Singe’s last words as they parted had been, “Stay out of trouble.”
Geth turned down the first corner he came to, getting out of sight of Urik and his cronies in case one of them chanced to look back, then slowed his pace and exhaled. He couldn’t say that he regretted the weeks spent traveling around Aundair on his own. The transition from spring to summer was a pleasant time to be outdoors-although he would have preferred the countryside even in winter to staying in Fairhaven. It took a certain kind of shifter to enjoy life in a city, and Geth wasn’t that kind. The crowded, noisy conditions kept him constantly on edge, his instincts reacting to nonexistent threats. The countryside and small villages were better, and most of them had been far more welcoming than Lathleer. He’d traveled south, following the line of the lightning rail across Aundair to Lake Galifar, then wandering around the shores of the lake into the south of the country before turning back north again. In most places, he’d been welcomed, if not with open arms then at least with an open palm and hospitality. In a few places, he’d even found a couple of days’ work doing odd jobs. On the whole, it had been much better than lingering in Fairhaven.
Just about the time he began his journey back north, though, Geth had realized that he did miss his companions. Not just Singe and Dandra, but all of his friends: Natrac, the half-orc merchant who had once been a crime lord; Ashi, the scion of House Deneith who had once been a marsh hunter; Orshok, the young orc druid; Ekhaas, the hobgoblin storyteller; even Benti Morren, agent of the King’s Citadel of Breland. He’d gotten used to their presence. It had been almost a year since they’d come together, a year of massive change and adventure for all of them. For Geth, it had been the end of seven years of hiding from his past and an enforced confrontation with an ignominy he had taken on himself. The events of the year had shown him that he didn’t have to be the grim, solitary warrior he had been for so long-that he could, if he chose, take on the role of a hero. And that felt good.
Of course, it also felt good to know that he had killed a dragon-with help-and stopped the rise of an ancient force of dark madness. That in the distant swamps of the Shadow Marches, orc tribes were already telling stories about him, Singe, Dandra, and the others who had stood with them.
He missed having people around who believed him about the dragon. It wasn’t the kind of story that was easily brought up in casual bragging over ale. Or anywhere, really.
It was going to be good, he thought, to see Singe and Dandra again. Maybe he could convince them to go looking for some of the others. Ashi was lost to the clutches of House Deneith-for a time at least. But the city of Zarash’ak wasn’t so far away that they couldn’t visit Natrac-
Something moved ahead of him.
Geth’s pace faltered for an instant, but only for an instant. He forced himself to keep walking. Several of Eberron’s twelve moons had risen, and their combined light cast a confusion of shadows onto the streets. A shifter needed very little light to see, and the moons gave more than enough of it for Geth to see clearly that the street ahead was empty.
He had seen something move, but it hadn’t been ahead of him. The movement had been a shadow, as something broke the moonlight over the peak of a roof. The movement had actually been behind him.
A bird? A cat? A bat? He kept walking, eyes on the shadows, ears alert. Not likely a bird-they would all be roosting for the night. A bat would still have been visible as it flapped its wings. A cat-possibly, but surely he would have seen its shadow again, yet there was nothing.
Could it be Urik and his friends, back on his trail? Geth couldn’t believe they could be so stealthy.
He walked a little farther, taking the measure of the street ahead and the town around him. He’d wandered into an area of Lathleer that seemed a little more down on its luck than other areas. The streets were narrow and twisting, the windows on the buildings tightly shuttered. He had a strong feeling that if a fight broke out here, no one would be rushing to see what was happening.
A short distance ahead, the street split into two lanes that passed on each side of a closed-up shop before meandering on through the town. Geth made a rough guess at how long it would take him to reach the intersection-then took a firm hold on his pack and broke into a sprint.
The slapping of his steps echoed from the walls and wrapped him in noise. If there were any sounds of surprise from whatever-or whoever-was behind him, he couldn’t hear them. Maybe his own footsteps were too loud. Maybe his pursuers were even more subtle than he thought. He put his head down and ran fast, veering slightly toward the lane that looked most likely to lead out of Lathleer.
Did something move against the moonlight? More shadows, breaking concealment to give chase? At his running pace, it was difficult to tell. Still no sound of pursuit. The intersection and the closed shop drew closer, and the lane opened before him.
At the last instant, Geth turned aside and whirled. His shoulders and pack slammed against the wooden shutters of the storefront with a loud crack, and Geth stared back along the street.
His pursuers-still racing after him-stared back, caught by surprise at the move. Geth caught a glimpse of black-clad figures moving like shadows along the street and the rooftops. A glimpse was all he caught, however. As soon as they saw that he had stopped, the figures froze and vanished. Their disappearance was so sudden and complete that Geth could almost believe what he had just seen had been his imagination.
He knew better though. Caught, the figures weren’t quite so subtle now as they had been before. If he looked closely, Geth could see the bulge of a shadow where one sought to hide. A roof tile clicked as another, unseen, shifted its weight.
Alarm rose in his throat. Grandmother Wolf, he thought, who were they?
In one way, at least, it didn’t matter who they were. Fists might have been fine against brawlers like Urik, but he’d be damned if he was going to face these mysterious figures with empty hands. Geth shrugged and his pack slid from his shoulder. In one swift movement, he freed the long, wrapped object that had been loosely lashed to the side of the pack. A twist and a shake sent the wrappings slithering to the ground. Holding the hilt of his sword in one hand and the wide scabbard in the other, Geth stepped clear of the discarded pack and wrappings. Then he drew a deep breath, reached down inside himself-and shifted.
Long, long ago, the gift-some said curse-of lycanthropy had risen among humans. By day men and women might have been as normal as their neighbors, but by night, when any one of Eberron’s twelve moons shone full, they became beasts. Werewolves. Werebears. Rats. Tigers. Boars. Sometimes they had managed to escape the anger and fear of their neighbors and live out their lives hidden in the wilderness. And as they lived, they had children, sometimes with others like them, sometimes with those who did not carry their gift. The children born of such unions weren’t fully human, but neither were they lycanthropes. Over time a new race was born, neither human nor lycanthrope nor animal, but something of each. Shifters were strong, they were fast, and they were marked by the blood of beasts. Thick hair, sharp teeth, eyes that could see as well by night as by day-and a touch of their ancestors’ shapechanging abilities. Each shifter’s connection to his or her ancient heritage was different. Some, when they shifted, gained a bear’s claws or a wolf’s fanged bite. Others gained speed or heightened senses.