a haven for other warforged who followed the Flame and desired a simple life of labor and service to others. A haven they would have no problems protecting, should the need ever arise.

  Andri appreciated the opportunity to pray in their makeshift chapel and found himself kneeling beside one of the warforged in front of an abstract rendition of the Flame formed by fusing together whatever silver the monks could find—jewelry, goblets, combs, even weapons and pieces of armor. The curving tip of the stylistic Flame was an upended hunting horn. Andri admired the ingenuity of these devout warforged, working with what little they had to honor their faith. Would that some of the Cardinals shared their mindset—Thrane would no doubt be a much improved place.

  He bowed his head and willed his mind to stillness. Images of Zoden’s staring eyes, Ostra’s grief, and Irulan limp beneath the hands of the wight flashed through his thoughts, followed by darker visions of his parents and their gruesome deaths. He did not flinch from the memories, but allowed them to run their course, reciting the Prayer of Cleansing over and over again until the images had been bled dry of guilt and regret and were simply colorless, emotionless scenes from someone else’s life. Only then did he begin Tira’s Prayer of a Paladin and the Nine Miracles of the Silver Flame.

  When the time came for mentioning his own intentions, he revisited those scenes that plagued and tormented him, beginning with his mother’s death. He prayed that she had found peace within the Silver Flame and that she had been able to forgive him before she died. He prayed for Zoden, that his soul was likewise at peace, wherever it was. He prayed that Ostra and Leata would be comforted in their grief, and that the shifter leader would use this hard-learned lesson in honesty for the betterment of his persecuted people. He prayed for Irulan, that she would find justice for her brother and a place for herself. He even prayed for Greddark, for he suspected the dwarf blamed himself for Zoden’s death. Lastly, he prayed for himself, that he would have the wisdom to discern Quillion’s guilt or innocence when they found the werewolf and that he would not be led astray by his own prejudices. That he would be able to solve this mystery and bring the killer to justice before anyone else died. That he would somehow be worthy of the enormous faith the Keeper had placed in him.

  He did not pray for his father.

  When he made the sign of the Flame and opened his eyes, he was surprised to find the warforged still kneeling next to him, his own head bowed. Andri rose quietly, so as not to disturb the monk’s prayers, but as he was leaving the chapel, the warforged spoke.

  “You will make her proud.”

  Andri turned quickly, but the monk hadn’t moved. Had he been praying aloud? Andri didn’t think so, but sometimes when he was alone, he would murmur his prayers, just to make the solitude a bit less lonely.

  After a moment of watching the motionless warforged, he began to doubt that he’d actually heard anything at all. Shaking his head, he exited the chapel and made his way back to the barracks, where he quickly found his bed and fell into it.

  But as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t help wondering if the words he’d heard had been real and, if they were, to which of the women in his prayers they had been referring.

  After a brief stop a day and a half later to replenish their supplies in the small riverside city of Olath, they continued on, reaching Shadukar on the morning of the fifth day since they’d left the metal monks of Angwar Keep.

  The gray walls of Shadukar were visible for several miles, situated atop an escarpment that formed the base of what locals called “The Arrow,” a low-lying spit of land jutting north into Scions Sound. The bulk of the city itself had been built into the side of the bluff, looking north toward Flamekeep and Thronehold. But over the years the population had outgrown the stony confines of the scarp, and buildings had sprouted at the top of the cliffs. Eventually, Upper Shadukar had become a city in its own right, and walls had been erected to protect the affluent neighborhoods located there. From this distance, the only things that marked the shattered Jewel of the Sound as a ruin were the lack of movement atop those walls and the eerie quiet that hung over them.

  “It doesn’t look that bad,” Greddark remarked. “Why didn’t they try to rebuild it?”

  “Just wait,” Andri replied. He’d never been to the ruined city himself, but one did not become a paladin in Thrane without hearing how clerics had had to drive out the unquiet spirits of the dead, and at what cost. The people of Thrane believed Shadukar was cursed, and with cause.

/>   As they approached, they could see the first hints of disrepair. The massive gates were black with soot and hung ajar, swinging slowly on rusty hinges. The creaking complaint of the distressed metal made the hair on the back of Andri’s neck stand up.

  Andri and Greddark dismounted and moved toward the entrance. Setting their shoulders against the blackened wood, they pushed the heavy gate open enough for their mounts to pass through unimpeded. Then they climbed back on their horses and entered the city.

  The extent of the devastation wreaked by the Karrns became readily apparent as soon as they were within the city walls. The burnt skeletons of wooden buildings rose into the air out of mounds of old ash and debris, while their stone counterparts were crumbling and overgrown with sickly-looking moss and vines. Chunks of wood, fallen stones, and broken glass littered the streets, and here and there some bit of rotting fabric that had miraculously escaped the fires waved languorously in the cool salt-scented breeze.

  In the distance, a bird cawed, shattering the silence and making them all jump.

  Andri turned to the others.

  “Welcome to Shadukar.”

  Chapter

  FOURTEEN

  Wir, Eyre 4, 998 YK

  After a quick consultation of the camp shifters’ maps, they found the nearest likely lairing spot and planned out the shortest route, one that would take them through the Lodging District, Artificer’s Avenue, and the Greensward—though Greddark doubted very much that the large park was green any longer.

  They formed a loose line, with Irulan leading on foot, arrow nocked as she scoured the ground and sniffed the air for any traces of their quarry—or anything else that might be wandering the ruins. Greddark followed on horseback, with Irulan’s horse tied to his saddle. Andri, also mounted, brought up the rear, his sword out and ready, but thankfully extinguished. They’d all agreed that having a paladin with a flaming silver sword in the lead would make it rather difficult to sneak up on a lycanthrope.

  They followed the winding road through the Lodging District, an area populated largely by inns and taverns—or what was left of them. Stone chimneys reached up out of the burned wreckage of common rooms, and here and there the remains of soot-blackened staircases ended in nothing but the tomb-gray sky. A few of the inns still had a wall or two standing. One still boasted a gaping hole where its door had once been, with a sign scorched beyond readability hanging dejectedly above it from one rusting chain.

  The wind occasionally stirred ashes into the air, forming tiny gray whirlwinds that skipped across the road before dying again on the other side, as if nothing could live long in this forsaken city. The smells of salt and smoke haunted the breeze and made Greddark think, inexplicably, of Karrnathi sausages.

  They were nearing the end of the row of hostels and alehouses when Greddark caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Fleeting, and gone before he could be sure it was anything more than an errant gust of wind, but still enough to make the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up and take notice.

  A wide curve brought them through a blasted gate and into a business district—jewelers, clockmakers, and artificers of all stripes, judging by the tiny gears and springs that littered their path. Artificer’s Avenue. These buildings had been made primarily of stone and so were petrified corpses instead of the rotting skeletons of the Lodging District. Here, most of the second floors were still intact and they rose up to block the sky, casting the road into shadow. Black windows stared down at them as they passed, like empty eye sockets.

  Another movement, behind them and to the left. A second story window above a toymaker’s shop.

  Some of the sockets still had eyes, after all.

  Greddark slowed his horse, pretending to scrutinize one of the maps while Andri caught up to him.

  “Is there a problem?” the paladin asked as he reined in his horse next to the dwarf’s mount.

  “You might say that,” Greddark said, pointing his finger at the paper while turning toward Andri. He lowered his voice. “Act as if I’m showing you something interesting,” he said as he glanced surreptitiously over the paladin’s mailed shoulder.

  The window was empty.

  Andri caught on immediately. “We’re being followed?” he asked, leaning forward and pretending to examine the map. “Is it Quillion?”

  “Well, like Irulan said,” the dwarf replied, grinning wolfishly at the perplexed shifter as she turned back to see what was keeping them. “There’s only one way to know for sure.”

  The trap was simple. After a quick perusal of his maps, Greddark found a circular junction where the road they were on intersected two others. He would stop there, feigning an injury to his mount with the aid of a tiny spiked ball he kept for just such occasions. Meanwhile Irulan and Andri would seem to press on, following their intended route to a spacious park that backed up to several large, gated estates. Once out of sight, they would double back, cutting through several alleyways to another of the roads that fed into the junction. Greddark, meanwhile, would appear to busy himself with tending to his horse, leaving him seemingly vulnerable to attack. Though it was still daytime, the opportunity to catch him alone and distracted should prove tempting enough to draw the lycanthrope out, especially with the threat of Andri’s silver sword removed.

  Of course, Andri’s sword was also the only weapon any of them had that would do real damage to a lycanthrope. Irulan had her single silver-tipped claw, but it was more decoration than dagger. Whether it would actually hurt the creature or simply annoy him remained to be seen. She’d also been able to haggle with one of the camp shifters for a large pair of silver teardrop earrings, which Greddark had helped her melt down and apply to a single arrowhead, but she’d only use the makeshift arrow as a last resort.

  Greddark hadn’t anticipated facing a werewolf when he left Sigilstar, and so he had nothing to hand that could hurt one, nor had he been able to find a suitable weapon on the journey here. In Thrane, silver swords—in actuality, steel swords alchemically bonded with silver—were the province of knights, forged by commission. Even if Greddark could have found a weaponsmith willing to make one, he wouldn’t have been able to afford the cost—in time or in gold.

  Magic weapons weren’t any easier to come by—at least not when you’d been kicked out of the largest city in the area. Greddark had tried asking around in Olath, but those who trafficked in such items rarely advertised on the street, and even if you could find a seller, transactions were often by appointment only. Not an option when the four moons which were currently full would all begin waning in a matter of days. If they stayed on schedule, Aryth would still be full by the time they reached Shadukar. If not, their job would become that much harder.

  So he’d taken the precaution of borrowing a vial of liquid belladonna extract from Andri before they entered the ruined city. He couldn’t coat his own blade with the mixture—since it was neither silver nor magical, any wound from the short sword would heal before the poison could be introduced into the lycanthrope’s bloodstream. No, if it came down to it, and he was forced to fight Quillion before Andri and Irulan arrived, he’d have to remove the stopper and splash the mixture in the werewolf’s face, praying that some of the liquid reached Quillion’s eyes or the soft, delicate tissues of his nose or mouth. With any luck, he might be able to blind the lycanthrope before it tore his throat out. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He wasn’t often lucky.

  They reached the junction much more quickly than Greddark would have liked. A long-dry fountain served as the circle’s centerpiece, carved from a single block of bluish-green marble and depicting a merman in mid-leap, seaweed and shells twined in his hair and beard and a trident carried in one webbed hand. The trident was an ancient symbol of the Devourer, and finding the emblem of the god of destruction right where they were about to spring their trap struck Greddark as a very ill omen indeed.

  He saw no further signs of their pursuer as they neared the fountain, but the hairs on his neck refu
sed to relax—the lycanthrope was out there, watching them. He could feel it.

  Sighing, he put their plan in motion. He sneezed once, loudly, an action that was not entirely a charade—the dust and ashes stirred up by their passage floated in the air and tickled his nostrils with every breath. He could taste Shadukar’s death on his tongue, oily and rancid.

  Irulan, still on foot ahead of him, turned to shush him with an angry gesture. If he hadn’t been anticipating it, he would not have seen her drop the ball he’d given her in his horse’s path. Marking where it landed, he shrugged apologetically at her and urged his horse onward, guiding it until it stepped right on the spot where the ball lay.

  As if on cue, the horse balked, whinnying in discomfort and lifting its leg off the ground. If Greddark had been a better horseman, the ball of spikes—a trick he’d learned from the Karrns, who used the tiny balls against opposing cavalry during the War—would not have been necessary, but they had to make it look convincing. Hopefully, the spiked ball would not actually hurt the horse, merely lodge in its hoof and make walking uncomfortable until it was removed.

  “Something’s wrong with the horse,” he said loudly to Andri, who’d ridden up to see why Greddark had stopped. “Maybe the shoe—I’ll check it out, but you two should go on and see if you can find the lair. I’ll catch up to you afterward.”

  “Are you sure?” The paladin frowned, his brown eyes concerned. He hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of leaving Greddark undefended. Frankly, Greddark wasn’t all that happy about it himself, but as the only one of them the lycanthrope had no reason to fear, he was the obvious choice for bait.