Nowhere near one another.
“Are we sure there’s just one?”
The commander’s question hovered in the air.
“No,” Grag said at last, meeting the commander’s gaze. “We’re not.”
The commander pressed his lips together.
Braddok crouched beside Jeric, picked up a scrap of Corinthian-blue fabric, and held it up. “The hells was she thinking bringing those things here?”
“Perhaps His Majesty should ask her.”
The comment had come from Commander Anaton, full of barbs and accusations.
Which, as it turned out, was becoming Jeric’s third problem.
Braddok stood to full height, like a bear. “You watch your tone, Commander.”
Jeric also stood, but more to hold Braddok off. “I intend to,” Jeric said, eyes locked on his commander.
The commander’s face flushed, but he moved on, redirecting his fury to the scene, while Braddok followed the commander with his eyes.
Jeric did not fault the commander for his anger. He was afraid. They all were, after what Astrid had done. They sought retribution, but Jeric had not given it to them. Not in the way they wanted.
“Has every attack been this…thorough?” the commander asked.
“Aye. We’re still not certain the last victim was a wolf,” Fyrok replied.
“We found part of a jaw,” Grag explained. “It wasn’t much, but it looked canine.”
When Grag had found the first wolf, Jeric had hoped it merely the perverted antics of a disgruntled jarl trying to sabotage Jeric’s new reign. Gods, he had plenty of those. But once Grag had found the second wolf, Jeric’s hopes had burned like akavit. In hindsight, he should’ve prioritized finding the shade right then, but his time had been swiftly monopolized, palliating truth to mollify his herd of rabid jarls.
And now one of Corinth’s scouts was dead.
Jeric walked on. He stepped around the scene, making his perimeter wider and wider as he walked farther from the group. There had to be something—some clue they’d all missed. Life always left evidence.
After some time, Jeric heard Fyrok call out, “Should we head back?”
Everyone looked toward Jeric, but Jeric did not notice. His attention was fixed on the ground.
“What is it, Wolf?” Braddok called out. He jogged toward Jeric, leaves crunching beneath his heavy tread. “Found something?”
Jeric crouched, pushing dead leaves and pine needles aside, and he picked up a second Corinthian-blue fiber. He followed the trajectory with his gaze, to where a murder of crows perched with unnatural quiet over a dense cluster of manzanita.
Downwind.
Jeric drew Lorath from his belt and started for the manzanita. Branches snapped and clawed at him as he forced his way through, and he soon spied more threads of Corinthian blue caught on the brambles. Old blood stained some of the leaves—old blood, and new.
The three scars at Jeric’s side ached—scars he’d earned from a shade two months ago. Jeric adjusted his grip, ears pinned on the forest, but the trees would not speak. Even the crows seemed content to watch the hunt unfold.
Never a good sign.
Suddenly, the tangle of manzanita broke into a natural clearing, completely tucked away from the outside world, and at its center sat a bloodied pile of bones and intestines, and a human foot. Flies buzzed, and the stench of rot and decay hit Jeric so hard he almost vomited.
“Gods, that’s ripe.” Braddok coughed behind him.
“Find it?” the commander called out.
Klaus reached Braddok, paled, and started gagging.
“Well, we know where the bastard’s been hiding,” Braddok answered.
This shade had found a perfect burrow, and it bothered Jeric that it had considered the wind’s direction. While it was true that shades had once been men, in Jeric’s experience, once Changed, there was no trace of the man left.
He thought of Gerald.
“Then where is it now?” the commander asked sharply.
A tense silence settled over their group.
Jeric glanced up. The treetops swayed, and waning daylight flickered through their high, creaking boughs while the crows watched.
“Let’s head back,” Jeric said. “It’s getting dark.”
No one argued.
If only his godsdamn jarls were this agreeable.
They exited the manzanita in much the same way they’d entered: with brute force and a lot of cursing. Pieces of manzanita stubbornly clung to them as they made their way back to the horses. Klaus still looked pale, and also a little embarrassed. They’d been searching for a week, and it had taken Jeric less than one hour.
Braddok noticed. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. He’s the best there is. Best to just have a pint and accept your mediocrity. Works for me every time.” Braddok smacked Klaus on the shoulder, but it did little to dislodge the heaviness that had settled there.
Within the hour, the six of them had crossed into the Valley of Kings and approached the enormous skal-black wall that embraced the city of Skyhold, Corinth’s capital. Twilight gleamed upon the enormous skal statues of their most revered gods, Aryn and Lorath, who stood sentinel on either side of the main gate. Scaffolding partly obscured their figures because they’d been left unfinished. Their construction had begun under the reign of Jeric’s grandfather, labored by the hands of Sol Velorian slaves, and it would have completed end of this year had Jeric not freed the statue workers five days ago.
Now, the scaffolding stood like the dark skeleton of an abandoned dream, but Jeric had made a promise. And he intended to keep that promise, though his jarls resisted him at every turn. Notably when he’d demanded Jarl Stovich release the slaves working Corinth’s skal mines.
“The mines are the only thing keeping Corinth’s treasury full,” Jarl Stovich had said, during one very heated council. “Find me three hundred men willing to work the mines without coin, and perhaps I’ll consider.”
Godfrey, master of coin and questionable things, had confirmed Corinth’s dire financial situation, no thanks to Jeric’s profligate father. Unfortunately for the council, Jeric viewed the word “no” as a direct challenge, and he’d immediately released all the slaves at the gate.
Which, as it turned out, only hurt Jeric’s cause, because the slaves had no place to go, and no one would take them in. Some abandoned Corinth altogether, but most stayed, knowing no other way of life. They now crowded Skyhold’s lower quarters, where the poorest of them lived, and the empty scaffolding stood like a warning to all: See what would happen if we released the skal workers? The pandemonium that would ensue?
Once inside the city gates, Grag, his hunters, and Commander Anaton departed ways, though Jeric instructed both leaders to keep their men out of the Blackwood until they caught the shade. He would not have more blood on his hands.
He had plenty of that already.
Jeric and Braddok rode a slower pace through the city, where lamplighters worked quickly to bring light to the descending dark. The wind grew teeth and snow began to fall, dusting the city in a fine layer of white. So far, their winter had been mild, and Jeric was glad for it.
“Whadya say to the Barrel?” Braddok asked. His breath rose in a cloud, and snow flecked his ruddy beard.
Jeric flexed cold fingers and glanced in the direction of the Barrel. It was tempting. Very tempting.