Black Wolf

Chapter 9

Greengrass, 1371 DR

They reached Rusk's lair the next morning. There was no sign of the lodge at first. Instead, Darrow saw thirteen colossal stone fangs curving inward to form a wide circle among the trees. Most of the fangs were twice the height of a man, but three had broken off at various points. On all of them were carvings of wolves, wildcats, boars, and other predators-including spear-wielding human hunters.

At the center of the ring was a ragged pit filled with cinders and bone fragments. Beside the fire was a low stone altar, its scarred face stained with blood. All around its edge was carved the symbol of Malar: a ragged claw. At its base were scattered weathered skulls of every sort of prey, including humans and elves.

They had walked around the lodge without noticing it, leading their horses along an old, worn path. It had been built in the side of a low hill in the Arch Wood, reinforced with stones and timbers, and covered with a sod roof, now overgrown with thistles and a few young trees. The only sign of its location was its entrance, a heavy leather flap painted with images of men and wolves hunting stags through a great forest.

The hunters left Balin's carcass near one of the great stone fangs and retired to their lodge to sleep away the daylight. Darrow noticed that some of them had never transformed into humans and wondered whether they were true wolves. They were much larger than the animals he'd seen testing the borders of his father's farm. Dire wolves, they called such beasts. One alone could take down a steer, while a pack could destroy a herd.

Radu chose a place for his tent and left Darrow to set camp while he searched for a nearby stream. Before he finished his work, Darrow spied an intruder. An old man emerged from the forest bearing a bundle of twigs under his arm and a crude rake over his shoulder. When he spotted Darrow, he nodded affably but did not approach. Instead, he set the twigs near the fire pit and began clearing the winter's detritus from the circle.

Radu returned from his ablutions and retired to his tent without a glance at the old man. Curious about the newcomer but too tired to pester him, Darrow followed his master's example and slept at the foot of the tent.

He awoke hours later to the sound of more new arrivals. Foresters and hunters, farmers from the edge of the Arch Wood or the outskirts of Highmoon, and far travelers who arrived wearing backpacks and an inch of road dust-they trickled in throughout the day to make camp around the lodge. Some set up fires and cooked dumplings or cakes to trade with other visitors. Others brought hares to roast or hedgehogs to bake in the banked coals. A minstrel strummed the yartar while her companion chanted the chronicle of Yarmilla the Huntress. Someone produced a small keg of ale and three wooden tankards, which the people passed from hand to hand.

As the sun descended behind the trees, the hunters emerged from the lodge to greet the visitors as the dire wolves padded around the edges, sniffing at them. The hunters clasped arms with the visitors, but Darrow saw that the newcomers held the hunters in high regard. After the friendly greetings, most of the hunters slipped into the woods singly or in pairs or trios. The rest remained to listen to news of births and deaths and the hardships of the past winter.

Darrow guessed that Radu was inside the lodge, so he went for a look. Before he could peer inside, a big bearded man came out and shoved him away from the door. Darrow stepped aside to let him pass, but the man pushed him again, forcing him onto the ground.

The man stepped close to loom over Darrow. He smelled of animal musk and wood smoke. He wore only leather breeches, and his bare feet were dirty and heavily callused. Dark red hair covered his body so thickly that it formed tufts on his forearms.

Darrow kept his eyes on the ground. The aggressor sniffed, spat on the ground near Darrow's hand, then kicked some dirt on him before walking away. Darrow heard laughter but did not look up.

Instead, he got up and slapped the dust from his trousers. Suddenly he realized the white elf was standing just behind him. She had clothed herself in fringed leather breeches and a beaded vest that did little to conceal her supple body.

"Welcome to the lodge," she said. Her tone held just enough irony that Darrow couldn't tell whether she was mocking him or sympathizing. "Looking for your master?"

"Yes." Darrow glanced once more inside the open lodge door, then strolled away. He felt the eyes of the nightwalk-ers and their pilgrims upon him as he walked with Sorcia.

"They've been talking all afternoon," Sorcia said. "What little I overheard was… intriguing."

Darrow shrugged, unwilling to discuss his master's business with a stranger. Sorcia's blue eyes sought his own, and he looked back with what he hoped was confidence rather than defiance. She had tied back her white hair with a leather thong, and Darrow saw that her flesh was not completely white after all. Her long, tapering ears were faintly pink, as was the translucent flesh of her wide eyelids. Faint blue veins showed through her skin at her throat and between her white breasts.

"Is it frightening to be outside your pen?" she asked, arching a pale eyebrow.

Darrow ignored the bait. "Who are all these people?" he asked, indicating the newcomers.

"They are the Huntmaster's followers," said Sorcia, "pilgrims for the High Hunt. We hunt for them in winter, so they pay homage to the Lord of the Hunt each season."

"So they aren't…" Darrow struggled to find the polite word.

"They are not People of the Black Blood. They are not nightwalkers," said Sorcia, "but they are as loyal to Rusk as any of us."

Darrow raised an eyebrow but didn't ask the next obvious question. Sorcia saw it in his face and answered anyway.

"Strength breeds loyalty," she said, "and strength must be tested." She looked into Darrow's face. "That's one of the first lessons Rusk teaches his followers, whether they are mere followers or People."

"Is that why Balin took over?"

"He was the strongest in Rusk's absence. Even before then, Balin was restless. It was only a matter of time before he tried again."

"You make it sound as though this happens all the time."

"Rusk has been Bloodmaster for longer than most nightwalkers live. It is only natural that the younger wolves would try their strength against his."

"It's a wonder there is anyone left to follow," said Darrow.

"He doesn't kill every challenger," said Sorcia, "only those who won't submit when he proves his strength. You know how to submit, I see."

Darrow frowned at her but did not comment. Instead, he stole a glance at the nightwalker who had bullied him. The man was drinking a cup of ale while listening to a few of the visitors.

"Ronan likes to test newcomers," said Sorcia. "He almost beat Rusk last summer."

"But Rusk spared him?"

"Even the strong must submit to greater strength," said Sorcia. "Rusk smiles on those who want to test their strength. Ronan is likely to become his favorite now that Balin is dead."

"I had the impression you were his favorite," said Darrow. He expected a blush or at least a scolding glance, but Sorcia was nonplussed by his suggestion.

Sorcia walked around him once, slowly. Darrow felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as she came back to face him, smiling up into his face. She said nothing.

"Rusk must spend all of his time watching his back," Darrow concluded.

"The pack is only as strong as its chief. Is it not the same in the city?"

Darrow reflected on the backstabbing politics of the Old Chauncel, which he couldn't even pretend to fathom. Just hearing one of Stannis's tales of subversions, bluffs, and betrayals with such intangible weapons as import taxes and trade concessions was enough to make him dizzy. The disease of cutthroat rivalry was not limited to the merchant class in Selgaunt. Even the other guardsmen he knew were always competing with each other and their superiors for advancement and recognition. He could not disagree with Sorcia's assertion that the city and the wild were both dangerous and uncertain places.

"At least in the city there are laws," said Darrow. "The powerful can't do anything they want."

"Can't they?" laughed Sorcia. "The laws are just another kind of power. We know something of them here, too.

Rusk's power comes from Malar as well as himself. The People might follow him just for his strength, but the pilgrims come because Rusk speaks the law of the wild."

"Isn't that just another kind of strength?" said Darrow. "The kind all clerics have over their followers?"

"Indeed," said Sorcia. "There are many kinds of strength. In the city or the wild, strength is the only law. All must bow before strength."

Within an hour, the first hunters returned with their prey. Karnek carried a lean buck over his shoulders, while Brigid strutted beside him. When Karnek lay the deer upon the ground for all to see, the sight of the clean kill earned them praise.

"You are truly a child of Malar, sister wolf," said the old man who had been gathering firewood earlier. Brigid nipped at his ear, evoking a chorus of hoots from pilgrims and nightwalkers alike.

Wanting to appear useful, Darrow helped gut and skin the carcass and set it on a fresh spit. Soon the smell of roast venison filled the air, summoning the remaining hunters from their lodge. Radu appeared last, with orders for Darrow to break camp and pack the horses.

"Are we leaving before the feast?" asked Darrow.

"No," said Radu. His tone invited no further inquiry.

As Darrow finished with the horses, Rusk emerged from the lodge to walk among his people and their followers. He wore the skull of an enormous owlbear upon his head, the creature's glossy pelt spilling across the big man's shoulders to drag upon the ground. The beast's clawed hands were tied across Rusk's chest, concealing his missing left arm.

The Huntmaster's arrival was the signal for all to gather within the fanged temple. Darrow followed but stopped just outside the ring of stones, unsure whether he was welcome inside. He saw Radu standing on the other side, leaning casually against one of the giant gray fangs.

Rusk took his place between the altar and the blazing bonfire. Some of the pilgrims produced hand drums. Without prompting, they began to beat a simple rhythm. The sound chased the sparrows from the nearby trees and echoed off the great stone fangs.

Sorcia danced around the fire, her pale limbs licking the air like flames. As she circled the bonfire, the rhythm increased to a fluttering heartbeat. Sorcia danced faster, her lithe body whipping the others into a frenzy of cheers and howls.

Ronan joined in on the other side of the fire, his own movements quick and aggressive. He stamped the ground with both feet, then darted forward as lightly as the wind. When he caught up with Sorcia, he raked at her with clawed fingers. She flung herself to the ground, the wounded doe. As Ronan raised his hands in triumph, she leaped back to life and stalked around the circle, the hunted becoming the hunter.

The rest of the pack joined the dance one-by-one, until all of the nightwalkers stalked and leaped around the rising bonfire. Some had flung off their clothes, and their naked bodies glistened with sweat in the heat of the fire. All around them, the pilgrims chanted and wailed as the drummers beat an increasingly frantic rhythm.

Darrow's heart pounded with the drums. He felt an urge to run away before the dance was done, but one look at the dire wolves pacing outside the fanged temple put that thought from his mind. He looked for Radu, but his master was gone from his earlier place.

The pilgrims began joining the wild dance, even the old twig-gatherer. Soon there were none left to beat the drums, but the rhythm lived on in the dancers' shrieks and howls. At last, someone pulled Darrow into the dance.

It was easier than he expected. His thumping heart had already taught his feet the rhythm, and an exultant scream flew unbidden from his chest. He pantomimed throwing a spear at a barrel-chested pilgrim, who threw himself to the ground and thrashed like a wounded boar before rolling back up to his feat to stalk his own prey.

How long they danced, Darrow could not say. It stopped abruptly, as a deafening howl rose among the dancers. Rusk stood atop the altar by the fire, his head thrown back as he pointed. All heads turned to see the first horn of the crescent moon rising above the black horizon. The dancers added their voices to the Huntmaster's, heralding the moon's arrival. They howled for long minutes, until at last Rusk lowered his pointing arm.

"We welcome the moon, which lights the path," he chanted.

Pilgrim and hunter alike repeated the invocation, as did Darrow. His voice was hoarse from howling, but he had never felt so free and natural. When Rusk raised his hand again, everyone sat on the ground to receive his benediction.

"Give thanks to the Great Black Wolf, who chases the moon across the sky," chanted Rusk. "Let him fill our limbs with strength."

"We hunt for our strength," replied the congregation.

"Give thanks to the creatures of the wild, for the meat they yield to the skillful hunter. Let them nourish our bodies."

"We hunt for our nourishment."

The prayer was long and repetitive, so Darrow could join in and say the words with the rest of the worshipers. At last, Rusk welcomed the newcomers to the Lodge. He promised that the People of the Black Blood would continue to feed them in times of famine, so long as they kept faith with Malar, the Black Wolf, Master of the Hunt.

After the prayers, the congregation fell silent to listen to their Huntmaster. Darrow heard only the crackling of the bonfire and the susurrus of the wind until Rusk filled the temple with his powerful voice.

"Tonight, as spring gives way to summer, we celebrate the High Hunt," said Rusk. He put his hand on something concealed beneath his cloak. "This year's Greengrass feast is most auspicious, for with it comes the result of my own long hunt. The Black Wolf Scrolls are returned to their rightful place!"

Rusk lifted a bone scroll case above his head for all to see. It was carved from the femur of some enormous beast and capped at each end with golden images, one a leopard, the other a wolf. In the firelight, its surface wriggled with glyphs and carvings.

After a moment of stunned silence, the congregation whooped and howled.

"Now the unsullied words of the hunter-prophets shall be revealed to me, and I shall master the forgotten wisdom of our forebears and teach it all to you, my hunters, my followers, my pack!"

The cheering grew deafening, and Darrow wished he understood what it meant. He thought the Malveens refused to give Rusk the scrolls and wondered why they had changed their minds. If the scrolls were false, he prayed silently that he would be far away by the time Rusk discovered the forgery.

"What better way to celebrate this momentous event than with a High Hunt?" thundered Rusk. Still excited by his proclamation, the crowd quieted just enough to hear his words. He spoke again, half-chanting the words, "Who shall hunt our prey?"

"We will!"

All of the People of the Black Blood rose to their feet, as did a few young men and women among the pilgrims. Those who still wore clothing flung it away. Half of them stretched and bent, their limbs twisting and reshaping themselves. Thick fur sprung from their flesh, until a dozen wolves hunkered among the seated pilgrims.

"You are the foremost, the natural hunters," called Rusk. "Lead the way for those who have yet to master their skills."

Rusk barked out a string of ancient words, an infernal invocation to Malar. His eyes blazed red, and flames leaped from the bonfire to enshroud him in ruddy light. With a violent gesture, he flung the magical energy toward the People who remained in human form.

They screamed as the red power entered their ears and mouths. Their bodies jerked and transformed until they, too, stood as wolves among the pilgrims.

Only four pilgrims remained standing. At a nod from Rusk, other pack members handed them long spears.

"I see a mighty host of hunters before me," called Rusk. "What prey is fit and worthy of their prowess?"

"A great boar," called a woman among the pilgrims, "with his long tusks and strong shoulders." The rhythm of her words told Darrow that the response was canon.

"No," said Rusk. "These hunters are stronger, and their teeth sharper."

"A stag," called a man, "with his great horns and swift legs."

"My hunters are swifter still. You must choose better."

"The owlbears, with their sharp beaks and talons."

"The claws of my hunters are more keen. Is there no prey worthy of my hunters?"

"A man," called Radu from outside the circle, "with his weapons and his wits."

Darrow turned to see his master already mounted, the lead to his own horse secured to his saddle. Then he realized what Radu had been discussing with Rusk when he saw his own horse tethered to Radu's saddle. Without Stannis present to object, Radu had finally disposed of him.

"That prey is fit and worthy of my hunters," responded Rusk. He turned his eyes to Darrow, and the entire congregation rose to form their own circle among the stone teeth, blocking his escape.

"The prey may take whatever weapons he desires," declared Rusk. He pointed directly up. "The hunt begins when the moon touches the highest vault of heaven. It ends when the land has swallowed her up again."

"Wait!" cried Darrow. He realized his words were useless, but he could not stop himself. "I'm not worthy of your Hunt, but he's the greatest swordsman in Selgaunt." He pointed at Radu, then immediately dropped his hand as their eyes met. He was desperate indeed to draw the ire of Radu Malveen.

"The prey has been chosen," declared Rusk.

"No," called a deep voice from the congregation.

A man with a big, solid belly stood forth, his muscles round and hard as stones. The silver in his black hair and beard marked him as a veteran, if not one of Rusk's generation. Darrow saw that his objection carried weight among the other pack members.

"The lamb is right, Rusk. The other city man is far worthier prey than this cringing whelp. Show us that your city dealings are truly over."

Among the pack rumbled murmurs of assent.

Ronan stepped forth from the pack. "Bloodmaster, your return brings us great joy. It is an occasion deserving of great honor and sport. Listen to Gorland. Let the hunt be of worthier prey."

Rusk looked down at Ronan, then back toward Gorland who had first spoken. "Is this how you honor my return?"

Neither of the men replied, but the crowd stirred restlessly, watching for any sign of weakness. Darrow realized that they could easily turn on Rusk.

"If you prefer to hunt that man," he said to Gorland, "then bring him before me."

The big man smiled and nodded to the Huntmaster. He had the look of a man who knew he'd just won much respect among his fellows. The smile remained as he walked over toward Radu.

The swordsman removed his gloves as he watched Gorland approach. He wore the expression of a man tired of waiting for his driver to open the carriage door.

Gorland raised his arm to take Radu by the shoulder. To Darrow's eyes, Radu merely stepped backward while flicking one hand toward the big fellow. Everyone heard the rasp of steel, once as it left the scabbard, then again as it returned. The sounds were so close together as to seem like one prolonged sigh.

"Ah!" said Gorland.

He stopped and stood still, his arm still raised to grasp a shoulder that had suddenly moved six feet away. He shook his head as though perplexed or stunned, then clutched at his face. His hands came away slick with blood. Twin torrents descended from his ruined eye sockets, filling his gaping mouth.

The horses stood calmly by, unaware of the violence so close to them.

"Does anyone else question my selection?" From the advantage of the stone altar, Rusk looked over his followers. His gaze lingered on Ronan, who lowered his face and stepped back. When he was satisfied of no further challenges, Rusk called out to Radu. "Go, now."

He watched Radu Malveen ride slowly out of the firelight and into the dark forest. Then he leaped from the altar and strode over to Darrow.

"Give us a good hunt," Rusk said. "Elude us until dawn, and all honor is yours. You may ask any boon, and it shall be granted."

"But if you catch me?" asked Darrow. He tried to compose a brave face before the assemblage of hunters, but fear cracked his voice.

"Then we will honor you another way," said Rusk with a toothy smile.