“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 cleaning 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?”