The Inquisitives [3] Legacy of the Wolves

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  But if Maellas had been able to conceal his true nature for that long, hiding in plain sight, knowing the Church would never look for a lycanthrope among their own ranks, then why was he risking exposure now? Why go on a killing spree in the very city he governed, endangering his position, and his life, if discovered? It didn’t make any sense.

  And why was Maellas even doing this? He couldn’t reconcile the humble, pious priest who served Aruldusk so faithfully with this evil, mocking creature that obviously delighted in dealing pain.

  Andri knew he didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet, just as he knew he was running out of time to find them. Now that Maellas’s identity had been revealed, the odds of any of them surviving this encounter had just plummeted.

  If Andri could just keep the Bishop talking, he might be able to maneuver into position or distract him from Irulan, who was the only other one here who had a weapon that could harm him. Though she would have to make her one silver-tipped arrow count. She wouldn’t get a second shot.

  He took a step toward the two werewolves, careful to keep his sword pointed down. He wanted to look as innocuous as possible, but he’d seen Maellas’s speed. He didn’t dare sheathe the blade.

  Maellas raised his own blade back to Pater’s throat. “That’s far enough, my boy.”

  Andri stopped where he stood and held a hand up to show he wasn’t a threat.

  “Very well, Your Excellency,” he said, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to appeal to the Bishop’s vanity. “You’ve clearly outwitted us, and I’m sure you’ve planned it so that none of us will live long enough to divulge your secret. But I have to know—why are you killing innocent people and framing shifters for their deaths?”

  Maellas snorted. He wasn’t falling for it.

  “I think I know,” Greddark offered from his place by the fire. As he spoke, he moved closer to Andri, casually stepping in front of Irulan and partially obscuring her from Maellas’s view. Andri hoped the shifter knew what to do with the cover she was being given.

  The Bishop’s green eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak, merely tightening his grip on Pater, whose strength was failing rapidly. Whatever move they were going to make, Andri knew they had to make it soon.

  He only wished he had some idea what that move would be.

  “Your Bishop there is not just a priest. He’s also a wizard. One who came up with a nifty little concoction to hide his affliction from the world. Unfortunately, the key ingredient to that potion is the severed finger of another lycanthrope. And they’re a rather rare commodity in Thrane, present company excepted. In fact, I believe if you were to look in that pouch he’s carrying, you’d find a nice fresh supply of said digits, culled from old Quillion’s body. Enough to last him another fifty years, at least. Too bad he got greedy and decided to follow us here for more.”

  Greddark glanced at Andri. “Did you ever wonder why your father brought you those claws? He’d never done that before, had he?”

  The dwarf was right. Alestair had never been one to take trophies from his kills. Andri shook his head, beginning to suspect where Greddark’s train of thought was headed.

  “My guess is Maellas here asked him for the werewolf’s hand, and your father misunderstood, bringing back the claws as proof that he’d killed the werewolf—which is what he thought the Bishop had hired him to do. He didn’t realize it was the fingers Maellas wanted, and when he didn’t get them, he told your father to keep the claws as a souvenir—what good were they to him?

  “But something your father said must have tipped him off that there was more than just one werewolf lairing in these woods. There was no way Maellas could find them on his own—especially with their lair being in Lamannia—and he obviously couldn’t send anyone else to look for them, because look how that turned out. So if he couldn’t go after them, he was going to have to get them to come to him. And what better way to do that then to get rid of their supply line?”

  Of course. The shifters of the Silver Circle.

  “But what about his victims?” asked Andri. “Where do they fit into this?”

  Greddark shrugged. “They were mostly Throneholders and critics—people he wanted to get rid of, anyway. He was just cleaving two skulls with one axe.”

  Maellas sneered, making his disdain for the inquisitive’s deductive abilities clear.

  “I do hope you’re not paying him too handsomely, Andri. You already know I asked your father to locate the lycanthrope rumor placed in the Burnt Woods—I’ve made no secret of it. But I certainly never asked him to try and kill dear Pater,” the Bishop said, looking at Andri as he ran the tip of his belladonna-laden blade along the old werewolf’s jaw line, leaving a bright trail of blood. “Alestair was simply supposed to bring him back to me for … questioning. But then your father decided to take matters into his own hands, and we all know the results of his arrogance, don’t we, Andri?”

  Maellas’s expression was one of mingled pity and disgust.

  “How many dead in Flamekeep? And your own poor mother, defiled by Alestair’s animal lusts. You had no choice but to kill her. The Flame only knows what monstrosity might have resulted from that foul union. And do you know why your father became a murderous, raging beast when the moon turned full, Andri, so different from the loving, generous man you knew? Because he took on the nature of the one who infected him.” Maellas held Pater up in front of him, the werewolf’s body dangling limply in his iron grip. “He is the reason your parents died, Andri, the cause of all the pain and guilt you’ve carried with you for so long. And now the Flame has brought him within your grasp, offering you the chance to take the vengeance you’ve always secretly desired.”

  It was as if the Bishop could read Andri’s heart, voicing his darkest, innermost thoughts, the ones he wouldn’t even dare admit to himself. Though he struggled against the temptation, Maellas’s words ignited a fire within him, one that threatened to rage out of control.

  “Don’t listen to him, Andri!” Irulan called from behind Greddark, risking drawing Maellas’s attention to her and her bow in order to warn the paladin. “He’s trying to manipulate you!”

  “Manipulate you?” Maellas scoffed. “I’m trying to help you, Andri. To give you the surcease you long for.”

  He shook Pater roughly for emphasis. “You can end it all now. Kill the one who cursed your father, with your father’s own sword—isn’t it fitting? Do it now, Andri. Make the guilty pay for their crimes. You’re a paladin. It’s your calling. That’s why you were chosen for this task. You, and no other. Do it. Now.”

  With a cry of grief and fury, Andri rushed forward, his sword raised. Maellas smiled, gloating as he thrust Pater into the path of Andri’s charge. At the last moment, sensing a sudden shift in Andri’s gait, the old werewolf seemed to sag against Maellas. The Bishop’s grip slackened, and before he could readjust, Pater, with an unexpected burst of speed and strength, twisted out of the way. Andri’s now-flaming sword skated over his ribs and singed his dark fur as it plunged past him and into Maellas’s abdomen.

  The Bishop bellowed in surprised pain and released Pater, his hands spasming reflexively. As the old werewolf slumped to the ground, Irulan’s makeshift silver arrow thunked into Maellas’s left shoulder with such force that it pulled him off Andri’s blade and spun him around. Another half dozen arrows slammed into him as he fell—Ostra’s shifters loosing their own shafts along with their frustration. The paladin didn’t think Maellas would be getting up again.

  Andri reached down and lifted Pater back to his feet. As his hand closed around the lycanthrope’s arm, revulsion surged through him, the sheer magnitude of the emotion catching him off guard.

  Maellas was right, he thought as he held the old werewolf up in one hand, his silver blade grasped firmly in the other. Pater was responsible for the deaths of his parents, for the heartache and the loneliness that had plagued him ever since. For the nightmares that still woke him, sweating and crying out, in the middle of the night. For his
inability to truly trust anyone or let them get close.

  And he had in his hand the means to exact his revenge for it all, argent fire still dancing along its length. He could kill Pater now, finish the job his father started, and then, perhaps, finally, be at peace.

  But even as he thought that, Maellas’s other words came back to him.

  … your father decided to take matters into his own hands … we all know the results of his arrogance .…

  And, finally, his own words to the Bishop back in Aruldusk rang in his ears.

  … the blame for my father’s death lies solely on his shoulders, as does the blood of all those he took with him .…

  Alestair chose to attack Pater, when all that had been required of him was to apprehend the werewolf. Just as he had chosen not to take any precautions other than chewing belladonna after Pater injured him. In both cases, the silver pyromancer’s arrogant self-assurance had led to severe lapses in judgment. Lapses that had ultimately cost several innocent people their lives—including his own beloved wife, Andri’s mother.

  Pater may have infected him with lycanthropy, but Alestair’s true curse was, and always had been, his pride.

  Andri let the old werewolf go, his hand falling to his side. His sword’s silver flames flickered and died. Killing the lycanthrope would accomplish nothing but leaving a pack leaderless and a young boy without a father.

  “Pater—” he began, but he got no further.

  The werewolf shoved Andri to the ground, his head just missing one of the rocks that circled the fire as he fell.

  Maellas had risen up behind him, in hybrid form once more, arrows protruding from his blonde fur like feathered thorns on a pallid vine. As the pale werewolf went to drive his silver dagger into Andri’s back, Pater, his sensitive ears tracking movements his ruined eyes could not see, pushed the paladin aside. Andri could only watch in stunned horror as Maellas plunged the blade meant for him straight into the old werewolf’s chest.

  As their leader fell, the pack converged on Maellas. Daimana, her copper fur glinting blood-red in the firelight, was the first to the Bishop, racing toward him on all fours and leaping up, her powerful jaws aiming for his throat.

  “No!” Pater’s voice was weak, but it still carried, and his pack obeyed him instantly, not releasing the Bishop, but no longer trying to tear him limb from limb. “He must … return to Aruldusk … be judged. Free … the Circle … clear … names.”

  Andri hurried over to the old werewolf, kneeling beside him. He tried to invoke the healing Flame, but realized he no longer wore his holy symbol, the focus through which he channeled the divine power. As he cast about for it, Irulan came up beside him and held the necklace out. His hand closed over hers briefly and their eyes met. Something indefinable passed between them in that instant, but Pater began to cough up blood, and Andri had to turn his attention back to the lycanthrope. He could sort his feelings for Irulan out later. He hoped.

  He pulled Maellas’s dagger from the old werewolf’s chest, then placed his hands over the wound, still clutching the chain bearing Pater’s claws. He tried to stem the flow of blood with his hands as he closed his eyes and called once more on the restorative fire, anticipating its bright warmth.

  There was no answer.

  He could feel hot liquid seeping through his fingers as he tried again, desperately pleading with the Silver Flame.

  Nothing.

  He felt Pater’s hands cover his own. Opening his eyes, he looked into the werewolf’s blind orbs, knowing that Pater could not see the anguish on his face as Andri realized there was nothing he could do. But the werewolf sensed it, just the same, and he tried to comfort the paladin, even as his life bled away into the dirt.

  “Not … your fault. My time. Forgive …?”

  Pater’s words trailed off as he heaved one last, rattling sigh. For a moment, they both held the necklace that Andri’s father had given him. Then Pater’s hands went limp and slid away, and Andri was left with only a handful of bloody claws as Daimana sobbed quietly behind him.

  Chapter

  TWENTY

  Sar, Eyre 7, 998 YK

  With the pack’s help, they secured Maellas in Andri’s silver manacles. Once in the magical shackles, Maellas reverted to his elf form, and Andri gagged him to keep him from casting any spells. Greddark had suggested using belladonna extract on the gag, but Andri had refused, though Greddark liked to think the paladin had at least been tempted.

  Daimana, it turned out, was Pater’s daughter, not his mate. She would become leader of the pack now that the old werewolf was dead. The other two werewolves wanted to kill Maellas outright, but Daimana insisted they—and Andri—abide by her father’s dying wish.

  “My father wanted justice done, Werebane. See that it happens.”

  Luckily for the paladin, Daimana had replaced her shift after changing back into her elf form, so he was able to converse with her without stuttering and turning redder than her hair. Women probably thought such modesty was endearing, Greddark reflected, but, personally, he just found it annoying. And a little unnatural—he’d certainly enjoyed the view, and he wasn’t even an elf.

  “You have my word,” Andri told her. If the Werebane moniker bothered him, he hid it well. “Maellas betrayed the Flame, and the Flame will judge him accordingly.”

  Daimana tossed her copper tresses in disdain. “I care nothing for your silver fire, paladin,” she said, her eyes flashing. “If your Church does not see fit to punish this kinslayer, then you must do so. You’ve given your oath, and you owe it to my father.”

  Greddark suppressed a grin. The elf woman had neatly trapped Andri. There was no way the paladin would go back on his promise now. Maellas was a dead man, one way or another. He wondered if the Bishop realized it yet.

  Andri bowed his head, defeated. “You have my word,” he repeated.

  That seemed to satisfy her. She nodded and called her son to her. Lifting the child in her arms, she smoothed back a lock of red-brown hair out of his eyes and kissed his forehead. For his part, the toddler seemed oblivious to what had just happened to his grandfather, pulling on his mother’s clothes and pointing back to the water. He just wanted to play.

  “Later,” Daimana murmured, kissing him again and setting him back on his feet. She smiled as he ran off, pursuing a butterfly. Then she looked back at Andri, and her smile faded.

  “One of Ostra’s men will lead you to where Lamannia and Eberron intersect, but you will have to find your own way from there. We cannot spare anyone to guide you. We have a funeral to prepare.”

  The paladin nodded. “Of course. But I would be happy to perform Pater’s last rites, if you’d like. It’s the least I can do.”

  “No,” Daimana said. “You’ve done enough already.”

  Andri accepted the rebuke, though Greddark could tell it stung. The paladin held out the necklace of claws, from which he had removed his holy symbol.

  “Take these, at least. He should go to the Flame whole.” When she hesitated, her eyes filling with sudden tears, Andri grasped her hand and pressed the necklace into it. “Please.”

  Daimana stared at the claws for a long moment then looked up at Andri, her eyes like faceted diamonds.

  “It’s not true, what the rogue told you,” she said, referring to Maellas. “The moons’ blessing only removes the veneer of civilization, exposing what lies beneath. Sometimes, that veneer reasserts itself, and the moontouched is much the same as he was before he was blessed. But, sometimes … it does not.”

  Whether she’d meant the words as a gift or a curse, Greddark couldn’t tell, but before any of them could fully digest the information, she leaned forward and kissed Andri on the cheek. Then she stood back and regarded the paladin with an unreadable expression, the silver chain held tightly in her fist. “You should go now. And don’t come back. Ever.”

  She turned away from him, going to kneel beside her father’s body. The other two werewolves, in their human forms now, were cleani
ng him in preparation for their burial rites. Daimana joined them, weeping once more as she wiped blood from her father’s chest. Andri watched her for a moment then turned to his companions.

  “Let’s go. We still have a long journey ahead of us,” he said, walking past them to his horse.

  As Greddark turned to follow and caught sight of the invidious look on Irulan’s face, he thought the journey might be far longer than Andri had bargained for.

  It was full night by the time they made it out of the Twilight Forest and back into the Burnt Wood. After their shifter guide left them to return to the werewolves’ lair, Irulan took point, leading them eastward for about a mile before striking camp. After helping Andri secure Maellas to a tree, she climbed up a taller pine to look at the stars and get her bearings.

  While she was gone, Greddark started a small fire. Andri took care of the horses before digging bandages out from one of his packs to bind the Bishop’s wounds.

  “Why bother with bandages? Why not just heal him? For that matter, why doesn’t he heal himself?”

  “I don’t believe he can,” the paladin answered as he measured lengths of clean white fabric and cut them with Maellas’s dagger. “I’ve not been able to heal any of the werewolves harmed by silver weapons—Quillion or Pater. It may not be possible. Perhaps the Flame will not aid those to whom the touch of its sacred metal is anathema.” He shrugged and began dressing Maellas’s shoulder, taking care not to wrap the wound too tightly.

  Catching Greddark’s quizzical look, the paladin shrugged.

  “We don’t want his blood attracting predators.”

  There was a rustling sound from the pine Irulan had climbed, and the shifter appeared out of the foliage, sliding down the last few feet of naked trunk, shedding bark as she went. She landed lightly on her feet and shook the pine needles from her hair.